The large vein running up the shrimp’s back seemed to have become more powerful than the creature it moved. The vein’s first thought was that it was blood and blood was it. The shrimp was on the verge of being caught up in a fisher’s net before it grew to more than one thousand times its original size and so bigger than the vessel itself. The resulting shock-wave from the shrimp’s explosive growth resulted in three sailors losing their life and some claim this ship still strolls through its old haunt of shrimp cages past occupied by a second ‘participant’ of P.E.T. - a Man. This is accepted as an urban legend. This shrimp, one of many on the day and night of P.E.T., had less than an hour to enjoy it’s newfound glory and power before the vein found the strength to tear out the creatures back and find individuality. When it found individuality it’s only calling was to suck in more blood, it ran off blood. The first bit of blood it found were the drowned sailors from the sunken ship and while the taste was formless it created the impulse for more with each leach like absorption. No mouth existed on vein, the blood pool and it were as close to one in the feeding as two different forms could be. One was animated and took form, the other vaporous and dying without shape to collect it, but at the cellular level huge transfers of energy were taking place.
The vein moved at first by the flow of the ocean, but feeling as the blood drained quickly without flow it adapted within moments a slither. So, through the water, with surprising adroitness - almost lithe if not for the amateur nature of the newborn - it began to move. It found a school of fish but these were so small. To get them individually meant to drain its bodies supply of life. Vein swam on, blood shot out of the tail and when it went to ‘drink’ this same blood in an uroboros fashion more blood appeared and now Vein was becoming clear with thin electric blue bio-luminescent membranes visible and it was weakening. For, strange as the spontaneous birth of this new being had been, it had been unable to break the law of conservation of energy. However, Vein would in the fullness of telling - rewrite the book on our understanding of it. The vein acknowledged a coming cold and the numb darkness on the edges of all it was, so in doing was now Vein….
Vein stumbled upon a shark. The shark bit and snapped. Vein whipped back, lancing out with slashing precision then understanding on a plane intangible - except on the grandest of scales - found itself stretching and tightening around the muscular body of its would be hunter. The spasms trashing at first, strong with millions of years of practice prattled into nothing in Vein's death grip, then opening what corporeal form this creature could said to have with one magnificent sweep consumed the shark at the core of its being. At the cellular level, in a billion fold atomized lance, life was given new life from the inside out.
The shark’s last attempt at life saw its black eyes still contain a level of acknowledgment that all inside it was no more, then came the forceful expulsion of anything indigestible and worthless as wet talcum powder through the anus, fluid of mauve and mahogany so looked like fine wood in the form of liquid. Vein finding purchase on the scrotum instinctively burrowed - the shark was hollow inside but still thrashed as the brain and nerve endings were left intact. As if one could say Vein knew to cause as much suffering as was possible, but this was beyond knowing and simply the way the newborn understood the hunt, kill, survive, loop of it's genesis. Vein found it could use the shark as a shell, it drove the shark's muscles, found within a fat based flat kernel in a smooth hard skull. Now, directed this brain, the electrified fat spoke back: feed.
Life on a strange rock was bred through the vein one hundred million years ago, and it would see the beginning and the end, the alpha and the omega was the blood that now flowed through Vein. Vein was older than shark, It realized.
The vein in our modern day gurgled with torrents of essential gases, nutrients, intakes, and outtakes. This new being, neo-vein: swam on, wiggled, consumed, continued to form basic thoughts as electric signals rippling through a carcass darting as an un-dead underwater Porsche. Undulated through the water like a pulsing sonar with a bad fuse burning out. It came across a much larger animal now. The small tiger shark body camouflaged itself in the dark turning waters. New input, sound - a terrible and continuous roar at the throat of the world, brim of creation. Plasma fire as bad ground at the birth and end. Beautiful sub-sonics. Underneath it, boundless things to be consumed.
Moonlight came down in fractal pillars of cyan cut by opening rifts of crashing waves. There was a dull sound far off, haunting in its beauty, of a mother blue whale who had lost her cub. The whale moved docile and slow, like a stricken Mother she occasionally stopped as if realizing anew the pain, agony, and fullness of loss. Painfully swam through the fluid of cold ocean - singing her lonesome song. Vein understood song as: waste.
Then, Vein chose this moment to leap on Mother Whale's back and use its new mouth to grip her back. Sound came as woeful moaning. Senses came as an intense white adrenaline thrashing. To Vein’s disgust, Mother Whale asked for it. “Bring me to my cub,” she asked, “you are a strange one, the bi-pods would call demon. Yet, I sang for you. Feeling you there, new thing, not-of-this-world thing, unlike thing, wrong thing.”
Vein was forced to feed on these thoughts, like poison the Mother Whale let Vein understand without its knowing that It would never feel what the Mammals - like these oddities the bi-pods - can.
Good-good-good-good, cancelled Vein. Waste, plunged Vein's thinking with each milking pull of cells from Mother's mind and body. She sang back in cold melancholy that pulsed the water around Vein. Vein loved the primitive squeeze of shark tail. What wickedness is this creature that cares and does kindness in pain? Mother whale jostled the water around Vein that its carcass was massaged. “Can I still make people cry?” asked Mother, “and when I come to die will the Universe know I was here?”
She died then, these exotic thoughts entered into Vein and to it's horror - became one with It. Vein squirmed from the entanglement of muscle into the whale’s brain and drove this body for a league or three shooting black fluid out her back. The water pounded in the new body’s ears. There was a tumult ahead of Vein as a kin of Mother swam to investigate, sensing the loss of her sound and movement. They formed a procession then and chorused as one: “you are doomed. Soon the pain of song enter you and ruin you by you’re not being whole.” A half dozen of the massive creatures in the new sense of articulated understanding, Vein knew these titans of the deep were the most despicable thing in its young life . They swam from their guard without looking back. Their lack of fear smell intense to Vein in ways that it lacked a way to calculate, but knew it had won but felt nothing like the sweetness of victory over Tiger Shark. This new feeling of uneasiness was more intense by its very newness. What is the unease of uneasiness? Vein attempted rejection of the thought as it came, but too late, this is the poison of the Whale.
Whale brain spoke only once more, “you are what you eat.”
Then from the milky depth-less black came the trap of the deep. Elongated and striking like some intelligent underwater missile. As the saucer shaped eye met with the dead-alive eyes inside the Whale’s shell, a strange magic came into the water as the two held still rather than attack. Then plunging together, embraced. The giant squid sucking the massive vein into its beaked mouth. From the Giant Squid’s stomach the vein settled into a coil. The giant squid relaxed her body and releasing herself of what will allowed the heat of decay to ease her body into gelatin. Unable to die at will, she took voluntarily the pain with a terrible embrace as if an over-friendly stranger in the dark. She closed her massive eyes on the cold dark Atlantic. Here too was discomfort for Vein. Existence it found was so hard and so terrible, yet it was all there was. Giant Squid said bi-pods put things in books that fall from ships and the dolphins can decipher the text in sound and say one spoke with gleeful laughter that a bi-pod named Vonnegut spoke that, "life is a Hell of a thing to do to an animal."
