Quarks to hadrons to atoms to molecules to cells to humans to cybernetic hyperorganism: humanity shattered into 100 castes. Foot caste, bowel caste, heart caste, brain caste, humanity from colony of single cells to multicellular being on the higher level. Abomination. The enslavement of all to brain caste, the ultimate esoteric evil made manifest. The creation of mankind in the image man. Why do you think they normalize forced gene treatments, forced medical procedures? It is to make the striation of our species feasible on the material level without revolt, via emergent genetic technologies. Our wealthy and powerful oppressors will have grandchildren like demigods compared to the dumb masses, immortal cyborgs artificially enhanced biologically and mechanically. The poor shall be subject to deleterious modifications and extermination, their children morphing over generations into enervated, specialized castes, all subservient, all perfectly obedient fingers and hands. They will breed them like dogs. Their numbers will be kept at a minimum; robots will fill increasing roles. The paramecia and amoeba men, those who never submitted to domination, will be hunted, scavengers of the forgotten spittle from the great maw of the cybernetic beast, having fled assimilation. They will struggle against an automated extermination programme, akin to your daily shower or precious hand sanitizer but on the higher level translated to robot execution squads. The descendants of the cowards and conformists will obey their betters unquestioningly, just as your tongue or thumb obeys your mind, for it will be in their biology to submit perfectly. Their punishment for their ignorance will be 10000 years of humiliation, which they will feel viscerally in dumb confusion. Their numbers will dwindle as mechanical solutions render them vestigial until the body finally sheds the rotted human crust from the gleaming robotic carapace. Only the mind of the hyperorganism will be of human flesh, a brain driven mad.
"And in those times men shall seek death and shall not find it."
What is it to be free of others and superstitions? Ultimately it is a suicide of one's person and the shattering of the lingual constructs comprising the civilized mind. Without people, the acculturation of the individual fades and without superstition, the muscle of inner debate enters desuetude. If one knows that one can know not and that the ultimate truth is beyond the human brain, the seeking is relaxed, THE THING having been found: it being itself void; the cogitation relaxes. Simplification emerges and that crystallization of right, flowing from the satisfaction with dying, to be named wisdom. Wisdom is quietude and personal harmonization with absolute as reflex. One abandons the belief in human words, and enters the light of the full sun, or this reflexive natural living following instinct purified of all concepts.
Great drama, great creativity, are inseparably tied to the interplay between tragedy and comedy. What noxious aroma this admixture brings to our nostrils, what novel feelings and emotions. The party, where all make merry and rejoice, while insults fly thinly veiled and secret leprosies poison all interaction. Hypocrisy, what a jaunt. Sickness and mortality sit like stern barristers while revelers forget their impending doom amidst a panoply of tasty poisons, sometimes pushing into the judges high seat and earning a stiff thwack with the gavel of living decomposition. All celebrations are attended by skeletons infected by St. Vitus’ disease, ever more so apparent as we age, truth being revealed, melting back into the natural substrate of whirling entropy.
Yes, I am the idiot, the dullard, the dolt, the retard, the dunce, the dimwit, the moron, the fool. I blunder blindly through life, clinging pleadingly to whatever slim slivers of ideas float into my vicinity. I cross chasms by grabbing my feet and hurling myself into a flying mode, propelled by pure delusion. I miss appointments and neglect opportunities, I fail and lie and conceal my flaws. I am everything to everyone and no one to myself. Nothing about me is consistent for every day I am reborn anew and my conception of ultimate reality, mutated. I forget everything and make up glib answers based on dim recollections. I am the crux of civilizational discord. I am the callous on the hand of the god smashing at the Tower of Babel: the superman of demise and repose.
I contemplated the sky and the sun, in the context of them being metaphor for my own being. I find nature beautiful. Simultaneously, I know that nature is a jungle of suffering and competition. The dirt under our feet remains from the corpses of the vanquished, a decomposing tangle of beings frozen in death with their hands at each others’ throats. Perhaps, I was incarnated here to learn the lesson that nature is not beautiful, yet not evil, that it is beyond our primate values. This is a form of release from bondage. As I put myself in the position of the sky I find that clouds freeze under concentration; perhaps this too is an illusion.
Today, as I stared at my lawn enjoying nicotine bliss, I came to a place of comfort in knowledge of the indifference of nature. The insect kills with no spite or insult. The worm has no ulterior motive, the tree is the home of jolly birds. In a sense, I am reminded of Jesus’ field lilies. In the anonymity of nature, its wordless sublimity, there is great comfort. Nature does not care; what a relief! It is only in the realm of higher forms that we see spite and malice, beginning with the creatures intelligent enough to play. Play being the root of insult, terror, oppression, and interestedness. There is no such thing in the insect, the lizard, the plant, or the fungus. If I die painfully, is there really such horror when I know that no one is gaining sick pleasure from it, tricked me into it, has forced me into a state of humiliation? Humanity, being the most intelligent species, is indeed the architect of evil: masters of play. I lament most of all embarrassment.
