Story Time: Facing Eternity

*Leggy wrote a post on nanobots, Clicky? /lights up and smokes… I heard mention of those in a new vid from Lashy just last night…*

We have a little treat for you, Dear Reader, on this cold January day. My good friend Leggy, a.k.a H.K. Hillman, has agreed the LoL can post a story from Fears Of The Old And The New, his collection of short horror yarns. It’s relatively tiny but really packs a punch 😉

Enjoy! ❤

*True – Leggy does live in the Scottish Highlands… /thinks… And he’s got swords…*

*******

Facing Eternity

by H.K. Hillman

Nigel sat at the remains of his desk, idly twirling the paper-knife in the fingers of his left hand. With a swift motion he grasped it and thrust it through the palm of his right hand. His head pressed the high back of the chair as his body stiffened against the pain, his teeth clamped shut to avoid biting the end of his tongue. With a gasp, he forced his body to relax and looked at his shaking right hand.

Bright red life oozed from both sides, running along the blade and handle of the knife and forming crimson lines along his wrist. His face set into a grimace as he quickly pulled the blade free, then he sat sobbing as he watched the wound close, the flow trickle to a stop. As the last traces of his self-inflicted injury faded, he roughly wiped the blood from his hands onto his trousers. Standing, he walked to the shattered window, wiping the tears from his eyes with a wrinkled, filthy sleeve.

It had been his invention, his own work. Why should he share it? If he had told his supervisors they would simply have taken his idea and left him behind, alone and forgotten. He couldn’t let that happen. He had decided to keep his success secret until he could announce his invention himself. He would wait until the time was right.

He had tested his invention on himself, of course. Nigel recalled that day, months ago, when he had injected his microscopic robots into his veins. He remembered that first thrill as they set to work. His chest pains had vanished as his heart was healed. He had discarded his spectacles as his vision was restored. The arthritic ache in his shoulder simply disappeared. What an invention! He would be famous, or would have been.

Nigel felt tears returning to his eyes as he surveyed the desolation of the city. Four days ago – maybe more, Nigel wasn’t sure – nuclear Armageddon had arrived and everyone had left in a flash of radiation. Nigel could recall the pain as the wave of gamma-rays had followed the edge of the blast through his beautiful suburban house. His carefully tended garden had turned into a desert of brown, twisted stalks, although still in their perfectly ordered rows in the sterile soil.

He watched as the bulging wall of a distant building suddenly gave way, showering bricks and mortar onto the dust-obscured street below. The sound traversed the distance easily, unhindered in the silence of this dead world.

The flash had killed him, but it hadn’t killed his robots. He had no idea how long it had taken them, but they had repaired him. They had brought him back to life. He had invented more than just a medical dream. He had invented immortality.

If only he had told someone else.

*******

*Fantastic book, Clicky… /stubs butt… So’s ‘is uvver one…*

Catch you later, Dear Reader… And have a Song 😉

CLICK5: Eggcelerating into 2021

CLICK5: On Christmas Mourn

CLICK5: To See Before

Story Time: Christmas Death Wish

*Hello, Clicky… /pats snout… Gonna post my Underdog Anthology Christmas story. Wanna help?*

*Whoa there, easy tiger… /lights up and smokes… Just chill out and put your fins up. I’ll do it…*

Dear Reader, I couldn’t leave my Halloween story ‘What Time Do You Finish?‘ to end where it did, so I wrote a follow up for the Christmas Underdog Anthology. With only six days left until the big day, Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas would make an ideal stocking filler present, and in an effort to persuade you, I reproduce ‘Christmas Death Wish’ for you, below. Enjoy! ❤

*******

Christmas Death Wish

by Roo B. Doo

Death grimaced at the receptionist, who paid scant attention to the Grim Reaper sitting patiently in the God Lobby. The cavernous reception area was named the God Lobby as that was where those that wished to lobby God congregated in the hopes of an audience. The enormous space tended to be packed out with petitioners from either of the beseecher categories – the ‘Please God’ and ‘Dear God No’ – but at that precise moment, and apart from the goose manning the reception desk, Death was the God Lobby’s only occupant.

“Quiet here today… today… oday… ay…” Death’s voice echoed across the vast expanse between himself and the reception desk. The only response was a faint sound of scritch-scratching from the nib of the receptionist’s quill pen.

How long he had been waiting, Death knew not; it could have been any amount of time between a second and eternity. The God Lobby contained no clocks or shadows to mark the passage of time, only the oblique Mists of Time and even they appeared to have gone AWOL. At best, the most anyone could rely on in this place was their own body clock, but as Death had no body to speak off, he was already at a distinct disadvantage.

Hello, Big D.

Death didn’t need to turn in the direction of the friendly voice to know that God was filling the seat next to him. “Ma’am. I was just saying, it’s very quiet in here today.”

Quite. You wanted to see me?

Death shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No, you wanted to see me.” Death turned to look God in the face; she was wearing a serene countenance, covered by a floral print face mask.

The scratching of the receptionist’s quill ceased and was replaced by the sound of chair legs scraping against the highly polished floor, followed by slaps of webbed feet as the goose receptionist approached, clutching a piece of parchment.