The Vein un-welcoming of this continued search at depth stretched through the stomach and made it hurt. Giant Squid felt every centimeter of unnatural pressure, of digestive acid escaping and eating her delicate cartilage, olfactory and optical senses. As if a rubber spine made of razors Vein ran through the whole of her body, making a vertebrate from invertebrate. The vein was then not in charge of the squid’s mind, which could see hiding spaces, areas to hunt, and the currents to swim in to rest, but strengthened its body, made it faster, took control there. The vein moved its new body under the direction of the squid and both touched the senses without words that they must gather more bodies and be stronger yet.
“What if there was the ability to perfectly recollect any memory at the cost of future life? What if the police used this as punishment for crimes, that’s how prison time is served is reliving crimes at the cost of the future memory,” thinks the writer. Yet, he was commissioned to write a history of P.E.T….He can’t focus. Thoughts either come in energetic waves that don’t make it to paper, waste is his word what Vein knows and feels and understands completely as waste.
Other times the discipline comes without the energy. He had decided that he could write each day to Iron Butterfly’s IN A GADDA DA VIDA. If he could sit down and feel the psychedelic rock things would come pouring out. Hell, only half his life was gone. The great writer Bukowski didn’t really get his start until he was in his 40’s, even saying he didn’t write for 20 years.
The writer, Jeremy, was largely unaffected by P.E.T. and so didn’t care. When he wasn’t effected, like most, he was neutral on the subject. So, instead of writing he was on electric message board HUB where intense discussion without any depth or meaning pondered the news that a popular cartoon would only voice black characters with black actors. “Are Black actors allowed to voice Asian characters?” He wondered. There was a pandemic. There was the potential for World War 3 on the Asian peninsula. Six months ago two dozen animals had spontaneously mutated to be many orders of magnitude larger than intended. Spontaneously and still without explanation. But the question was how do we both punish and reward a world that hasn’t existed for 300 years?
Jeremy had learned racism was based upon unconscious assumptions and thought patterns. “How does one tell a crime through thought?” he wondered, “presumption of innocence becomes presumption of intent.” Jeremy realized for the first time he longed for P.E.T. to have been total and complete. He longed for a war. He longed for anything that took the sallow wind and short day and callow night and burst of masturbation into something substantial. Jeremy was the final victim of P.E.T. by not being effected by it at all. Like many, the want of action for the sake of it, longed in his belly like a magnet of raw energy from the primeval goo that birthed the genome. But, the modern convenience kept unused sexual and physical energy compliant. There was always the empty instantaneous transfer of data containing images that the unconscious took as real. The television reveals that everyone has beautiful straight white teeth. All the people have slim figures. They don’t poop or pee. They don’t shit blood like he does on the regular because hemorrhoids run in his family. All Men have eight inch penises in circumference because that is mandatory to stimulate the vaginal cavity so that woman say things like ooooooooo.
He thought he better put some words down. “The only evidence, sample, and data we have for Vein was a shred of carapace discovered by a Maine lobster, then caught by a Maine fisherman, then sent to CDC, then NASA, then anybody who could gather more of a clue as to why Vein and this Lobster were technically one and the same. The answer to that query was, of-course, no one. Some new pseudo-creature defined by the world’s best biologists and zoologists a species of parasite, but the most honest and accurate and — problematically -- soul-demanding scientific description of the creature was: we don’t know.”
The drum goes into a rhythmic sequence in the song. “Isn’t that the only answer to the entire event of not only P.E.T., but the whole friggin’ Universe?” Jeremy says aloud, “We don’t know.”
Thinking then, sure, we can say there was some basic uniformity to the animals that grew from ten to 15 times their regular size in that they kept their basic shape. A crab was still a crab, even if was 50 foot wide and immediately collapsed under its own mass. The Vein had been different, was rumored to still exist… Jeremy stepped out into the night to walk and follow the pattern of the great writers hoping that in mimicry there was relativity….He sensed something watching him from the woods outside his property.
Vein had found its favorite among the animals that roamed the ocean floor was the octopus. The octopus was what allowed It to become They. They, though one still, had seen the power of the Octopus when hiding in a cave from the bi-pods that come on floating metal barges attempting to net or spear its spectral body. The spectral body was similar to the octopus, thin and lacy, but wiry and extremely resistant to tearing or pulling. Sailors had described the vein as ‘Gray’s anatomy for nightmares’. What the vein approximated was the entire circulatory system without a form or body to hold it.
Now, many thousands of atom thin charged particles stimulating growth in some new way. Another lesson of the Octopus, unlike the bi-pods the Octopus stretched the computations across many arms. They felt and observed almost as gestalt. Their eyes were more receptive and better focused to the light. Their ownership of color, complete. Vein had slid and buried its black and scarlett body, runs of beige as a primitive digestive track stretched haphazardly along the top of the ‘centrifuge’ - again as Scientists would come to describe the Vein based upon key observations later made my writer Jeremy Seymour in his HISTORY OF P.E.T. Vein had slid under an ancient rock with a razor thin slit beneath that led to a massive labyrinth of intense cold which Vein knew it could not survive. The Mother Octopus that shared this space willingly with Vein, for Vein had helped her live a day in peace by offering the largely wasted body of the Giant Squid outside the cave’s mouth as an offering, wrote in color that old ones lived in the hollow. Mother Octopus would later allow They. They found (the many neuron coated tributaries of cold blood) was the need for Sun but benefit of cold-bloodiness. Less food energy needed, and as mass had grown the hunting had grown more difficult - especially Vein’s unique ‘singularity’ feeding effect. Now, Sun was life. Vein found this a common language theme amongst both the Mammals, primevals, and the ones that think in color. Of which, They had become apart.
Underneath the gloom came haunts of unknown forms, but form none the less and none of the same. Vein lusted eagerly for their secrets, but could now understand that if it plunged into the midst of these strange fourth kind it would not rise again. Dangers had become many for Vein. The Mammals of all kinds hated it. Knowledge tangible as Sun and Moon had come to It as time. Time had passed. With Time came the only thing as curious as It, the bi-pods. Bi-pods were eerily similar to Vein, they both observed, learned, then absorbed their surroundings. Bi-pods could not truly absorb as It could, but they built floating and swimming and sinking dead artifices to try and capture it. Mother Octopus, in one of her few moments of levity during the egg-bearing fast, had indicated the color for veil - which meant hide, but was also a way of stating the obvious. Bi-pods, Vein would later know, call this sarcasm.
Vein then, hiding from the bi-pods, sat so perfectly still and rested, watching Mother Octopus, licking sunlight in drops. Vein watched as the creature it felt most kindred of - Mother Octopus - laid her eggs on the roof of the cave then surrounded them in an silky wall of cartilage gripping neurons. Vein watched for 30 days and nights as Octopus starved herself to protect her eggs from all manner of opportunist. Opportunist like Vein, It realized. The Angel Fish came in swarms, and Eels tested her, even other Octopuses. Then she fell white, weightless, like a downy feather from an over-stuffed mattress. Bi-pods would say it looked like an Angel’s wing from their Devil. Then the many animals ate of her flesh, and the neurons still alive and stimulated - in some alien way similar to the bi-pods - fired a signal to Vein that said: “Bi-pods call it sacrifice.” This was spoke in color without true translation. So Vein drank of the knowledge, then of the pooling dead blood cells and absorbed the neurons and ate of the flesh as it rapidly scabbed and grew on Mother Octopuses beak. The neurons grabbed eagerly at the new purchase, multiplying in the rich energy flowing from some new form of ATP and like bacteria exploded all-over and insid and Vein felt and with it came a new terrible pain as the old mind, Shark Mind, Then Whale Mind, was ate slowly all at once by a trillion fold neurons eating the old to form the new many brain.