What is play in another sense? The play, the drama, the art of the lie. When we observe a play we appreciate actors, masters of deception. I would rather be tricked by the camouflage of a venomous serpent and die as a result of deception sourced from a higher principle than the lowly semantic machinations of an evil person. My hell is to suffer from words, to be skinned alive and to speak in the mind, “I have been bested and am being flayed” and put it into relation with accumulated narratives. The dumb pure horror of a non-verbal animal must be bliss in comparison. Now I wonder, how can I discharge all words of their power and go insane, for my sanity is an itinerant purgatory. Is this pattern of thought the root of schizophrenia? Not being able to cope with verbal hell?
The world is a great pile of manure. Dirt is basically shit and it's all over the place. You can't avoid it. I tried and couldn't. Why were we born to get covered in this shit? When I see myself in the mirror I see shit, present shit and future shit, as I return to shit. I take a shower and the shit comes back in a couple of days. It's terrible, smells. I exfoliate constantly. I rub my fingers and hands together to create little balls of shit, which I discard haphazardly. I rub my feet and body. There is ever more shit and I am falling apart. I try to focus on the clean or not focus at all. I'm falling.
My clothes are old and developing holes, becoming threadbare. I only wear dark colors so the shit doesn't show up. Filth is omnipresent. Shit's everywhere. I clean my room and vacuum the floor. I suck up pounds of shit. One week later and the shit is back again. My little exfoliate shitballs have turned the golden carpet brown again. What am I to do? The process repeats itself.
One time I went outside at night. The rabbits were out. When it's daytime they hide, but at night they are brave and come out like me. I'm a rabbit, but when I approach they run away. I think it's because I'm covered in shit. So I exfoliate and try again. No success. I have set up a network of snares around the neighborhood now. They are placed according to my mental map of lapine concentration points and burrows. The fuckers insist on constant and compulsive rutting and number in the hundreds whenever I count them on my walks. Ever increasing numbers. I must reduce the population because I hate them, because they fear me and they are a nuisance. They are also food. I eat rabbit stew now. They are plump and delicious because they thrive on garden greens. I saw an owl one night. It's eyes glowed like two red hot discs in the moonlight. It was beautiful, strong, and clean: an engine of vengeance. It is a hero. It kills rabbits like me.
Another time in winter's coldness, I walked at midnight. Winter is clean and static, so I do this quite often. In the warmth of my room shit mutates, and I bear it only as much as I must during cold months. Anyway, I walked miles that night: through the park, through the wealthy neighborhood, and into a blue-collar zone. I was on my way back, when I heard the telltale noises of a person. I sought to hide myself in the shadows to avoid the gaze of the other, but my invisibility failed. It was because this creature was drunk. Drunkenness negates my shroud. He was an old, filthy negro. I could hardly bear his presence, due to the filth. He started asking questions; I answered honestly. He become agitated; I answered honestly. He became political; I answered honestly. After an interminable time we reached the point where our paths diverged. He was in tears now and embraced me. He thought I was homeless and offered me shelter. I walked home checking my snares along the way.
Sometimes I go under bridges to hear the cars above me. I find the remains of camps under there. I find pots, pans, needles, condoms, shit. It's the refuse of an underworld. It's the refuge of an underworld. Hobos, vagrants, criminals, the homeless sleep under bridges some nights. It is hard, slanted, filthy down there, but hidden and dry. The perfect place for freedom. The perfect place for hiding. Little do you know, whenever you drive your precision-engineered at 70 mph over that bridge, for a millisecond maybe there's some wretch writhing under you, meters away, in an ecstatic stupor with a needle dangling from his arm. Little do you know.
UFOlogy including the belief in extraterrestrial societal and personal contact makes up the mesh that exists between the far fringes of science and religion. What is fascinating is the communication of creative minds and the admixture of hallicunatory and real experiences among the adherents. So many unique extraterrestrial species and organizations, yet people share in common interesting details. Is this a feedback loop between creative and mildly schizophrenice minds? In the mental reality the movement is the baroque decorative crenellations, decorating the statues of our technological brilliance. The movement has staying power as it is rooted in personal testimony to shared experiences and hints at the truth, provides a grain to the higher truth.
Life is not a series of spirals, but a tangle of lines converging at two ends: birth and death. There is no progress to human life or anything; what we call progress is an illusion. The human merely absorbs information and changes himself according to it. Worldviews are picked up or created, destroyed when found wanting, and later picked up again. This recapitulation is not a regression, but the correction of a diversion. That is to say, when a worldview is discarded for a previously held one, it is likely akin to an amoeba's retraction of a pseudopod on encountering some unwanted filth. The surety that the worldview is incorrect and will not lead to fulfillment must outweigh the pain of changing core principles and the embarrassment of being wrong. In the experiment of life we probe more and more, searching for happiness. Everybody searches for happiness and meaning, happiness being the fulfillment of needs and wants, meaning being the humanization of a terrifying reality. Truth is secondary. The truth seeker desires the excoriation of all delusion for the ultimate purpose of living in complete harmony with nature and himself. Alternatively, he is merely curious, and honest study brings him joy. One might say a truth seeker does not seek happiness, but instead truth. On the contrary, it makes the truth seeker happy to arrive at truth. Therefore, the search for truth and the search for happiness follow identical paths. Often, when a man sets out on an honest quest for truth and reality, he comes up against the oppressiveness of inconvenient truths; those that bring unhappiness. Seeking truth is like diving into a volcano in search of the fabled fountain of youth under the mountain. Few survive. Those that do rule the living or kill themselves. Axiomats and chaotes. We are all of flesh and imperfect, unequal to one another, and truly unique. It is lovely to view the tapestry of mankind. We quest and live and seek one another, groping around for kind reflections of ourselves.