Thank you, Brian.

God took the proffered page and scanned it.

Ah. Apparently there was an unauthorised Armageddon occurrence on 31st October 2020. Do you know anything about that, Death?

The pause that followed could have been pregnant with octuplets, as Death felt the weight of God’s silence and Brian’s suspicious gaze fall upon him. Death was indeed intimately acquainted with the events that transpired on the Halloween in question. He shuddered at the memory of the brutal slaying of his occasional companions Famine, Pestilence and War in the back of a London black cab, driven by Old Scratch, the Devil himself. It was an abomination, an aberration, a fluke or trick, although Death had not as yet settled on which.

“Um, yes… some,” Death replied slowly. “My understanding is that the whole event was triggered by a misaddressed Christmas wish made by a pure soul. One Molly Darling, aged 6.”

A letter to Santa?

God swung her attention towards the receptionist. Death watched in amazement as Brian’s plumage turned from snow white to an embarrassed shade of pink. A big glob of goose fat trickled down one of his legs.

Brian, I thought we’d patched the Santa/Satan glitch.

The God Lobby’s haughty receptionist replied with a mournful honk.

Oh dear. It seems we have a bit of a boo-boo on our hands.

Death jumped down from his chair and bowed deeply before God. “Surely the situation can be remedied, Ma’am?”

God waited until Death straightened from obeisance to his full height of three foot three, before gently patting him on the the shoulder.

But of course. I have every faith in you, Big D.

Me? …Me? …me? … e?” Death waited for the reverberation of his outburst to disappear before continuing in a more measured tone. “You would like me to, um, remedy the situation?”

You are the ideal candidate.

“But I only have one method at my disposal.” With a flick of his bony wrist, Death produced a retractable scythe from the armhole of his robe. He struck the ground with its shaft causing a death knell boom to thunder around the God Lobby.

God waved her hand over the scythe blade, allowing the lightning sparks that careened from it to latch on to her fingertips. She directed their chaotic dance along its keen edge.

Don’t underestimate yourself, Big D. Short of stature you may be, but in terms of resourcefulness, you are a giant.

Death had been around; he knew flannel when he heard it. “Ma’am, there would be dire consequences for moving a soul along before its time.”

Indeed, so it would be best if that were to not happen.

God stood up and Death bowed again; his audience was over. God started moving toward the reception desk but then paused.

You might speak with dear Soda Pops. He’s jolly resourceful too and, as the intended recipient of Molly’s wish, he may care to have a say in the matter.

“An excellent suggestion, Ma’am. I shall seek out Father Christmas immediately.”

Just keep it on the down low, Big D. Things can get very tricky when one’s fallibility is called into question.

By the time Death had straightened from his bow, God had disappeared. He was alone in the cavernous reception room, save for a now somewhat chagrined Brian, who was once again safely ensconced behind his desk, furiously scratching away with a quill pen and doing his utmost to avoid unnecessary eye contact.

Death sighed; he would have to go to Lapland; he hated visiting Lapland. Not for the first time, it occurred to Death that the ‘God Lobby’ had been extremely well named.

*******

The entrance to Lapland wasn’t obvious at first glance, set as it was in a shady alcove, next to a garishly lit 24-hour Kwiki Mart on a less than salubrious back street of London. The muted thump of drum and bass music playing loudly somewhere vibrated in the air.

Death rapped smartly on the bland and undistinguished door and waited. The flap of the letterbox, set high up the door, opened and quickly closed.

Death knocked again, this time standing back from the door to afford the lookout a better view of his personage. Again, the letterbox flap opened and a pair of beady eyes appeared to scan the street before alighting on Death.

“No children allowed,” the gruff voice behind the door barked, as the letterbox flap once more clattered shut.

Death flourished his retractable scythe and lifted the flap to the letterbox open with the tip of its crackling blade. “I am not a child. Let me in.”

The eyes, now wide with fear, reappeared through the gap. “What’s the password?”

“Ho. Ho. Ho.”

There was a clunk and a click before the door quickly opened, allowing Death admittance to Father Christmas’s main residence. Once inside, Death made his way up a short flight of stairs to what appeared to be the source of the residual music thumping in the street outside: Lapland lap dancing club – adulterating Christmas 364 days of the year.

“Hi, I’m Sally. May I take your cloak?” The beautiful elf that greeted Death was dressed in only a few strands of tinsel, strategically placed to leave everything and yet nothing to the imagination.

“No thank you, Sally. I need to speak with Soda Pops.”

“Sure, come this way.”

Sally led Death through a throng of tables that were laden with drinks, ashtrays and Christmas poinsettia, and banks of couches hosting drunken patrons enjoying all manner of attentions and gyrations from Lapland’s scantily clad hostesses. The air was so thick with smoke, sweat and noise that Death’s route through the crowd could be seen clearly, carved into the fug by the blade of his scythe. They crossed the dance floor and passed a stage set with a shiny North Pole, from which a simply stockinged elf clung, spun and straddled, throwing revealing shapes for the audience.