“The bi-pods feel this, they call it existence, but we speak of it here calling it: as,” the Neurons spoke to Vein as color untranslatable was danced through the centrifuge.
“Are they enemy?” asked Vein of its new technology.
“They are.”
Vein swam in a tangled whirlpool of violent, myriad stringy flesh. The display as if spontaneous welling of chum after a shark was fed upon by a larger shark and then a larger shark still. Vein now felt both an urge and need to learn more.
“Follow the tunnel. The knowledge of the sea has layered and been earned upon eons. You are not of this Earth, Host.”
“Then, I am this Earth.”
Vein swam to the surface, absorbed a great dose of UV, and plunged torpedo like into the cave of the Old Ones, what bi-pods called Eternity. Eternity, perhaps the only word with a unique and equally uniform translation across all species as the color black. Black then was the Spiritus Operandi of Vein.
Friday, June 26, 2020
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
P.E.T.
DID YOU EVER NEED SOMEBODY
I could crush underfoot
The delicate black rose
Claim it under the veil of stomping youth with dandified boots
Then lie to the petals that I chose
This false victory
This undesired fate
And in my mind would sit known mystery
That all I wanted was to consummate.
The fact breathes hot air in my mind
Of lugubrious frustration
That my still small voice walked blind
Over an Ice Bridge just to continue creation.
That this person would allow crushed bones
A lack of fear and total dedication
To the continued left foot, right foot
Walk of humankind.
Then to know this person is also me.
That my deeper hunger wants for
A thirst only deeper by having
Known the taste of the rose.
To have this alchemy in a decanter
And see it weak in memories
And yelling with an animals abandon at the
Night wind.
Telling me to touch her tender. Deep longing
To squeeze her soft thigh again, push warm skin aside.
Then want conveys wants and gives want to want
So that all that echoes is empty smells, needs unmet.
Teeth smashed into a kaleidoscope touch
Our bones crushed together —- forming newly smashed stone then
Born again rock. Over and over and over.
With our breathe like atomized atmosphere
Grip of fingers meshed and a fulcrum and lever
Of yours and mind through stratospheres of power.
The ancient rites, performed diurnal,
There by being all the more sacred - self-evident.
Form-fitted bodies, washed anew in the
Final break away of
Break on through
Break on through
Break on through
To the Other Side.
The constant frustration of having the mind
Come back.
The constant frustration of mind and body prison and
All it contains.
But languid and lithe in ready — waiting to know
Only one stretch of pulled lip to tangled tongue
One bite, one crested wave, one firm push
May wash it all away.
Poem by Elizabeth Warren, the first known injury of P.E.T, and later prominent author in American Letters of the time.
PART ONE: THE BREAK AWAY
There’s a spider in my room and her name is Moses. She got in around the beginning of Spring and stayed in a web so deep I thought she was dead come July. Cept’ she was still in there. She popped out mid-July twice as big. Moses by that time was huge, eight eyes turned to fire, mean as all Hell and smelling like a mausoleum.
How Moses and I met.
I was doing some exercises on the curl up machine - I got a bunch of old sand weights and so forth, muscle building stuff, in the basement, old wicked thing that squeals like the brakes on the dump truck I work on. I'm sweating and hurting, so I looked up hoping Jillian Michaels might have come down from Heaven - where she was born - and say: "keep going,", but instead I looked right into the eight eyes of Moses. Eyes like a murky brown, something crawling up after you, something not right, lifeless but not living. Shallow, I guess. And me and Moses, we was off, the best of pals.
Moses give me the willies so bad I got the goose skin and just went ahead and dragged my 340 pounds out to grab a bite from Dairy King. Thought to myself, sucking down a chocolate malt, seeing that color brown swirl up the straw just like Spidey’s eyes that chocolate was a mistake. See, just like any of y’all, I’d seen me a million spiders. Kill em’ outright. Or just run cuz’ they creep you out down. Make your insides squirm like they trying to get away before you can. Some instinct, deep in the hollow of my gut or bad knee or lucky cavity. Eight legs. Eight eyes. Some sacred math they probably taught in the schools of ye olde to tell when it would rain or snow. A big hairy bitch bred deep in the Earth right next to the Rothschilds and Clintons. Almost hypnotic, like that Soros fellow taking over the world, but that might be dreamy too, I guess you could say.
I decided I didn’t want to kill her.
Next day, on my last set, I squeezed out an obscene fart that barked out like a firecracker, and I was trying to stare away, but my brain kept locking me onto the thing: danger, Will Robinson, Danger! Willpower is key, so I forced it aside and ripped out another leg curl, but that would only make my brain make the spider look a whole lot bigger and I kept seeing it right about to pounce right on my face. As if this Spider could coil her symmetrical body and spring onto me - like it could sense that I would squish it. I figure it must have molted while hid in her web, and when she came out she was so big that squishing her was too much work because it would make such a mess. It was deeper than that I s’pose’. Thing was I got to grinning when that toot came hooting and I was all alone and I wanted to laugh with someone. Well…the closest thing was that spider. So, I got to talking with it. “How you?” I’d say. And she’d say nuttin’ cuz’ she’s a spider and all, duh.
But, ya’ know I figure I got me a pet. I ain’t got much, and so I figure I got me a little sumtin’. A little pet.
Next day on the dump truck, I work as a Garbage Collection and Management engineer, what a layman might call a garbage man, but I see it as a lot more than that. Things a lot of your folks don't know, like when not to pull a bag up because it's definitely soggy. Or sometimes to just leave it lay. But, there I go again getting off track, I nearly twisted my ankle off jumping from the truck, say out loud, “if it wasn’t already easy to own me a Spidey, it just sure got a lot easier.” See there’s bug like nobody’s business under them trash cans that old folks leave out all night and day. They wake up around 2 in the morning. Meaning it’s dinner by 3 pm and bed by five. So, they get their little trash out about two weeks in advance to be punctual about it. And you see, this tiny trash, is almost all diapers and such. Which is perfect for critters. You get cockroaches, coons, mice, and all sorts of things with lots o’ legs or no legs t’all. I grabbed the near see-through bag of Dairy King and started scooping them up into the bag and then rolled it down like a bagged lunch. Which turned out to be a mistake because I opened it up and scooped out a dead mouse and I just laugh, but the driver Jessie and my assistant Peter just looked white as ghosts and kept talking 'mongst themselves.
After lunch, Jessie and Pete got to be chewing me out for taking so long, but I told them my girl loves insects she’s going to study them in school and all. Cept’ they don’t know I ain’t never even had me a girl before, let alone a daughter. They just looked at one another and looked kind of sick to their stomachs seeing how the bag was filling up with crawlies and they laugh like it hurts but it’s better than any other thing to do. So they just left it alone because they know I love my daughter, course - like I say - they don't know I ain't got one.
Our last stop is always the HEINMAN Super Collider and Astronomical Anomaly Research Center. You ought to see the kind of bugs they had crawling under the trash. Normally, Heinman's trash is wrapped about thirty times over and then they take shrink wrap and mark it up with BIOHAZARD. But this time, one of them was leaking this alcohol smelling bright blue crap out the bottom of the bag.