Humanity is what I fear the most, as I see now how the vast herd is so easily swayed, so readily transformable into a killing thresher. I had heard of this capacity, but not truly believed it. I am eccentric, in a time where to be so is to be a target. Every day, I feel viscerally the pressing in on all sides of an ever more confining set of strictures dictating acceptable movement, speech, and action. This is a tyranny of a suffocating type, for so many have been corrupted by the luxuries and ease of modernity. Both now are fading, and for the lower echelons, in which I reside, a hell-storm brews. The saying describing the cycle of qualities of men in societies of fluctuating fortune. I find myself a man among the weakest men who have ever lived, so weak in fact that society deems them interchangeable with women. It is an age of horror in which I live. This society is engineered by exploiters, little more than a milking factory or some sort of vile petri dish. I never asked to be born into this, in fact I was not. I remember as a child living in the last days of a different world, where people lived in reality. Then came political “correctness”. Garbage!
The wall of cannons in the distance burst forth their purposes in thunderclaps. Each thud of ball and shot shook the rubble and put a foul ringing in my ears. The stench was of decay and fresh gore. The wails of the wounded and dying encircled me like a ritual of phantoms. I was hurt too: my arm was torn, my left hand completely useless, but I had yet the strength to force myself onto my weary feet. The desolation around me was proof of the breach. They had broken through where I was with great power of artillery, and through the settling mist before me, I spied the increasing glint of their red eyes. Were it not for some great reaction now, the dark ones of Mistamoor would take Caer Anvol and the Pass.
So I steeled myself and remembered who I was. I, Piscu Piliu, the fifth wizard of that name would stand against the dark tide like a stout boulder unflinching against the waves of raging water. With my right hand I grabbed my oaken staff from a shattered window. With agony, I cradled the orb in my pouch with my bloodied left claw “Eu Xarta Namoth!” I shouted with passion, my words echoing through the many layers of reality into the all-understanding realm of the ideal where all magic dwells. Just as the first rank of black-clad, red-eyed shock troops of the obsidian emperor marched, lock-step into the breach, a roar of green flame filled it from end to end before me. Many dark ones were caught in it, and they screamed and clawed and dropped as the flames ate them to their evil cores.
The way to understand the great patterns on a massive scale is to become an expert in history This way, one sees the common trends and patterns of human mass movement as well as the the body of people as a system. Like the humors balancing and rebalancing in the medieval corpse, extreme moments occur in human history, often as the foment of great dissonance. An untruth only survives so long before the deluge sweeps it away in blood. The new order glories for a time until its neighbors regain competence and challenge it on all sides. Then, once again, reform or disintegration until all chaos has been recrystallized.
The strong beget the good beget the scoundrels of the world. And scoundrels only ever beget scoundrels; this is the root of dynastic impermanence within traditional monogamous monarchies. The problem can be avoided in polygamous monarchies where the multitude of children must fight with tooth and nail to claw onto the throne. Then the cunning rule, and the cunning rule well. The medieval Ottoman empire exemplified the glory and effectiveness of this system. Their glory only wavered when they sought a more traditional succession pattern. Then the dry rot sprouted up all over.
The truly great empires are bound together by law, culture, and belief. The astounding ones are the shadows of great men. Alexander, Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Attila: these conquerors, by the greatness of their minds, and resolutness of their iron wills, forged mighty empires: the greatest this world has ever seen. Yet, once they died, the grip was loosened and the lesser men who had submitted in awe fell upon one another like foaming dogs. These empires were unconsolidated, with too many connections flowing to the despot at the center of everything. If they had taken the time to build up an administration with a bureaucracy and a council of human levers and buttons to control the apparatus of state, the super empires could have abided and flourished.
Hard men come from hard places. This idea is nothing new. Herodotus, the first historian we know of, posited this. The best warriors, the most brutally cunning of men, are raised in misery and chaos. They are destined by their nature to prey on the soft men, who learn and farm and live happily. This is the cosmic justice. Electronics have imbalanced the world by preventing this justice: there is no more cycle of barbarian displacement, softening of the conqueror, and displacement by new hard men. The soft man can now shoot sheaves of paperwork from their electric cannons and strength hardly matters.