“He’s through here,” Sally simpered, pulling a beaded tree light curtain aside, and ushered Death into a large side room. The room was ambiently lit, and filled with a mass of sparsely clothed elven bodies, both writhing and languishing synchronously in what sounded like an ecstasy of delight. In the corner sat Soda Pops, a.k.a. Father Christmas, his face buried deep into the backside of a gently bleating reindeer, whose nose pulsed and glowed.

Death cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Soda Pops, may I have a word?”

“Bugger off!” Soda Pops bellowed, without looking up.

The reindeer appeared to catch a sudden glance of Death’s scythe and backed away nervously, hooves skittering.

“Fuck me, you’re keen!” Soda Pops pushed at the animal’s quivering hindquarters as they squashed further against his sweaty face. He caught sight of Death standing impassively in the doorway. “You! So, this is how I am to end?! Suffocated whilst pleasuring a reindeer!”

Death shook his head. “No, this is a strictly informal visit, I assure you. I need to speak with you. Alone.”

“Okay.” Soda Pops nodded and slapped the backside of the reindeer, sending the clearly terrified creature careering past Death and out through the door. “Listen up people. I need you all to get the fuck out of here. Now!”

The mangle of bodies rose up, slowly untangling itself. Death held the door’s beaded tree light curtain side, allowing the disappointed and sullen elves to troop out, until only he and Soda Pops remained.

Soda Pops pulled his vest out from his trousers and used it to wipe his face and dry his beard. “So, what can I do for you, Big D?” He patted the couch seat beside him.

Death eyed the stained couch cushion and decided to decline. “That’s okay, I’ll stand.”

“A short visit, is it?”Soda Pops gibed with a mean chuckle.

Death moved his head from side to side, taking in the whole room before replying. “One can hope.”

“Heh. What is it you want?”

“A child.”

Quick as a flash, Soda Pops’ massive bulk shot from his seat, grabbed Death by his cloak, and slammed his small form up against the wall. His face, barely inches from the impenetrable void of Death’s cowl, was contorted with rage. “Now let’s get something straight between us, mush. I don’t deal in kids.”

Death gulped. “I-”

“I don’t care whatever smear the bastard tabloids have cooked up. My only interaction with children is the occasional Santa mall gig if I’m short on readies. That’s it. As far as kids are concerned, I don’t fucking exist.”

“If you… could… put me… down,” Death croaked and pawed at Soda Pops’ clenched hands with his free arm. “Have… scythe… not afraid… to use… it.”

The razor-sharp point of Death’s scythe slowly hove into view of Soda Pops’ angry eyes, lighting his face with fizzing, electric blue. He blinked and slowly slid Death back down the wall, his eyes never leaving sight of the blade hovering in front of his face. “Talk.”

Death straightened out his robe and indicated to Soda Pops to take a seat. “I’m not looking for a child. I’m looking for a specific child. A pure soul. She wrote a letter to you, but you didn’t receive it.”

Soda Pops rummaged through the detritus on the table in front of him until he found the butt of a cigar. He wiped it clean and lit it. “Don’t tell me. Santa/Satan?”

Death answered with an expressive shrug.

“I thought they’d fixed that!” Soda Pops settled back into his seat and puffed on his cigar. “For fuck’s sake. What a fucking joke! What happened?”

Death ran through the events that had occurred on the night of 31st October 2020. How the Devil had connived to enact a false flag Armageddon that had resulted in the savage expulsion from existence of Famine, Pestilence and War.

Soda Pops was aghast. “What the fuck! War’s gone?”

“I’m afraid so,” Death advised solemnly. “I took the liberty of googling ‘middle east peace treaties’ and found a number of them have recently been signed. Shortly after Halloween in fact. It’s strange though that there’s not been much of a hullabaloo about them in the press.”

“Fuck!”

“And Pestilence, poor sod.” Death shuddered in horror at his memories of that evening. Poor, sweet Pesto who never had a nasty UGH! to say about anybody. “With Pesto gone, you can bet your life Covid has too. Yet they’re still locking people down. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if there’s no more Famine.” Soda Pops banged on the arm of the couch and it lifted up to reveal a refrigerated opening filled with beaded cans of liquid sugar. “Red Bull?” he offered.

“No thank you. How do lockdowns make sense if Famine is gone?”

Soda Pops cracked open a can and chugged the entire contents before answering. “People are stuck in their homes with nothing to do but watch telly, eat and get fat.”

Soda Pops belched loudly. “All people have to look forward to is a weekly food delivery from their supermarket of choice. I tell you, kids aren’t excited for a delivery from Father Christmas this year. Now it’s Amazon. As far as kids are concerned, I don’t exist.” Soda Pops suddenly wailed and broke out into noisy, wet sobs. He wiped the snot and tears that streamed from his face along the headrest of the couch.

Death waited for Soda Pops to calm down. “Can you help me find the child?”

Soda Pops wiped his face again with the front of his grimy vest. “Do you have a name?”

“Molly Darling. Old Scratch told me he received the letter from her last year, but the letter wasn’t dated; I saw it. All I know is that Molly was six when she wrote it.”