I told Pete to come see what it was about. Pete took a little on his tongue and said: “that sure is good. MmmHmmm.” I didn’t want any because like that Spider something in my bad knee was saying it wasn’t any good to eat it. I just hoped Spidey would like it because the bugs I scooped up were covered in the stuff. Jessie pulled down the chain horn and black smoke came curling up like the factories that Atlantis probably had to build their floating islands and rocketships. Me and Petey we jumped on real quick after that, because Jessie likes to drink and by the end of our shift he’s about halfway gone and gets real mean to us, and we keep a shotgun in back of the dumptruck, ya’ know just in case and all. Well, let's just say it wouldn't be the first time Jessie has pulled a gun on us if he was to.
To illustrate the point, this one time he got so mad at Pete and I we were only saved by Old Man Jenkins and the Grace of God. The county called us on a Saturday, which is always bad because Jessie doesn't go to bed on Friday. He goes over the Amvets and just keeps it going until Sunday night when he says he has to bear up the burden of you two - whatever that means. The county occasionally calls us out on Saturdays to handle road kill during tourist season, it gets to be so much see. And, boy, it does stink if you let it build up too long. These unlucky critters get stiff as a board, bloated up like a damn bullfrog, and just stink. Normally Pete and I, we just take it up in our big barn shovels together and throw it in. But, this time we was in a quagmire as to what to do with this deer and Jessie - in a bad way and mean besides - was having none of it. Peter and I just couldn't stop staring at this dead deer. Probably the most beautiful road kill God had ever graced. It was miraculous, truly - Amen. Jessie gets so lazy he sometimes goes to talk but doesn't want to put forth the effort to move his mouth and tongue, so he just yells: "Ay! Ay! Boo-tall lin hen egg, Ay! Cic ut I ut ut ith. Huh!"
“Look,” I say, “it’s perfect Jessie.” It was perfect too, this long legged dough with closed eyes like the sleep of Angels and baby fur still on her nose and hooves. She was about the prettiest deer I’d ever seen before, cept’ she was dead and all. Dead as can be. Peter couldn't take his eyes off her. I swear to God to you he had a tear running down his cheek and he says, "it's a miracle Dan. I swear I've doubted before. I've had doubts. Well now more. No sir. There's a God." And I got it too because there wasn't not a mark on her. Not even blood at the mouth or rear or anything. Rarest thing I’d ever seen, beauty in death like that.
“You too white coolies need to get your butts back on the truck or I’m just gonna’ roll over Bambi myself.” Jessie says.
It's hot too by the way, one of those cloudless July days that take the sweat off you before it gets out. We're on this steep hill, peak of the tourist season. Cars are backing up. Jessie getting red as a beat, but Peter and I just can't look away from this sight. Proof of God far as we saw.
“No,” replied Peter. And, well, I just knew we was in trouble -- bad trouble. It being the end of the shift and a Saturday on top of that, means Jessie’d be drunk from the night fore’ and have been drinking to get hisself sober again and drunk again all in the same time period. And, yes, I was right becuz he was sweating like a pig in a barbeque, his words coming out like whistles, and just plain ol' mad.
Jessie forced the truck into park, grinding about a thousand gears getting there, dark as liquid night rolling out of the exhaust. Cars honking their horns both ways winding down this county road out on BFE. Tourists scared for their life because where they come form the world doesn't have hills. Hills is only here, I guess.. Jessie, who has a club foot and his ears don’t have lobes because his Mom drank or smoked something when he was just a baby in her tummy, nearly fell out of the truck when he hopped out — seeing as he has the club foot and all. “Dammit,” Jessie roared, “dammit.” Then he gets he’s so mad he cuts his hand on the button you press to push the seat forward. “Dammit. You two bumpkins is why I ain’t in California or Florida or any friggin’ heen it ut ho t'tall place besides Here. Here instead of elsewheres, understand?”
He's kind of wobbling, with his club foot and three sheets to the wind and goes to aim the shotgun right at Petey - who's still staring in awe at the dead deer - and fires a blast from the double barrel but the kick knocks his shot so far off it misses Peter wide left. Jessie gets to reloading, and that's when I realized he was always ponderin' using that gun because why'd he have extra ammunition in his pockets?
Peter was still looking at that deer, as if he’d gone up into Space and was seeing God and his Dead Ma and Pa for the first time since the cancer ate em’ up. Jessie takes his shotgun and I swear to God he shot the car that was coming up the road at us. Popped the tires right off what looked like the First Automobile - what was it, the Santa Maria? Some Mexican name. I think it must have come from the pilgrims at Plymouth. Heck, they had to get around somehow to make America after all.
But, ya’ see, Jessie is lucky. He’s always been lucky. Even when we were boys, he’d never break a bone, never coughed when we tried the Devil’s Weed that one time, well I suppose cept’ his club foot and no ear lobes and all. Either way, he’s lucky is all, and his luck held out cuz’ it was old Man Jenkins who I think witnessed Jesus get kilt’ an whose as blind as a cat, or a lizard, or bat or whichever it is can't see too well. So, this car gets shot up, the tires busted right there and then, but Old Man Jenkins drives up on us, smiled like he was cousin Ed with his veneers as big as marshmallows: “hehehe, working hard boys? Or hardly working?” I kind of snicker, it being funny. Peter still won't look away. About three cars slam on their breaks behind Old Man Jenkins who's come to a sudden stop. Somebody hollers out, "Jesus Christ! Did somebody shoot a gun?"
The air started thickening up, what with the truck exhaust and burning rubber, this being a steep hill and all. I get to thinking we're gonna' be in trouble, and when Jessie and I smoked the Devil's Weed the pastor made us kiss in front of him to say sorry and I didn't like it - even if I think maybe Jessie did.
Old Man Jenkins was looking about 3 feet to our left and above our heads speaking through us, “that’s how I got my start!” he lifted his fist up in pride and something cracked inside him like a tendon but it sounded like a tomb being opened up and a Mummy exposed to fresh air for the first time since Ancient Aliens buried 'im. He cackled, and I think we was both thinking he should take this show on the road and make a bunch of greenbacks.
“Everyone is in a big hurry anymore,” he continued his stand-up. I was liking it, thinking maybe he should take it on the road he was pretty good after all. About ten cars piled up now. Jessie was standing with the shotgun behind his back as if he thought this were a cartoon and he was Bugs tricking Elmer Fudd. The woman with the three kids in her car right behind Old Man Jenkins had crossed herself six times and was staring straight ahead, ready.
"I wondered where all the traffic is?" Jenkins said, "normally busy this time of the year, on this hill it can get downright dangerous. you boys be careful. " After awhile, Jenkins went to go into a story about his brief stint in the Navy when the car furthest back, unaware that it was Old Man Jenkins again, called: “I’m coming up there to whoop somebody’s ass if your car doesn’t get moving NOW.” Jenkins waved at a bush in the distance and spoke wide left, calling, “don’t work too hard boys!” Then he was gone. I thought to myself if I ever get up the desire to get my license I might just have to have Jenkins teach me because he's so good at it and all.
But, here I am getting off track again, that was then, this is now. Me and Pete knowing better we jumped right up into the truck and closed her down for the day.