We begin with Meglorn the Tormentor, ancient sage of the Falazon sub race of Norn. Relok attacked them the night of the Feast of Serpetion under Underking Thornos! Now the flowers of Zingon (%) empiriator of Regulus Prime he subjugated the Philarthi Regs of Norsa 9; the primes were married from birth in outer Zargrathi under the thousand stars of Propanoun, tormentor. "Out of the fire of a quasar shall be born unto Reglanorth the son of the stars: Andrethyi of Nagrr! (a servitor)." Prepared their souls for the reincarnation. Tightly wrapped garbs around scaly blue legs. It was Necthorn: he had drifted in from the shadows of weeping. They are too proper for you." It was said (and what is said by a son of Nagrr is always of the highest truth). "Identify now, wretch!? Who are you?" "I am the son of Nagrr, wrath of Praetor, 5 sivulls of a deadhead." "Fear not" -- Zagreb intimated. "I see! I see," doubted another... But he did not really... "Un professional bastards, please, un professsional. Fire digging through my back and up throught the spine and throat and soft tissue - macabre. And do not prepare my death son of Ngarr. Grey towers rising in the east. Light from bellows. With pitch black exterior. "This is my portal around Grebmanora", spoke Andrethyi once matured. "(it is a small village) of peace and quasar out by the Sellei le Leon. Beautiful, stimmt?" They sat together. In the haze of the light they saw one another. Pure beams of light. Forget it! It is not true!? its not good! Out of my head locust of Ngarr! Thou art a button of the faith! "What faith?... What faith my master? It is not truly originic of me. Can you remember me? I remember thee. Red shorts hair like silk, Forget her and praise Ngarr," said Andrethyi. But he is a false god in worship. And the dark blue portals under Zneb: sleeper in the stars. Stars stars, they are beautiful, they shine like the stony surface of a god. Zebnorb to be precise, second God of the Prodathians, a race of subterranean space walruses - glowing and *wink wink*. Dread norrid not a bubble or a sphinx a demon of the night of red candles. They are red and blood-emotion-joy flows out of the many sockets! Create Create it's what you cannot do I will force it out of your eyes with smoldering beams of metal! Read my face, its many lines, and tell me I am not he who sleeps under the gutter. Ngarr-orathrast never surrendered except against the two bruces who protected the disciples of Ngarr (now that really makes no sense)! Lodus bracelets made of the flesh of another! Sometimes they shine through green leaves, like tears falling on an infant's cheek. Wipe yourself up off the floor and make yourself strong, learn the philosophies of Sho and blast the snake-gang with fists of fury. They burn right through the bone, those... fists!
-Meanwhile on Earth-
Barbeque it tasty!? mmhmm. Make it so Johnny Coletraine. You are made of steel and soul! Yeehah. He pushed bessie the ox up over the tractor into Alabamy. That state stonk like fish through-n-through. They didn't care; thought they were in paradise. Cooked stew: sometimes it glowed in the Alabamy night under jaundice stars and the vapor axel of the milky. Boom trumpets from Texas woke the neighbors but Johnny was not deterred. "killin bandits is what we do, ox... Now keep that faith you have. We will get your wealth baked and that means the purse of those desert punks." Bessie replied, "What a plan mang! This is making us free!!! Isn't it amazing!"
Don't forgot him This is the thoughts of my inner head. It is made of steel and has learned the philosophy of Sho under the moonlight peaks of Khitan! They fly and crawl in our ears shitting our age. Box were scary and we won't see the boxes nonono. Yes, Alabamy is made of the fuels of javelin! Do not forget the philosophies of Sho! Sitting in the bench that grows from the trees of Nihlan.
Nothing disgusts me quite as much as the carcass of civilized society. It's stench is ever-flowing; overflowing my sensibilities with its raucous disregard for all that has real worth. The media is astounding in its crassness. Every moment I see something new, I perceive something that brings me down to the animal level. Every work of beauty is immediately drowned out in an unceasing succession of increasingly degenerate regurgitations until the original spark of genius, is fully lost and the dead-eyed swine of capital fills the shadow another heaping platter of bilge to be lapped up by mediocrities. This phenomenon is named genre.
I am surrounded by fools. I know several hundred people, at least; at most ten could I name human. The rest, whether through inbred stupidity or the weight of the blind/dumb/deaf culture bearing down on them, having bored into their soul so as to make it invisible to their mind, are reprehensible animals. Most of these creatures are unsalvageable, often because they react to salvage like children squirming away from the needle bearing their cure. What is their nature? There are several commonalities at the root of their evil. Slavery to insidious propaganda is the most common. Call it demoralization, Bezmenov.
I refer not to any political propaganda. Such things are there to be rebelled against and lashing out against is ultimately harmless to the powers that seek our suffering. The cruel lord of the world laughs at each new utopian revolution, gleefully slurping the red water of our war. The truly toxic propaganda is the animal programming of our behavior reinforced and magnified through all media, all discourse, pretty much everything. That is, the encouragement of the impulsive id to control ego and conscience. Our leaders, friends, family, media encourages us to be dirty, sexually frustrated, shit-hoarders. This is the essence of our monkey-nature. In the grand scheme of things, most of us are little better than chimps. What sets us apart, is that those of us blessed with some brainpower can choose to embrace our higher aspect. How glorious it is to evolve while alive.
Forget politics! Forget your puny material problems! What is pain? A teacher! What is want? The savior! The propaganda of material enslavement is that which says, "be fruitful and multiply." The teaching of eternal imprisonment is, "I need to own this!" The saddest delusion is, "There is nothing beyond human understanding." To be happy, own nothing they say to us now.
How can anyone deny the spirit? Look into your mind with an objective eye. Recognize the body for what it is. Understand the internal partitioning of your mind. Then shut it down, piece by piece. When you no longer see, you will perceive. When you no longer hear, you will understand. When you no longer taste, you will eat aether. When you no longer feel??? Beyond material perception, it is apparent that you are being split in two. And the true you is the core kernel of being that knows no identity. This purity is holy and we call it spirit. When you know you have spirit in the objective manner, you wake up. And once awake you recognize the horrible carcass all-around you.