“Wait.” Soda Pops sat forward, frowning. “You know Molly’s name, her age and that she’s a pure soul. Why can’t you find her? You’re Death, you find everyone.”

“Eventually,” Death sighed and risked perching on a corner of the couch, “and that’s the problem. The Grim Reaper Service is very much run on a just in time delivery model these days. Only a handful of us are needed to service the entire world. It’s really quite efficient until a major spanner, like 2020, is thrown in the works. It’s been chaos. We’ve been inundated with lonely deaths this year and we just don’t have the resources to transition these souls properly.” Death paused and leaned in closer. “And I’ll tell you something else, the God Lobby is completely empty. I’ve just come from there.”

No?!

Death stood up primly. “Yep. Not a soul there. Something isn’t right.”

“Still, that doesn’t answer my question to you: why don’t you find Molly yourself.”

It was a good question, one that Death had thought deeply on. “Because I don’t want to.”

“Ah.” Soda Pops thumped the arm of couch once more and retrieved two cans of chilled nectar. “Ethics?”

“Ethics.” Death accepted a can from Soda Pops and tucked it into the folds of his robe. “I can only interact with souls the one time. Thank you. I’ll save this for later.”

“Good man!” Soda Pops drew in an almighty breath and released it with great gusto. “Well, there’s only one thing for it.” He reached behind him and pulled on a silver cord. The tinkle of sleigh bells had hardly stopped before a reindeer stepped through the doorway. “Don’t worry, Big D, we’ll sort you out.”

“Er, thank you no, that isn’t necessary.” Death had not had much dealings with reindeer; the only one before had just charged past him in a state of shock at the length of his scythe.

“Vixi darling, can you get me some paper and a pen?” Soda Pops asked the reindeer as it nuzzled his neck. “And tell Rudy she can come back once our guest has gone, okay?” he whispered, as he nuzzled the reindeer back. “There’s a good girl.”

After Vixen left, Soda Pops turned his attention back to Death. “You need to make a Christmas wish. Write it down. Pass it to me, which I will accept and grant. Guaranteed.”

“Now wait a moment.” Death bristled. “Wishes are dangerous. We’re in this disastrous situation precisely because of a wish.”

“True!” Soda Pops laughed. “There’s always an unintended consequence with wishes, but I don’t see that you have much of a choice, chum. Look, make it simple and on point. In English if you must, but be warned, that language has built-in wiggle room, so be careful. Also, your wish can’t be about you; it has to be for Molly.”

Death sat stock still and recalled the childish scrawl of Molly’s handwritten note. She too had made a wish not for herself. “I know.”

When Vixen returned, Death wrote down his wish for Molly on a sheet of paper, folded it and passed it over to Soda Pops. “Please Father Christmas, grant my Christmas wish,” he intoned.

“Yeah, the speech was unnecessary.” Soda Pops opened the folded page and read what Death had written. “Heh. I can see all kinds of potential, but for your purpose, that should do nicely. Wish granted.”

Rudolph re-appeared, shyly edging forward, giving Death a wide berth. “Come here my little Rudy red nose,” Soda Pops cooed. “There’s no need to be scared. Let Pop-Pop kiss it all better.”

Death decided it was high time he left Lapland; he’d had quite enough hind sight in 2020.

*******

The Mists of Time were back and so were the beseechers. A queue of souls snaked endlessly throughout the God Lobby. Death watched its progress, inching from one side of the great expanse to the other; backwards and forwards, guided only by the barrier ropes that directed the queue’s path.

Death approached the reception desk. It was empty, which was unusual. Probably a shift change, Death thought.

No, no. I’m here. Working. Doing my bit.

The empty chair behind the reception desk suddenly spun round of its own volition.

Hello Big D. Have you come to see me?

“I have indeed, Ma’am.”

Oh goody, I’m now one for two, although, I’m afraid I’m having to go incognito. One glimpse of me could cause a stampede.

Death approved. He had seen the aftermath of many a stampede; they were to be avoided. “And you’re not wearing your mask.”

No. Well, I can hardly go unnoticed wearing one of those, dressed like this. Very uncomfortable things, but that’s fashion for you.

Death gazed once more across the great expanse of queuing souls. “I believe the Halloween 2020 situation has been suitably remedied, Ma’am.”

Excellent. What did you wish for?

Death whirled back toward the empty reception desk. “You knew I would make a wish?”

No, but I hoped.

“Yes, well the alternative was too unpalatable. I wished that Molly Darling, aged 6, had been born with the innate ability to spell correctly.” If Death had lips, they would have been tuned in to smug-mode.

So you foresee a career in witchcraft for young Molly? I see.

“Ah…” Death hadn’t thought of that.

Or maybe she’ll be an actress or a singer then. Or writer. They also cast spells. Innate ability, you say?

“Yes.”

Well, whatever passion path you’ve cut for young Molly Darling, she’ll probably be jolly good at it. Well done, Big D. I can always rely on you.

Death felt his rib cage expand with joy at the compliment, and watched in amazement has his pinky phalanx turned from bone ivory to a delicate shade of blush.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Death delved into the depths of his robe and pulled out a still dewy can of Red Bull. He held it aloft. “Merry Christmas, Ma’am.”