When I got home I dumped the entire bag of insects right by Moses's web and just let em’ crawl. Boy you should have seen them run. Spidey loved them blue ones, though. I took a picture of how my basement was now covered in bugs, and I posted it on the Internets -- The Facebook to be clearer for your techies out there --about this big hairy spider and how I was feeding her because she was my pet. I thought maybe there’d be a woman out there that was kindred, enjoyed spiders like I do. I figure spiders and octopuses are relation, kissing cousins at least I guess. I thought maybe this spider expert would have blonde hair, gigantic breasts, a dirty girl like you can get on the internets - well, that is if your tech minded like I am and know where to go to see it. You can get about anything you want. One time I tried to buy a woman and ends up somebody now has my social security number and they’ve been using my credit card since so I just stopped paying the bill cuz’ I figure my wife has it.
My post got three upvotes, even a person from Russia called PutinBot_1023, so I figure it must be a good one. So I started streaming Spidey live over The Facebook. The first day there was only one feller’ in there by the name of Henry who said he had a hard on so big I’d like to suck on it. I just turned it off, worried that might make the spider offended. They say somewhere in the world is a box that has all the deep dark secrets we all keep, but if you open it the world explodes so you’d better not go opening it. And even worse, Mammy told me that if you touch yourself hair grows on your palms and warts on your eyes, so I just hold mine in and hope. I wondered sometimes if that spider was my friend, helping me with this insect problem I’d created. Doing a bad job of it I might add. I woke up with about five of them cockroaches rooting through my bedsheets. But me being 300 plus I just rolled on em’ and that did the job fine.
Soon enough, I come to realize she wasn’t no friend at all, but a great enemy because she kept growing. Kept growing to the point where I had dreams of that coiled body leaping onto my leg and mewling like a cat in pleasure as she tasted big me. I’d wake up shivering, with cold sweat from the coming shock, and my sweat smelled acid like fat but something in it like the tail end of a cigarette. Something poisonous. In the darkness, from my sleep, she’d be awake. Watching me. There would be those undead eyes, prisms of them to create a picture of me. She was growing alright. Only what does the spider see I wondered? Does she see a big fat insect ready to be sucked through her straw mouth, or does she understand I’m the superior species?
The spider never did become a social media star like say Janet Reno’s pet tarantula or Martin Short’s Chihuahua, but the whole world would know about the spider soon enough. In fact so much so that the U.S. Government put me in jail for inciting a riot, because it turns out I was the only person - out of all the people that would be sued by the Feds - to capture live the transformation the world would know as P.E.T., and I wonder to this day just where did Janet Reno’s Tarantula get to anyhow?
I could crush underfoot
The delicate black rose
Claim it under the veil of stomping youth with dandified boots
Then lie to the petals that I chose
This false victory
This undesired fate
And in my mind would sit known mystery
That all I wanted was to consummate.
The fact breathes hot air in my mind
Of lugubrious frustration
That my still small voice walked blind
Over an Ice Bridge just to continue creation.
That this person would allow crushed bones
A lack of fear and total dedication
To the continued left foot, right foot
Walk of humankind.
Then to know this person is also me.
That my deeper hunger wants for
A thirst only deeper by having
Known the taste of the rose.
To have this alchemy in a decanter
And see it weak in memories
And yelling with an animals abandon at the
Night wind.
Telling me to touch her tender. Deep longing
To squeeze her soft thigh again, push warm skin aside.
Then want conveys wants and gives want to want
So that all that echoes is empty smells, needs unmet.
Teeth smashed into a kaleidoscope touch
Our bones crushed together —- forming newly smashed stone then
Born again rock. Over and over and over.
With our breathe like atomized atmosphere
Grip of fingers meshed and a fulcrum and lever
Of yours and mind through stratospheres of power.
The ancient rites, performed diurnal,
There by being all the more sacred - self-evident.
Form-fitted bodies, washed anew in the
Final break away of
Break on through
Break on through
Break on through
To the Other Side.
The constant frustration of having the mind
Come back.
The constant frustration of mind and body prison and
All it contains.
But languid and lithe in ready — waiting to know
Only one stretch of pulled lip to tangled tongue
One bite, one crested wave, one firm push
May wash it all away.
Poem by Elizabeth Warren, the first known injury of P.E.T, and later prominent author in American Letters of the time.
PART ONE: THE BREAK AWAY
There’s a spider in my room and her name is Moses. She got in around the beginning of Spring and stayed in a web so deep I thought she was dead come July. Cept’ she was still in there. She popped out mid-July twice as big. Moses by that time was huge, eight eyes turned to fire, mean as all Hell and smelling like a mausoleum.
How Moses and I met.
I was doing some exercises on the curl up machine - I got a bunch of old sand weights and so forth, muscle building stuff, in the basement, old wicked thing that squeals like the brakes on the dump truck I work on. I'm sweating and hurting, so I looked up hoping Jillian Michaels might have come down from Heaven - where she was born - and say: "keep going,", but instead I looked right into the eight eyes of Moses. Eyes like a murky brown, something crawling up after you, something not right, lifeless but not living. Shallow, I guess. And me and Moses, we was off, the best of pals.
Moses give me the willies so bad I got the goose skin and just went ahead and dragged my 340 pounds out to grab a bite from Dairy King. Thought to myself, sucking down a chocolate malt, seeing that color brown swirl up the straw just like Spidey’s eyes that chocolate was a mistake. See, just like any of y’all, I’d seen me a million spiders. Kill em’ outright. Or just run cuz’ they creep you out down. Make your insides squirm like they trying to get away before you can. Some instinct, deep in the hollow of my gut or bad knee or lucky cavity. Eight legs. Eight eyes. Some sacred math they probably taught in the schools of ye olde to tell when it would rain or snow. A big hairy bitch bred deep in the Earth right next to the Rothschilds and Clintons. Almost hypnotic, like that Soros fellow taking over the world, but that might be dreamy too, I guess you could say.
I decided I didn’t want to kill her.
Next day, on my last set, I squeezed out an obscene fart that barked out like a firecracker, and I was trying to stare away, but my brain kept locking me onto the thing: danger, Will Robinson, Danger! Willpower is key, so I forced it aside and ripped out another leg curl, but that would only make my brain make the spider look a whole lot bigger and I kept seeing it right about to pounce right on my face. As if this Spider could coil her symmetrical body and spring onto me - like it could sense that I would squish it. I figure it must have molted while hid in her web, and when she came out she was so big that squishing her was too much work because it would make such a mess. It was deeper than that I s’pose’. Thing was I got to grinning when that toot came hooting and I was all alone and I wanted to laugh with someone. Well…the closest thing was that spider. So, I got to talking with it. “How you?” I’d say. And she’d say nuttin’ cuz’ she’s a spider and all, duh.
But, ya’ know I figure I got me a pet. I ain’t got much, and so I figure I got me a little sumtin’. A little pet.