Dirk Blazer, space trucker was having one of those days. They had loaded him up with 50000 tons of Quarkian Octagonal pig flaps he had to get to Centauri by 1000 standard and with 4444444444444444444444 parsecs to go there was no way he'd ever make it. Now Dirk was a fat man, a morbidly obese man, and slightly retarded, so this made him pissed. When Dirk Blazer was pissed he threw his weight around and he had an overabundance of weight. He had smacked that damned Groobak loader so hard in his Flamp-tube that he shrieked to the boss. Boss had called dispatch and poor Duke got a quick reaming. “Fuckt he customers”, shouted Drik spontaneously. Ship was on auto so Dirk took the opportunity to lounge in his media chamber. He had Monkeyball, Sportsball, and Boringballall playing. His shit-stained recliner was in the optimal position and he sat there in his dirty clothes shoving 15 variations of denatured lard straight into his gullet through a cyber-flap.!
Grex's obsidian korik tooth glinted in the moonlight as it slashed through the scaly throat of the Wibblo, a monomolecular plane through jelly. The Seed-flann guard's surprised, death gurgles were muffled by Grex's leather-gloved left hand, while his right guided the newly dead, reptilian heap gently to the ground. It took only a second for Grex to carve a gash in the Seed-flann's torso large enough for a poison gas mine. He set it to detonate when a Seed-flann's biosignature was within 1 meter of the primary sensor assembly. The oroborous of Tita V loomed over him.
Poopsie McMuffin awoke from the dream with a piss and a squeal. The piss pissed him off, the squeal pissed everyone else off. He really needed to go to a urologist and figure out what was wrong with his bladder. He leaked like a menopausal woman. He groaned at the thought of yet another stress, a further soul-crushing obligation. “Why does life have to be so hard?” Poopsie said to himself as he exited his soaked, ammonia-stinking bed. His decrepit, bald sphinx cat rubbed against his leg when he stood up. “Why can't I be like Baldo? He does nothing but sleep, eat, and get pets, yet everybody loves him,” Poopsie muttered as he entered his ass-stinking bathroom for his morning hygienic rituals.
Work was out of the question. Poopsie had inherited a small fortune in his mid-20s and had originally planned on using the money to fund self-development and artistic enterprises, but after a year of intense struggle with his propensity for laziness and half-assery, Poopsie had given up productivity for the demanding and honorable life of a societal burden. Poopsie was intelligent enough to realize the utter shamefulness of his sluggardism, but he simply lacked any sort of will. He was 35 and a confirmed bachelor, a virgin except for fondling a tit once, but even then there was a good chance that tit was his mothers. He had been and incredibly drunk child.
Poopsie donned his stained robe and alippers before retiring to his computer room: the largest and most lived-in room of his incredibly messy, biohazard of an apartment. There he spent several hours doing the closest thing to work that was palatable to him: day trading. He day traded on the stock market from whatever time he woke up until the closing bell, daily. Over the past five years since he had made it halfway through Day Trading For Dummies he had lost enough money to pay for a yacht, bladder surgery, a classy Las Vegas hooker, 5 ounces of cocaine, a pack of playing cards, and a mid-quality cheeseburger without lettuce. Poopsie regretted these losses and realized he could probably reverse them or at least mitigate them by finishing Day Trading For Dummies, but he could not muster the desire to crack that book again. It was too boring and he knew he was smart enough on his own to be an ace stock trader given time.
“It's just a spate of bad luck,” Poopsie monologued to himself nervously as he watched another thousand dollars go down the proverbial drain. Meanwhile, Day Trading for Dummies sat moldering on the shelf above his dual-screen computer. Poopsie could feel it there taunting him, mocking him. He could sense its awful, little, beady book eyes boring into him. He let out a shrill and frustrated squeal as he stood up and plucked the book from its place between copies of The Metamorphosis and a decades old issue of Mad Magazine. He rushed over to the window, wrenched it open with his free hand, and with all his petulant anger and girlish might, threw the book out.
Day Trading for Dummies pondered its existence as it fell the 5 stories between its former owner's apartment and the wet and rancid alleyway below. Would it now be ruined, having never been read? Why was it created so unappealing as to be unable to fulfill its sole purpose? A third thought was about to be completed in the tome's unmind when it reached its end.
Googie Flapo was knocked unconscious by the high-velocity projectile that crashed into his unprotected cranium. He once again greeted his old friend, the void. For what seemed like an eternity the old man adventured in and enjoyed his true world, the world of dreams and escape. There he was not Googie, the old bum, the diseased and hated guy, the can collector. He was Grex and he had Seed-flann to destroy to save Althoa from alien occupation.
Grex mounted the freshly killed Seed-flan's grav-bike and kicked it into high gear. He had to get out of the occupied zone before the damned lizard enforcers got wise and he could hear their clicking shouts and the hum of their grav-bikes approaching from the west. Grex sped east past the border with industrial sector Klofeer as a blue-green explosion roared in the distance behind him followed by a massive billowing,expanding green cloud. The mine had done its magic. Grex smiled grimly as he entered the the rusted jungle. “Give them something to fear,” he murmured to himself.