The can of soda levitated out of Death’s grasp, flying smoothly through the air until landing perfectly on the surface of the the reception desk, all seemingly unaided.

Wings! No one has ever given me wings before. Thank you, Big D.

Death felt the warm blush explode out of his pulsating pinky and course throughout the rest of his being.

Merry Christmas 😀

*******

*Oh you’re back are ya? I hope you’re in a better mood now, Clicky…*

I will be writing a further follow up story for the Spring 2021 anthology, as well as a new Harry Egg story because… Well, quite unbelievably, I have had a couple of requests for one…

*People seem to like Harry, Clicky… /shrugs and stubs butt…*

… Join us again next time, Dear Reader, and… Have a Song 😉

Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas

*Woo Hoo! …/punches air… Finally…*

Dear Reader, Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas is now available to buy in Kindle or ebook formats…

*No, that’s a coronal mass ejection, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… Sure is pretty looking though…*

*Wait. What?*

*Oh. Butt that wasn’t caused by a coronal mass ejection, Clicky…*

*Agreed… /flicks ash…*

*So, you’re tell me that within hours of Coronamas being published, all that ‘appened, Clicky?*

*Blimey. Well, it is number 13, I suppose… /stubs butt…*

… And, for those that prefer a tangible, hold in the hand, book-shaped book, the paperback version will be available later today or tomorrow…

*Ah, blocking the space for a later link… /pats snout… Good thinking, Clicky…*

Dear Reader… Have a Song…

 

Missive From ‘Merica: Feeling Chromassy Part 1

Dear Reader, we now have a name and book cover for Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas

… It should be published and available to purchase within the next couple of days. There are some damn fine stories in it; you will not be disappointed…

*That’s called a pomander, Clicky… /lights up and smokes…*

Here, now, is a spanking new missive from Cade Fon Apollyon. It’s the first installment of a two parter. Enjoy! 😀

*******

Lawn Ging Fore Thuh Passed
Lon Geeng For Theep Assed

Lahng Eng Foar Thup Pah Stuh

Long In Four Thee Passed

————————–

Longing For The Past

^The Beatles – The Long And Winding Road (Remastered 2009)^

We do it.

(rawr)

No seriously, we do it.

We long for long gone things. We long for long gone times. We long for long gone places. Maybe its when we long for long gone things AND long gone times AND long gone places, all at the same time…history repeats (or, repeats-ish).

Yeesh. 

What a nightmare. Not only that, but what a waste of energy. You spend all that time fighting tooth and nail to get away from where you are and what you are, only to do a 180° turn, and scramble to become what you were. I guess maybe things didn’t turn out as you’d hoped. You do not like what you have become. What you were is somehow better than what you are, and of the two, you choose…were. I guess you think that “were” will make “are” go away.

Bad logic.

If “were” still is, then I think its safe to say that “are” will still exist when you get back to “were”. You can never go home again.

Or something.

^Massive Fire Breaks Out In NYC Destroying Historic East Village Church | NBC News^
Pine...Mountain.

Third Monolith Appears atop Pine Mountain, California after Mystery Objects in Utah and Romania Removed

Pine…long. Kinda funny that the monolith in California didn’t last long. I sometimes have that problem with my own monolith not lasting very long.

ZING!

Another mysterious monolith has appeared. This time it’s in the middle of a Dutch nature reserve

Pining a mountain. Pining for a mountain. Sounds challenging. Pining for two mountains? Whew! Sounds exhausting. I love mountains, and love climbing them, but I’m a valleyman too. Ain’t no mountains without the valleys.

Heisenloes.

^Breaking Bad OST 12/20 – “The Long Walk Alone (Heisenberg’s Theme)” [Dave Porter] [HQ/HD]^

Kinda weird that during the writing of the previous whatever, I was thinking about that pot plant fire in Los Angeles (heh…pot plant fire), the Notre Dame fire, that giant explosion in Beruit, the Oregon fire(s), that passenger plane getting shot down in Iran. Then yesterday, I sat for an hour or so and watched a live stream of various banks (and other stuff) getting torn up and parts of them burned in Paris (France) as I guess some people there are upset about something.

Now this fire in New York City, and it has me to thinking about…reinsurers. During my brief times in working as an underwriter for a general agency/auto insurance, and then later as an underwriter for commercial insurance, I was somewhat baffled by this need that insurance companies have to pay out on claims. Even dodgy claims. Does this keep the outgoing cashflows/payouts within a certain margin? Keep a reasonable percentage of the customers happy? Justify the premiums? Keep the reinsurers happy? All of that?

/shrug 

Whatever the higher-ups methods and formulas are, they aren’t going to tell a lowly underwriter. So what I’m thinking about now, is all these lockdowns here in 2020AD/CE, and how they are affecting the margins for both insurers and reinsurers. SURELY rates have been affected since we don’t have the usual calamity and mayhem working together to create the same aggregate(s). Everything is shut down. There HAS to be changes, right? At home accidents skyrocketing, auto-related accidents through the floor, outdoorsy stuff doing the same. Insurance companies would almost have to be scrambling to figure out how to deal with these changes.