Next day on the dump truck, I work as a Garbage Collection and Management engineer, what a layman might call a garbage man, but I see it as a lot more than that. Things a lot of your folks don't know, like when not to pull a bag up because it's definitely soggy. Or sometimes to just leave it lay. But, there I go again getting off track, I nearly twisted my ankle off jumping from the truck, say out loud, “if it wasn’t already easy to own me a Spidey, it just sure got a lot easier.” See there’s bug like nobody’s business under them trash cans that old folks leave out all night and day. They wake up around 2 in the morning. Meaning it’s dinner by 3 pm and bed by five. So, they get their little trash out about two weeks in advance to be punctual about it. And you see, this tiny trash, is almost all diapers and such. Which is perfect for critters. You get cockroaches, coons, mice, and all sorts of things with lots o’ legs or no legs t’all. I grabbed the near see-through bag of Dairy King and started scooping them up into the bag and then rolled it down like a bagged lunch. Which turned out to be a mistake because I opened it up and scooped out a dead mouse and I just laugh, but the driver Jessie and my assistant Peter just looked white as ghosts and kept talking 'mongst themselves.
After lunch, Jessie and Pete got to be chewing me out for taking so long, but I told them my girl loves insects she’s going to study them in school and all. Cept’ they don’t know I ain’t never even had me a girl before, let alone a daughter. They just looked at one another and looked kind of sick to their stomachs seeing how the bag was filling up with crawlies and they laugh like it hurts but it’s better than any other thing to do. So they just left it alone because they know I love my daughter, course - like I say - they don't know I ain't got one.
Our last stop is always the HEINMAN Super Collider and Astronomical Anomaly Research Center. You ought to see the kind of bugs they had crawling under the trash. Normally, Heinman's trash is wrapped about thirty times over and then they take shrink wrap and mark it up with BIOHAZARD. But this time, one of them was leaking this alcohol smelling bright blue crap out the bottom of the bag.
I told Pete to come see what it was about. Pete took a little on his tongue and said: “that sure is good. MmmHmmm.” I didn’t want any because like that Spider something in my bad knee was saying it wasn’t any good to eat it. I just hoped Spidey would like it because the bugs I scooped up were covered in the stuff. Jessie pulled down the chain horn and black smoke came curling up like the factories that Atlantis probably had to build their floating islands and rocketships. Me and Petey we jumped on real quick after that, because Jessie likes to drink and by the end of our shift he’s about halfway gone and gets real mean to us, and we keep a shotgun in back of the dumptruck, ya’ know just in case and all. Well, let's just say it wouldn't be the first time Jessie has pulled a gun on us if he was to.
To illustrate the point, this one time he got so mad at Pete and I we were only saved by Old Man Jenkins and the Grace of God. The county called us on a Saturday, which is always bad because Jessie doesn't go to bed on Friday. He goes over the Amvets and just keeps it going until Sunday night when he says he has to bear up the burden of you two - whatever that means. The county occasionally calls us out on Saturdays to handle road kill during tourist season, it gets to be so much see. And, boy, it does stink if you let it build up too long. These unlucky critters get stiff as a board, bloated up like a damn bullfrog, and just stink. Normally Pete and I, we just take it up in our big barn shovels together and throw it in. But, this time we was in a quagmire as to what to do with this deer and Jessie - in a bad way and mean besides - was having none of it. Peter and I just couldn't stop staring at this dead deer. Probably the most beautiful road kill God had ever graced. It was miraculous, truly - Amen. Jessie gets so lazy he sometimes goes to talk but doesn't want to put forth the effort to move his mouth and tongue, so he just yells: "Ay! Ay! Boo-tall lin hen egg, Ay! Cic ut I ut ut ith. Huh!"
“Look,” I say, “it’s perfect Jessie.” It was perfect too, this long legged dough with closed eyes like the sleep of Angels and baby fur still on her nose and hooves. She was about the prettiest deer I’d ever seen before, cept’ she was dead and all. Dead as can be. Peter couldn't take his eyes off her. I swear to God to you he had a tear running down his cheek and he says, "it's a miracle Dan. I swear I've doubted before. I've had doubts. Well now more. No sir. There's a God." And I got it too because there wasn't not a mark on her. Not even blood at the mouth or rear or anything. Rarest thing I’d ever seen, beauty in death like that.
“You too white coolies need to get your butts back on the truck or I’m just gonna’ roll over Bambi myself.” Jessie says.
It's hot too by the way, one of those cloudless July days that take the sweat off you before it gets out. We're on this steep hill, peak of the tourist season. Cars are backing up. Jessie getting red as a beat, but Peter and I just can't look away from this sight. Proof of God far as we saw.
“No,” replied Peter. And, well, I just knew we was in trouble -- bad trouble. It being the end of the shift and a Saturday on top of that, means Jessie’d be drunk from the night fore’ and have been drinking to get hisself sober again and drunk again all in the same time period. And, yes, I was right becuz he was sweating like a pig in a barbeque, his words coming out like whistles, and just plain ol' mad.
Jessie forced the truck into park, grinding about a thousand gears getting there, dark as liquid night rolling out of the exhaust. Cars honking their horns both ways winding down this county road out on BFE. Tourists scared for their life because where they come form the world doesn't have hills. Hills is only here, I guess.. Jessie, who has a club foot and his ears don’t have lobes because his Mom drank or smoked something when he was just a baby in her tummy, nearly fell out of the truck when he hopped out — seeing as he has the club foot and all. “Dammit,” Jessie roared, “dammit.” Then he gets he’s so mad he cuts his hand on the button you press to push the seat forward. “Dammit. You two bumpkins is why I ain’t in California or Florida or any friggin’ heen it ut ho t'tall place besides Here. Here instead of elsewheres, understand?”
He's kind of wobbling, with his club foot and three sheets to the wind and goes to aim the shotgun right at Petey - who's still staring in awe at the dead deer - and fires a blast from the double barrel but the kick knocks his shot so far off it misses Peter wide left. Jessie gets to reloading, and that's when I realized he was always ponderin' using that gun because why'd he have extra ammunition in his pockets?
Peter was still looking at that deer, as if he’d gone up into Space and was seeing God and his Dead Ma and Pa for the first time since the cancer ate em’ up. Jessie takes his shotgun and I swear to God he shot the car that was coming up the road at us. Popped the tires right off what looked like the First Automobile - what was it, the Santa Maria? Some Mexican name. I think it must have come from the pilgrims at Plymouth. Heck, they had to get around somehow to make America after all.
But, ya’ see, Jessie is lucky. He’s always been lucky. Even when we were boys, he’d never break a bone, never coughed when we tried the Devil’s Weed that one time, well I suppose cept’ his club foot and no ear lobes and all. Either way, he’s lucky is all, and his luck held out cuz’ it was old Man Jenkins who I think witnessed Jesus get kilt’ an whose as blind as a cat, or a lizard, or bat or whichever it is can't see too well. So, this car gets shot up, the tires busted right there and then, but Old Man Jenkins drives up on us, smiled like he was cousin Ed with his veneers as big as marshmallows: “hehehe, working hard boys? Or hardly working?” I kind of snicker, it being funny. Peter still won't look away. About three cars slam on their breaks behind Old Man Jenkins who's come to a sudden stop. Somebody hollers out, "Jesus Christ! Did somebody shoot a gun?"
The air started thickening up, what with the truck exhaust and burning rubber, this being a steep hill and all. I get to thinking we're gonna' be in trouble, and when Jessie and I smoked the Devil's Weed the pastor made us kiss in front of him to say sorry and I didn't like it - even if I think maybe Jessie did.