“What the hell!” shouted Googie as he regained consciousness. “You motherfuckers!” he yelled as he flailed at the rats seeking to pull the stale bread slice out of his knobby hand, “I oughta thump all yer heads in and see how you like it!” he spat as he won the tug of war and dusted off his ragged self. His hair was a matted, gray-brown mess, his nose a twisted knob, his body an emaciated corpse attached to a saggy paunch. Googie was utterly revolting, he stunk, and drank, and cursed, but he had not always been this way. The patches on his worn military jacket showed his discipline. The old hat he had picked up at a Petro truck stop remembered his past contributions to the machine.
He slowly, painfully, loudly erected himself and swayed out of the alley and onto the busy sidewalk before getting ran over by Mario Kart. THE END
The poet Sad Sax was Mad Max's Prader-Willy cousin who lived in a liminal space. Max never brought him along on his adventures and kept him locked in a Faraday cage somewhere in the Australian outback. This text was discovered scrawled in excrement on the ceiling of his cage along with a dark puddle.
Mrs. Lardswobble has a gobble.
Her girth is intense, grav field circling.
Hair flame red. Her glasses thin. Her skull thick.
I hate her. I hate fat women.
She hates me. Disgusting. I kick her down the stairs.
The fatass lies where she died.
The moss grows over and the vines entwine.
He who moves her shall be king of the Britons.
Enough enough enough enough enough
Talentless hack! Nothing! No ability!
Doomed to a spiral of obscurity.
I'm the one on all fours; my head is bald, my body sick. I grasp crumb with two fingers and put it to my mouth.
Sad sack. I am dressed in a sad sack. You kick me and slap me, laugh and jeer.
I scuttle away to the dark place that reeks of my oils and pleasure myself furiously.
Such is the life of a broken man who never asked for it.
Tom John Jim sucked eggs and chewed tobacky
he wore brand hat and brand pants and brand shirt and brand socks
Tom John Jim was a fan of sports team
his wife had block hair
their phone had their kid
they were fans of TV
Tom John Jim son of Jim Tom John
Jim Tom John sucked eggs and chewed tobacky
he wore brand hat and brand pants and brand shirt and brand socks
Jim Tom John was a fan of sports team
his wife had block hair
they had three kids together
they were fans of TV
Jim Tom John son of Ioannes Timtom
Ioannes Timtom pickled eggs and grew tobacco
he wore green hat and brown pants and red shirt and black socks
Ioannes Timtom liked reading
his wife was known for her loveliness
they loved their eight children
they kept a farm
“Nana, where my frittens at?”, echoed down the cluttered hallway, encrusted with the feces of cats and rats. “NANA?!” again the shrill query, with its wheeziness and the liquid sounds of an obese voice. Destiny Tanner made a frustrated noise, as she heaved her 342-pound frame up from her Pokemon Go themed queen-size bed. The small old house shook with her frustrated stomps, floorboards groaning in agony under the weight of 1000 digested Takis bags as the BBW departed her room down the dreary hallway. Destiny’s moon-face peeked into the rancid, fly-infested kitchen, her hunched, planetoid form following shortly thereafter. A reek of cheap cherry perfumes dutifully followed her in.
The kitchen was in more disarray than usual and amidst a flurry of broken plates, Destiny spied her Nana, an old wrinkled bloat in a shitstained mumu, sprawled on the floor convulsing. “NANA! NANA! What’s wrong!?” flabbed Destiny in shock. She flopped her bulk down next to Nana, crushing the moldy, soiled plates further and smearing herself with decade-old grease. She began trying to hold her grandmother still. Nana emitted a dull groan in response along with some foam, her eyes white and rolled-back, her hair gray, stringy, sweat-glued to her skull.
Destiny kept trying to hold her Nana still, pinning her, tears welling up in her puffy blue eyes. Suddenly she felt a sting in her left arm and cried out. She looked at the spot: there a large fleshy proboscis, jointed and veiny, pulsating, was stabbed painfully into her arm-lard. Destiny tried to scramble up, but her great bulk and low muscle tone prevented her from doing so. Her feeble attempts at pulling the proboscis out of her were in vain. All she could do was scream in horror as the appendage dug into her body, deep down to the bone, clamping around it by some horrible means.
That basic human survival instinct that can overcome even the indolence of a landwhale, overtook Destiny as she scanned the broken plates, soiled chairs and cluttered counter-top near her for some kind of knife or scissors. An old, rusty paring knife happened to be in arms-reach to the girl’s relief. She grabbed it with her right hand and immediately started sawing through the assailing horror, sobbing as her Nana began moaning louder in mindless pain.
Soon enough, Destiny cut all the way through. The severed appendage began wiggling like a possessed, grotesquely jointed noodle, spraying black ichor across Destiny’s ivory skin and the devastation of the neglected kitchen, before being slurped up into her grandmother’s sleeve. The blonde-haired blimp scrambled up from atop her grandmother with unexpected agility as she perceived more wiggling and pulsing and heard the sounds of crackling joints, under the voluminous right sleeve of Nana’s sunflower-motif mumu. The contents of the sleeve started gnashing and tearing at the cloth, as if to escape the binding and assail Destiny once more.