Lets us dig.
2019 U.S. Traffic Deaths Lowest Since 2014, but 2020 Numbers Aren’t Looking Good
NHTSA 2020 Report
(that one there is a real gem...it's from 1997...23 years ago reporting on what 2020 will look like..heh)
2020 in aviation
The rise in murders in the US, explained
Charges dropped in bizarre Home Depot incident
CDC-Accidents or Unintentional Injuries
(that page says it was last reviewed on 13 Nov 2020, but all the data looks fairly old)
Home Safety Statistics & Trends You should Know
US Department of Labor-UNEMPLOYMENT INSURANCE WEEKLY CLAIMS
US CONSUMER PRODUCT SAFETY COMMISSION-Injury Statistics
WHO-Injuries and violence: the facts
Monthly occupancy rates of hotels in the United States from 2011 to 2020
AARP Answers: Your Insurance Coverage and the Coronavirus
What Happens If Your Insurance Company Files Bankruptcy?
Congressional Research Service-Wildfire Statistics
2020 Western United States Wildfire Season
Cost of Oregon’s 2020 wildfire season: $609 million, and rising

That last link may not work. I found it via a Google search on Oregon wildfires, top result, but I can’t get the page to load. Keep getting an error that says…

The http://www.statesmanjournal.com page isn’t working

http://www.statesmanjournal.com redirected you too many times.

ERR_TOO_MANY_REDIRECTS

No matter, Google has a “snippet” that pulled this from the article…

Oregon’s 2020 wildfire season brought a new level of destruction. … Severe drought, extreme winds and multiple ignitions fueled the most destructive wildfires in state history. Roughly 1.07 million acres burned during the 2020 season, the second-most on record. The cost to fight the fires was also high — $354 million. Oct 30, 2020

Source = Google 06 Dec 2020

You didn't click on a single one of those links above, did you?

Heh, I don’t blame you. This is my path, not yours. Unless of course it’s our path…in which case, welcome aboard, sailor.

^Tea Dance: 1920s, 30s, 40s Vintage Tea Party (Past Perfect)^

Yesterday, saw George Soros referred to as “Uncle George”, and it got me to thinking about shady practices that keep money people positioned where they are or where they are comfortable. Nobody likes to be uncomfortable, and in order to maintain that comfort level you’ve become accustomed to, you may just have to skin a few sables or mink.

Me, as an underwriter, would sometimes be instructed to accept a premium payment, even tho the insured was only making a payment because A) their policy had lapsed, and B) they’d been involved in an accident during that period of non-coverage. More than that, I was instructed to accept the payment with no lapse in coverage. Meaning, we were willing to accept the claim that was sure to be coming. It could be said that the long-term benefits of doing as much was going to give us a customer for life. The company is being generous, understanding, and helping out someone in need. But then I started to learn more about the insurance processes, reinsurance, and I became a tad more skeptical as to the reason(s) for bending the rules or making exceptions. You bend the rules for this person, but not that one?

Hrm...what is going on here? I must know. 

There are intricacies at work here with which I am unfamiliar. Why, would the powers, want elements of chaos in their rigid systems?

/me scratches chin whiskers and thinks.

^Junkie XL – Tennis / Crusher^

If one remains master of the option, one does not become slave to their own creations. You create these rigid systems, whilst reserving the option to change them. That means these rules really do not apply to you. Others? Sure. These rules absolutely apply to others, but you have the option when and when not to apply them. Those whom you delegate your authority to? Yes, they better fucking follow the rules to the letter. Or at least ask when there is a question. All this means that not only do you create the black and white, this also means you control the grey. Now all you have to do is safely navigate all those agreements you’ve made.

 Sounds stormy. I'm in.

^The Re-Stoned – Crystals^

What is the feminine for sailor? Is there one?

Sailorette?

Sounds like a product. Not that sex isn’t a product.

^The Temptations – I wish it would rain^

Speaking of products, ya know…this “cancel culture” bullshit has me to thinking. All you high and mighty social media powerhouses block the living shit out of people. Someone calls you out? Or says something you don’t like? Or maybe you wish to distance yourself from someone who is currently on the outs because of something they’ve said or done? Maybe even some in your own organization lobby you to close the social media door on a someone because it’ll be good for business?

You unfollow. You mute. You block. 

You’re a bandwagon jumper as much as anyone else, a high-powered bandwagon jumper at that, so I really don’t see how you have the right to piss and moan about “cancel culture”. You’re the one setting the fucking trend(s) in the first place by making a big show of distancing yourself from things that hurt your own bottom line. You’re steering the ship, driving the bus and all the while you’re complaining about your own driving.

lolz

Thinking about this because two nights ago I made a suggestion for the upcoming Underdog Anthology 13 book name…

Can Sell Culture

I guess I coulda went with “Can’t Sell Culture”, but history has more than aptly demonstrated that, yes, you can sell culture.