Old Man Jenkins was looking about 3 feet to our left and above our heads speaking through us, “that’s how I got my start!” he lifted his fist up in pride and something cracked inside him like a tendon but it sounded like a tomb being opened up and a Mummy exposed to fresh air for the first time since Ancient Aliens buried 'im. He cackled, and I think we was both thinking he should take this show on the road and make a bunch of greenbacks.
“Everyone is in a big hurry anymore,” he continued his stand-up. I was liking it, thinking maybe he should take it on the road he was pretty good after all. About ten cars piled up now. Jessie was standing with the shotgun behind his back as if he thought this were a cartoon and he was Bugs tricking Elmer Fudd. The woman with the three kids in her car right behind Old Man Jenkins had crossed herself six times and was staring straight ahead, ready.
"I wondered where all the traffic is?" Jenkins said, "normally busy this time of the year, on this hill it can get downright dangerous. you boys be careful. " After awhile, Jenkins went to go into a story about his brief stint in the Navy when the car furthest back, unaware that it was Old Man Jenkins again, called: “I’m coming up there to whoop somebody’s ass if your car doesn’t get moving NOW.” Jenkins waved at a bush in the distance and spoke wide left, calling, “don’t work too hard boys!” Then he was gone. I thought to myself if I ever get up the desire to get my license I might just have to have Jenkins teach me because he's so good at it and all.
But, here I am getting off track again, that was then, this is now. Me and Pete knowing better we jumped right up into the truck and closed her down for the day.
When I got home I dumped the entire bag of insects right by Moses's web and just let em’ crawl. Boy you should have seen them run. Spidey loved them blue ones, though. I took a picture of how my basement was now covered in bugs, and I posted it on the Internets -- The Facebook to be clearer for your techies out there --about this big hairy spider and how I was feeding her because she was my pet. I thought maybe there’d be a woman out there that was kindred, enjoyed spiders like I do. I figure spiders and octopuses are relation, kissing cousins at least I guess. I thought maybe this spider expert would have blonde hair, gigantic breasts, a dirty girl like you can get on the internets - well, that is if your tech minded like I am and know where to go to see it. You can get about anything you want. One time I tried to buy a woman and ends up somebody now has my social security number and they’ve been using my credit card since so I just stopped paying the bill cuz’ I figure my wife has it.
My post got three upvotes, even a person from Russia called PutinBot_1023, so I figure it must be a good one. So I started streaming Spidey live over The Facebook. The first day there was only one feller’ in there by the name of Henry who said he had a hard on so big I’d like to suck on it. I just turned it off, worried that might make the spider offended. They say somewhere in the world is a box that has all the deep dark secrets we all keep, but if you open it the world explodes so you’d better not go opening it. And even worse, Mammy told me that if you touch yourself hair grows on your palms and warts on your eyes, so I just hold mine in and hope. I wondered sometimes if that spider was my friend, helping me with this insect problem I’d created. Doing a bad job of it I might add. I woke up with about five of them cockroaches rooting through my bedsheets. But me being 300 plus I just rolled on em’ and that did the job fine.
Soon enough, I come to realize she wasn’t no friend at all, but a great enemy because she kept growing. Kept growing to the point where I had dreams of that coiled body leaping onto my leg and mewling like a cat in pleasure as she tasted big me. I’d wake up shivering, with cold sweat from the coming shock, and my sweat smelled acid like fat but something in it like the tail end of a cigarette. Something poisonous. In the darkness, from my sleep, she’d be awake. Watching me. There would be those undead eyes, prisms of them to create a picture of me. She was growing alright. Only what does the spider see I wondered? Does she see a big fat insect ready to be sucked through her straw mouth, or does she understand I’m the superior species?
The spider never did become a social media star like say Janet Reno’s pet tarantula or Martin Short’s Chihuahua, but the whole world would know about the spider soon enough. In fact so much so that the U.S. Government put me in jail for inciting a riot, because it turns out I was the only person - out of all the people that would be sued by the Feds - to capture live the transformation the world would know as P.E.T., and I wonder to this day just where did Janet Reno’s Tarantula get to anyhow?
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Filter Zero
“There us and we’re them. Only it is us versus them. Because they hunt us. But they are us after all. So, really it’s just us.” - notes from Sasha Gray
“When the light touched the moon on the fifteenth cycle of the plague there was the great cataclysms end.” - Parables of Maggie
“ For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
What is Filter? Filter is about the darkest side of ourselves that we keep dark and low, which resides in all of us - escaping our control. Escaping even our physical bodies`
When the wolf cried out in pain on the fifth cycle there was blood around the Angel and she seemed shocked that the moment she had prepared for all her life had come true. The master had told her that in order for the gate to remain closed while humanity matured their technological advancements must be slowed. This she couldn’t provide.
Jeremiah Johnson stood six foot three inches tall, with large hands with short fingers, brown skin, and blue eyes he got from his Mother that glowed with intelligence. It was three am in a ghost town outside the California sprawl where he was making minimum wage with tips serving drinks to a man who’d called him “blackie” three times now, and though he kept reminding him that he wasn’t black he was Haitian, the man insisted. When the time came, he’d have him comeuppance. The fact Jeremiah wasn’t aware of, is that they all would have their comeuppance soon enough. Johnson had done three seasons as a nose tackle for the Detroit Lions before his proneness to snort stuff up his nose came back to bite him and he was went through rehabilitation but by the time he was healthy the game had passed him up and he was left with all that remains after the curtains draw and the lights go out. A lot of lonely folks in sordid places with a story of woe that satisfies them well enough. The first knock on the door of Willie’s Willy was the 100th intruder from the Exodus that managed to port in.
The room was cold for July, he’d been monitoring the situation from his bunker port side outside New Jersey, USA and when he predicted last year it was over - he’d over shot his mark. He told his followers the all-clear was on: No Jesus for another century. Then Jesus showed up.
Jesus Christ was on 33 outside of Ohio waiting for the rapture that, as his Father tended to do, came about in an unpredictable way.
Sasha was inside an Area 51 bunker that was already a month aware and on it when the Rapture/Event/Incurision/Whatever the fuck brought Pink into this world occurred. She’d seen her Pink, a six foot five black man without eyeballs and the sharpened teeth of a Reptilian in what they were calling the waiting room - some black void where a tall shadowless form with gaping white eyes stood with dice in one hand and a rose in the other. She was confident they could have it beat in a month, tech was changing, they’d change with it. It would be seven years until some form of victory could be claimed. Sarah, a virgin, with brown stringy hair, and dead parents who worked on the Manhattan project and had her late in their life, had dedicated her life to the pursuit of science was - for the first time - meeting an experience with the inexplicable.
Yelf was the first demon Lucifer sent in to establish a temporary truce with Christ so they could reestablish the rule book, a meeting that happened a week too late and Yelf found he could also be infected. Further, both sides were discouraged to find neither responsible.
You were in a basement dwelling secluded from the world and people when the emergency siren thrust on your television and your Dad’s head exploded and Grandmother shouted but it was late, he was already dead and the television said: DO NOT STARE AT THE MOON. A man with a top-hat walked without stepping by your window and the transformer blew and all the sirens that had exploded chose that moment to also die down and the silence sweeping over the gentle night was the worst torture of eternity as at the tale end of it came the sounds of horns blown by angels and the irritating scratching - occasional genteel knocking - of your new friend and constant companion that had, as the others would, sought you.