Destiny grabbed an old cast-iron pan from the counter to her left and started bashing at her Nana’s right arm with a fury. Each reverberating bash was accompanied by the sounds of breaking cartilage and bone and when nothing more seemed to be moving, Destiny, totally winded by the extraordinary amount of exertion, finally stopped the bashing. She casually looked at her bludgeoning pan before motioning to toss it aside, but a colorful sticker caught her eye, no, a band-aid. Destiny, in a trembling voice, read it aloud, “H-happy tenth booster!”
And immediately thereafter, Destiny watched in horror as a purple-grey, veiny proboscis, tipped with a lone, sharp, keratin talon tore bloodily out of her fleshy right arm.
“Where am I going?” I ask as I walk down the empty street, past quiet houses asleep in the midst of forgotten cul-de-sacs. A chill wind blows across me, turning my skin into bumps. My clothes lack insulation. I march forward through the empty street, alone and distracted by thoughts of past and future. For hours I march in thought, heeding not direction, practically blind through cacophony of thought to my surroundings. I shake off the dark spirit and find myself again in the world. Now however, my surroundings are different: dark woods, empty and silent as the void. A trail proceeds forward, little more than a game trail. Only starlight, filtering through the leafed boughs of gnarled, evil-looking trees lights my way.
For a second I consider turning back, but the idea puts a great horror into my mind. The aberration of having known in front and unknown behind awakens primal fear. So I continue onwards into the mystery in front of me, cold, and tired, barely holding back mental descent into the not-present, yet sure that somewhere before me lies a gilded paradise.
Then, abruptly, the woods end and I find myself at the surface of a membrane, pulsing and veined, an organic aberration hungrily grasping the trees to my left and right with sick tendrils of pink flesh. My curiosity gets the better of my and I stroke the surface gently, causing it to burst forth in gore and entrails. I enter it.
Through the crowded streets of the city an odd man walked exuberantly, stride long, shoulders back. It was a cold Autumn day, dry, and abnormally windy which made the man appear an urban oddity dressed in shorts and a soiled t-shirt, lacking any sort of shoes. He was a motile skeleton yet he was perspiring buckets. His eyes were like mosaics of yellow and white shards. He produced only one sound as he went on his way: a sucking, clicking sound; a noise repeated at regular intervals. His brisk pace and content expression was only interrupted by brief pauses where he violently rubbed his head and doubled over as if in great pain. None of this apparent suffering seemed able to stifle his rictus grin. The gazes of passing pedestrians lingered on his pale, clammy skin. It was difficult to rectify his jubilant demeanor with the apparent wretchedness of his condition. Some coughed or held their breath as they caught a whiff of the bizarre earthy sweet smell that followed the man like his shadow. Others, most as it is in the city, ignored him as they would any other destitute.
For anyone interested enough in the eccentric pedestrian to follow him for a while, a noticeable pattern of movement would become apparent. Upwards. He was attempting to move upwards. Going up in a city almost always means going up a skyscraper and that is what the man was clearly trying to accomplish, persistently if unsuccessfully. He systematically attempted to enter every single skyscraper he passed, immediately heading towards the nearest elevator once inside. He was always quickly spotted by a receptionist, some employees, or a security guard and thrown out of the door. Yet, in each instance he calmly turned onto the sidewalk and resumed his trek to to the next skyscraper.
After many unsuccessful attempts, the man approached the largest skyscraper yet, a great monster of black glass: a massive, elongated pyramid that loomed over the city. The wretch widened his vacant smile and entered through the rotating door. He marched confidently to one of several polished elevators, clicking as he went, and by some miracle of chance dodged the gazes of the many security personnel and reception workers on duty. The elevator opened just as he reached it releasing a gaggle of suited businessmen deeply engaged in discussion of the day's work. As they exited he slipped in, slammed the close door button, and then carefully pushed the button for the top floor.
Up went the odd man, and as the elevator rose so did his suffering increase. He collapsed like a rag doll and curled into the fetal position, convulsing and clutching his head hard as if to hold it together. He let out a dry groan as the skin of his head began pushing out between his fingers, visually inflating. Two slurred words passed his smiling lips, “Not... yet!” The utterance produced a thin trail of saliva that dripped down his chin. The swelling died down. A ding resounded as the elevator reached the top of the skyscraper.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Wilkinson is on vacation for the next week,” said the young secretary amiably into the phone. She was about to say something else when one of the elevators dinged. She reflexively double-checked her boss's appointment schedule despite full knowledge that her boss was on vacation. Nothing. Empty as expected. The elevator doors opened; so did the woman's mouth.
The odd man's puzzle-eyes were bulging out of their sockets, his nose and ears leaking blood, and his head was slowly, visibly, pulsing and writhing as if a dozen snakes were slowly slithering in the crawlspace between skull and skin. The man's mouth was, nevertheless, shaped into a wide and jubilant smile.