You Can Cell A Culture, But You Can’t Sell A Fish

You Can Sell A Culture, But You Can’t Sail A Fish

You Can Sell A Culture, But You Can’t Sail A Sailfish
You Cancel A Culture, But You Can’t Uncancel A Fish
(playing on “you can tune a piano, but you can't tune a fish”)

Trying to stay within the “2020 = A Fucking Nightmare” motif, and thinking about UK fishing rights/EU, the way(s) these new vaccines work with respect to cells, all the throes social media has gone through this year because of lockdown, all the culture wars bullshit, all the trade wars bullshit, we’re told that this year has been a fucking nightmare. But with respect to the book title, I keep thinking that a break from the obvious might be the most shocking and horrifying title one could come up with.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Fear

“2020/MMXX – The Year Of The Fear” (and the Year Of The Rat) will be ending soon. 2021 is right around the corner. Year Of The Ox. Bulls and bears and wolves…oh my!

❤ XOXO ❤

^Andy Williams – It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year^

John Lamb Lash announced the other day that he will not be doing any more talks. Not for YouTube anyway. No more freebies. No more sample products. No more Gnostic Intel, no more Sophia’s Correction, no more Charlotte Working, no more data on how to navigate these turbid and tempest-tossed waters. The drug has either hooked you and you now need to pony up to get your fix, or join the kebosh or zenosh or whatever in the fuck it is and suffer the consequences of destruction and eternal damnation. Which, that reminds me of something I saw yesterday…

I tried to better simplify his simplification…

I guess I outsimpletoned him…

I’ve heard this argument before. Right vs Privilege, and “taxes are a right”. Meaning, it’s a loopy way of creating a right that demands recompense. We have the right to demand services from our government, which means that paying for this/these service(s) is also a right. The government has a right to demand taxes, and we have a right to pay them because it gives us the right to demand service. You do not have the right to not pay, and they do not have the right to refuse service.

Afterall, we paid, right? 

This eventually boils down to the seed of discontent, and an argument to do away with free and open elections, and/or, abolish the party system(s). No telling who is gonna get elected, not telling who they will appoint, and no telling if all of these partisan peeps are gonna give me what I need/want. Even in the professional/more permanent government employees, they are citizens too, they are going to have political affiliations, so its possible that their political views will clash with my own and they will not give me what I need/want. Abolish the parties, and all this polarized and partisan nonsense goes away. No one is left out or punished for their political views, because there are no political views. Just one big happy family living in harmony. Pay your dues, get your booze…simple.

Harmony

Monotone

FYI, you need more than one sound to make a harmony. Not to mention that single unwavering frequencies can be damn destructive.

Resonance

Antiresonance

Mechanical Resonance

It would appear that there is something built-in/embedded into our Universe that says…I just flat do not want to exist. Or at least, I don’t want to exist for long. Not here, not now, and not like this…I, do not want to exist under these conditions. Hrm…now, where have I heard this tune before?

You belong to the state. You were born into it. Ain’t no escaping it. Unless of course you renounce your current state in order to pledge allegiance to another state. You still belong to the state. A state.

Q: You think it possible that the US Founders saw this coming?

A: ???

Yeah, this. All this nonsense currently talked about with respect to two Presidents and the country splitting and civil war and all that. Republics don’t have the best of track records. Our forefathers (and mothers) had to know that divisions were going to form at some point and this nation would face endless trials. Question is, did they see it coming, and did they leave us any clues as to how we might proceed? Can we continue to follow your rules, and play your game, your way, and still enjoy a life of our own? Did you protect us with your Constitution? Leave pearly pearls of wisdom in there to guide us? Or did you enslave us, doom us to be fodder for the machine?

Tough questions for sure. Lots to think about.

^#53 Junkie XL – Brothers In Arms (Mad Max Fury Road OST) – Drum Cover^

Perhaps I’m a soppy idealist, but it never really bothered me who was in the White House. They’re an American, and that’s good enough for me irrespective of their politics. The US President is just one of many thousands of politicians in this country, and top to bottom, there ain’t a one of them who could not make my life a living hell if they really wanted to. Some jerkweed on the city council, to a piece of shit state judge, to some dickhead senior senator in the US Congress…lotta power and powers in this country.

Not all of them are elected either. Lots of professionals in the system, and they too can be sand in the engine block if they so choose. Thing is, all these elected folk they’re all sure to be…Americans. Same with the professional folks. They are either citizens, or on their way to being one. They have to have some interest in this country, otherwise, they wouldn’t be here. Could people come to this country, become citizens, and try and work their way into places in order to fuck things up? Of course. Nothing new about that. Moles of all types in all places and foreign influences of all types have been around forever, and it appears they will be around forever, so why not just accept it and deal with it. Let the processes work, and don’t tear down the whole fucking infrastructure just because shit isn’t moving along at a pace that better fits your own personal desires. A little patience might serve you. Afterall, you don’t want someone coming along and picking you up in the morning, then throwing your broken remains into a shallow hole later the same day…do ya?

Nah...I didn't think so.

^Zack Hemsey – “Vengeance”^

So…you’re telling me that the US Postal Service handles somewhere in the neighborhood of half a billion pieces of mail each and every day, and yet once every four years we somehow cannot count about 150 million ballots for a single checkmark?