THE R-REPORT: Post-Mortem of Rapture
The vast majority of the human population is now dead.
They were killed by an infection, known colloquially as Pink, that arrived via [REDACTED] and spread instantaneously and spontaneously globally after the severing of the [REDACTED] on [REDACTED]…
Maggie Magill was a girl who went to Hollywood and dreamed of being a starlet but washed out and ended up in a new kingdom that claimed to be the last of the Russian Empire’s monarchy and turned out to be humanities restarting point.
Jimmy likes to drink and fuck, but rarely gets to do the latter. His Mother died without his knowing. His Father was a no show. He lived in them there hills and the Football jocks of West High School burnt down his home because it was just a moldering and dilapidated lean to, some colonial log cabin still standing by freak cosmic accident and they arrested him for arson because the team was really doing well that year, but he escaped. When the players and coach found him they went ahead and tried to kill him, but they failed in that too. So now they couldn't cover it up, so they paid him enough beer money for a month to claim they had saved him from a fire. Jimmy spent the money in one night and it still didn't satisfy his constant hard on and empty teeth and deep insatiable unknowable want to be fulfilled. Jimmy would find Rapture the greatest excitement of his life, not least of which the first friend he ever met also had an never-ending want to kill him. He was the first man in recorded history to kill a Pink and learn the terrible truth that…they can’t be killed.
Senator Boris Immanuel Kent was a born again Baptist pastor out of Tennessee that will do something heroic.
E knows its to blame, but would like best if it wasn’t.
These stories and more inside the end of the world on repeat. A world that follows three rules:
1) Do not stare at the Moon
2) Do not respond to deception of which is constant
3) Do not produce excess heat, by proxy allow heart rate to exceed x beats per minute as the creatures seem to hunt via this method
This was the extent to which the U.S. government in its infinite wisdom, with a month of warning, was able to prepare the United States and therefore the world - as no other's were aware and...well, we just kinda' assumed they knew that the first true virtual environments humans made had inadvertently came with some serious side-effects.
“When the light touched the moon on the fifteenth cycle of the plague there was the great cataclysms end.” - Parables of Maggie
“ For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
What is Filter? Filter is about the darkest side of ourselves that we keep dark and low, which resides in all of us - escaping our control. Escaping even our physical bodies`
When the wolf cried out in pain on the fifth cycle there was blood around the Angel and she seemed shocked that the moment she had prepared for all her life had come true. The master had told her that in order for the gate to remain closed while humanity matured their technological advancements must be slowed. This she couldn’t provide.
Jeremiah Johnson stood six foot three inches tall, with large hands with short fingers, brown skin, and blue eyes he got from his Mother that glowed with intelligence. It was three am in a ghost town outside the California sprawl where he was making minimum wage with tips serving drinks to a man who’d called him “blackie” three times now, and though he kept reminding him that he wasn’t black he was Haitian, the man insisted. When the time came, he’d have him comeuppance. The fact Jeremiah wasn’t aware of, is that they all would have their comeuppance soon enough. Johnson had done three seasons as a nose tackle for the Detroit Lions before his proneness to snort stuff up his nose came back to bite him and he was went through rehabilitation but by the time he was healthy the game had passed him up and he was left with all that remains after the curtains draw and the lights go out. A lot of lonely folks in sordid places with a story of woe that satisfies them well enough. The first knock on the door of Willie’s Willy was the 100th intruder from the Exodus that managed to port in.
The room was cold for July, he’d been monitoring the situation from his bunker port side outside New Jersey, USA and when he predicted last year it was over - he’d over shot his mark. He told his followers the all-clear was on: No Jesus for another century. Then Jesus showed up.
Jesus Christ was on 33 outside of Ohio waiting for the rapture that, as his Father tended to do, came about in an unpredictable way.
Sasha was inside an Area 51 bunker that was already a month aware and on it when the Rapture/Event/Incurision/Whatever the fuck brought Pink into this world occurred. She’d seen her Pink, a six foot five black man without eyeballs and the sharpened teeth of a Reptilian in what they were calling the waiting room - some black void where a tall shadowless form with gaping white eyes stood with dice in one hand and a rose in the other. She was confident they could have it beat in a month, tech was changing, they’d change with it. It would be seven years until some form of victory could be claimed. Sarah, a virgin, with brown stringy hair, and dead parents who worked on the Manhattan project and had her late in their life, had dedicated her life to the pursuit of science was - for the first time - meeting an experience with the inexplicable.
Yelf was the first demon Lucifer sent in to establish a temporary truce with Christ so they could reestablish the rule book, a meeting that happened a week too late and Yelf found he could also be infected. Further, both sides were discouraged to find neither responsible.
You were in a basement dwelling secluded from the world and people when the emergency siren thrust on your television and your Dad’s head exploded and Grandmother shouted but it was late, he was already dead and the television said: DO NOT STARE AT THE MOON. A man with a top-hat walked without stepping by your window and the transformer blew and all the sirens that had exploded chose that moment to also die down and the silence sweeping over the gentle night was the worst torture of eternity as at the tale end of it came the sounds of horns blown by angels and the irritating scratching - occasional genteel knocking - of your new friend and constant companion that had, as the others would, sought you.
THE R-REPORT: Post-Mortem of Rapture
The vast majority of the human population is now dead.
They were killed by an infection, known colloquially as Pink, that arrived via [REDACTED] and spread instantaneously and spontaneously globally after the severing of the [REDACTED] on [REDACTED]…
Maggie Magill was a girl who went to Hollywood and dreamed of being a starlet but washed out and ended up in a new kingdom that claimed to be the last of the Russian Empire’s monarchy and turned out to be humanities restarting point.
Jimmy likes to drink and fuck, but rarely gets to do the latter. His Mother died without his knowing. His Father was a no show. He lived in them there hills and the Football jocks of West High School burnt down his home because it was just a moldering and dilapidated lean to, some colonial log cabin still standing by freak cosmic accident and they arrested him for arson because the team was really doing well that year, but he escaped. When the players and coach found him they went ahead and tried to kill him, but they failed in that too. So now they couldn't cover it up, so they paid him enough beer money for a month to claim they had saved him from a fire. Jimmy spent the money in one night and it still didn't satisfy his constant hard on and empty teeth and deep insatiable unknowable want to be fulfilled. Jimmy would find Rapture the greatest excitement of his life, not least of which the first friend he ever met also had an never-ending want to kill him. He was the first man in recorded history to kill a Pink and learn the terrible truth that…they can’t be killed.
Senator Boris Immanuel Kent was a born again Baptist pastor out of Tennessee that will do something heroic.
E knows its to blame, but would like best if it wasn’t.
These stories and more inside the end of the world on repeat. A world that follows three rules:
1) Do not stare at the Moon
2) Do not respond to deception of which is constant
3) Do not produce excess heat, by proxy allow heart rate to exceed x beats per minute as the creatures seem to hunt via this method
This was the extent to which the U.S. government in its infinite wisdom, with a month of warning, was able to prepare the United States and therefore the world - as no other's were aware and...well, we just kinda' assumed they knew that the first true virtual environments humans made had inadvertently came with some serious side-effects.
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