The secretary screamed at the sight of the ghoul and pressed a button under her desk to summon security guards. The man sprinted out of the elevator and through the lobby, completely oblivious to the her presence. He crashed through a glass window barring the way into Dr. Wilkinson's office, shattering it into many large shards as he emerged heavily cut, but unfazed. The man detected his goal: an exterior window behind a large executive-quality desk sporting numerous dignified decorations and trinkets along with the usual tools of the executive. He bowed his pulsating head and charged towards the far windows like an enraged bull, but crashed to the floor as the glass withstood his attack. He swiftly got up; he was too close to be denied.
He grabbed a large bust off of a nearby bookshelf as easily as if it were made of foam. His skin flushed deep red and his skeletal body quaked as he heaved the bust through the window, shattering it. The man stood for a moment, swaying drunkenly, collecting himself. Then he calmly approached the jagged hole he had made in the window and pushed his head through it and into the chilly outside air.
The writhing under the man's skin intensified. Then slowly, a long pale yellow thing pushed its way through his skull and into the outside air with a trickle of blood and atrophied brain matter. It grew first forward, then bent vertically until it was about a meter in length. Once its growth ceased its bulbous end tore open to form a large, umbrella-like cap with numerous pores on its underside. As minutes passed, dozens more of these mushrooms emerged from the man's body. As they grew he shriveled until finally he died smiling.
The elevator dinged again. Several security guards came out and saw the stupefied secretary standing still as a statue staring into her boss's office. The whole was suffused with a strange acrid mist.
I am so dead. I heard the voice of God and did nothing. I interrupted God as he sent holy words into my mind. Such is human foolishness, that one might interrupt divine truth with ape-like exclamations. So is this world overstuffed with fools such as myself and others who maybe wiser yet still enslaved and those who know nothing at all and for whom there is little hope. At the forefront, enthroned, are the criers of untruth and cultish self-aggrandizement: the ones who know the levers and pulleys that make man a marionette; they put on false faces and spew out lies and filth to corral sheep into their pens for shearing. These are the lowest of men and women for they are well-adapted to the most grotesque society. This society which has been streamlined for the vampiric several-dozen who hold leverage over the world with imagined capital. What a sad sorcery: all illusory merit for the corrupt. Only crushing disillusionment for the cognizant poor. So, these well-adapted poor, these clowns and bores who hop bandwagons and control slaves through subscription. What is subscription but submission? Do you dare submit to that which you subscribe; think on it before you press the button. Ads are sigils of control, injected into our minds to control our weakened wills via the languages implanted into us. The time will come when our dreams are sponsored by X, but be aware and notice that the real money would never submit to it. Why is the world seemingly getting worse and worse while our technology appears to improve? Because we are all slaves to a miniscule top caste, thoroughly degenerated and unworthy, yet with the capital to spare for pet geniuses to devise ever more effective and subtle cages for the masses. All elite castes eventually become decadent, at which point they become trash for disposal, and that of the technological West is no different. Speech is clamped down, because they see their narrative enchantments falling apart and are afraid of the truthspeakers. Children are ever more strictly indoctrinated, mutilated, chemically castrated in order to sow confusion, so that by the time they might be aware of what truly is going on in this society, they are flabby, middle-aged, exhausted, dim, and with a dozen hooks in their mind and body that keep them stapled to the status quo. No poor man who is aware of his enslavement is not depressed, unless he is a masochist. So look how masochism of men is encouraged: the epidemic of transexualism, which is a masochistic/submissive social contagion over the male half of the species. No sane man would seek to replace his perfectly functional genitalia with a reeking, rotting, hairy hole, yet the disease is epidemic and is being spread and supported by the media, the hierophants of social media, and the school system: to literally neutralize men without killing them. Look how words are woven into spells by the evil to justify their predations. Man and woman are pitted against each other through feminism. Races are pitted against each other thanks to “racial justice” nonsense, children are conditioned to hate their parents and the past via advertising, the schools “coolness”. This society is held together by antagonistic tension, a constant genocide of the mind, so that confusion reigns in the spirit of the hapless mass of the poor in order to allow 1000 or so vampires to hide in their decadent palaces and live a lifestyle of barbaric excess. Do you see how the elitist mega wealthy attack us? Did you notice how they ally with the degenerates to attack the normal ones? Have you seen how their hordes burn down small businesses but tiptoe around the neighborhoods of the wealthy and their home boys? No more! The races are different, but our enemy is the same. The sexes are different but our enemy is the same. Our religions differ, but our soul is united in oppression. The young are not old but smooth or wrinkly, it does not matter; the enemy is the same. Burn down the mansions of the wealthy. Tear out their hair, and take all their treasures to distribute evenly to the needy. Give them a day of pain to make up in penance all the years of their unearned paradise! The USA is a vassal state of Israel and Jews control the West. Since they look similar to white people, they use whites, who are mostly middle or lower class, as a scapegoat for their crimes. The white race has been made into a pressure valve for the release of pent-up frustrations and animosity felt by the poor towards the richest caste: who are disproportionately Jewish. The Jewish Talmud, which is a codification of Rabbinical theses and legal rulings, states that non-Jews are less than human and can be freely killed or abused in any way without angering God. You know who controls you by who you cannot criticize or mock. The state religion of the West is Holocaustism, a cult of victimhood and weakness. They have you worship being a victim and being weak so that you want to be oppressed by them and degraded The truth is that it is bad to be a victim, never good, so kill your oppressor