Something doesn't add up here. 

There have to be literally thousands of people running for various offices all over the country, and yet you cannot zero in on a single checkmark in a single column for a single race that is the only goddamn nationwide race in the whole fucking country?

Something doesn't add up here. 

Most states are likely to only have two candidates on the ballot who are running for US President, so you are telling me that you have a 50/50 shot at getting it right, and you still cannot fucking get it right?

Something doesn't add up here. 

BTW, how in the FUCK did a single company get a majority nationwide franchise (30 states I read) on providing voting machines?

Something doesn't add up here. 

Are you really telling me that each and every state doesn’t have at least one fucking state-based service provider who could provide that state with voting machines?

Something doesn't add up here. 

What’s the matter? You don’t trust the states and their people to do the right thing? Worried about franchising? Can’t you rotate the shit? Are the big companies too worried about getting dealt a small state?

 Something doesn't add up here. 

And what the fuck is this nonsense about voting data being sent out of the country then coming back in? Why in the bloody hell would voting data ever need to leave the country, its states, or its territories?

Something doesn't add up here.

^Vision Is A Lonely Word^

Gonna leave this space more or less blank because I need to run have a quick fap.

brb

^Enjoy The Silence by KI Theory (Ghost In The Shell Trailer Music)^

Oh yeah, I feel much better. How about you?

So very naughty. So very, very naughty.

A prank like that might gain you a sock to the jaw, but it just may be worth it…lolz…the song that just came up in my playlist is called…Windwalker.

Fucking rofl.

^Mord Fustang – Windwaker [Electro House | Plasmapool]^

I’ve watched more politics in the past 1 or 2 months than in the previous 10 – 15 years.

Nothing appears to have changed.

^Washington Post – Georgia Republicans lambast Trump for election fraud claims^

I now have three friends on Facebook.

Ironically, it’s the same three friends I have on Twitter.

lol

I am popularity.

^White Lines – Tom holkenborg – Infinity (M F Remix)^

Have made a decision to rip the rest of this post out, and put it in the next one. That way, I’m not sending a 15+ page post to Roob, and she doesn’t have a seizure when she sees it. Nor will she be as likely to develop PTSD after having to edit/format it.

That ok with you/ya'll?

Cool…THX…you’re very sweet. Oh, and the colors theme, will continue.

Assuming you even noticed.

^I Wish it Would Rain Down ( with Lyrics ) – Phil Collins^

cYa | cFa

^Psychedelic Indian Fusion: Tikki Masala – Euphoriant^

*******

*Indeed, that very idea was mooted at this morning’s team meeting, Clicky… /stubs butt…*

… We’ll be back later this week, Dear Reader, with Part 2 of Cade’s Missive, and a link for Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas. Until then, have a Song…

 

CLICK5: A Bridge To Fnarr…

Adventures In Remote Viewing: Gnostaligia

The longing for a distant place also necessarily involves a separation in time.’

*The Galactic Centre is ‘home’ for Aeon Sophia, Clicky… /lights up… according to the Gnostics… /drags… and Lashy… /streams smoke…*

*Connecting Veras? …/winks… Nice syncing, Clicky…*

Last evening, Dear Reader, Cade Fon Apollyon and I remote viewed an old movie from 1972. I hadn’t seen ‘What’s Up Doc?’ since I was a teenager, lying on the front room carpet, surrounded by family, watching it on the telly…

*Igneous rock teaching humans how to sing… /deep drag… And Judy was my mother’s name… /flicks ash… Plus all the 4th wall breaking… /plumes smoke…*

… It got me to thinking about John Lamb Lash’s Fallen Goddess Scenario, an how homesick the Aeon Sophia probably feels…

*Whether she was tripped, jumped or fell from the Galactic Centre, the Gnostics referred to Sophia’s fall as an ‘accident’, Clicky… /clears throat…*

… How many billions of years she would have traveled, and will still have to travel to reach her home…

 

*Oh yeah, Lashy mentioned a dragon… /stubs butt… Cosplay’s the thing…*

… And that she must get lonely sometimes…

*Did he say ‘alright’ or ‘all right’?*

*Pfft… /rolls eyes… That election was rigged as fuck. Blatant…*

*Um… /thinks… I fink you mean censure knot censor… /pats snout… I guess it’s a similar effect for President Trump, Clicky. With a touch of underdog… /winks…*

… Ooh, that reminds me, Dear Reader. A couple of weeks ago, Leg Iron Books published all my Underdog Anthology stories in one volume…

… Currently it’s ranked 32,656 in ‘Erotic Literature & Fiction’ at Amazon…

*Jus’ free pence short. Yikes! My first ever royalties…*

… The Underdog Anthology, numero XIII is due out this weekend. I have a brand new story in there. It’s a follow-up to ‘What Time Do You Finish?’…

*And how! …/smirks…*

And there will be a new Missive From ‘Merica from Cade the Okie Devil of Text US, here tomorrow. Woo Hoo! 😀 We’ll see you then and… Have a Song 😉