CLICK5: Just Call Me Roob
Category: Leg Iron Books
Missive From ‘Merica: Another We Kenned Missive
Breaking news, Dear Reader! Leg Iron Books will be publishing a volume of my Underdog Anthology short stories. On November 15th…
*An auspicious date, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… It’s also Cade’s birthday and… /rubs brow… something else…*
… 18 tales in total. Who knew I had that many in me…
*Nah, me either, Clicky… /pats snout… I bloody well hope I’ve got some more…*
… I’ll let you see the cover artwork when it’s ready, Dear Reader 😀
But enough of that; now we have a missive from Cade Fon Apollyon with his thoughts and reflection from the past week. It’s been very exciting and turbulent in ‘Merica…
*Seriously, Clicky, that only works if you can imagine Donald Trump as Sandy…*
Enjoy! 😉
*******
Dehsharm
Diss Harm
Dis Arm
Deh Sahrm
Disarm
Many things exist to disarm us.
A nice smile.
A kind word.
A good deed.
Perhaps a miscue, a misstep, or some display of ignorance or innocence.
Maybe even a defect or disability.
A uniqueness.
An offering of some kind…to keep one…from conflicting with another.
An offering of some kind…to keep one…from taking advantage of another.
Establish a decorum or a level of respect.
Disarmament
We are powerful beings after all. We aren’t always aware of just how powerful we are or how powerful we can be. As a result, sometimes, we are not the best at exercising restraint. It is at these precise times, when Nature steps in.
Disarms us…gives us pause…allows us a brief interlude to reflect and maybe rethink.
Sometimes anyway
Sometimes…She appears to, Herself, exercise restraint. Allows us and our own hubris to march ourselves directly into peril.
Wait…Steve Bannon was involved with Biosphere 2?
Biosphere 2
Bear with me. I just watched two documentaries, both kinda far out and seemingly on two completely different topics, but I really didn’t see a scrap of difference between them. Two flicks about people learning how to act, presumably in order to manipulate others in order to get what they want from them. However at 1:40:17 into the second documentary, there was a name mentioned that I absolutely did not expect to hear with respect to a movie about 1960’s Hippies taking their green ideas corporate.
Hail Satan?
Spaceship Earth (Film)
Steve Bannon
Bass Performance Hall
I guess it was kinda weird to hear that name, because only recently I learned that Bannon is supposedly big on Strauss–Howe generational theory. First he’s running the right-wing rag Breitbart, then he supposedly is kingmaking with Trump 2016, Cambridge Analytica/Brexit, and now it turns out he was mixed up with Ed Bass and Biosphere 2? This dude has his fingers in everything. This revelation prolly wouldn’t be so weird if that NXIVM cat hadn’t been sentenced just the other day.
NXIVM
One of the connections here is that the people involved with Biosphere 2 were/are labeled as cultists. They are/were outside of the mainstream scientific community, had their own thing going, and as a result they were outcast. But these Biosphere folk were members of at least four other very popular and well-known cults, but no one likes to talk about these cults as being…cults.
The Cult of Advertising
The Cult of Voyeurism
The Cult of Acting
The Cult of Capitalism
They’re also members of The Cult of Humanity, but we’ll let that one go since we are focusing on Bannon and how he eventually came to run that whole Biosphere circus.
Q: What was found during the course of this Biosphere 2 project which inspired Ed Bass to change direction so quickly?
A: Media/Marketing is my guess.
Yeah sure, this project probably taught us a lot about the challenges that long-duration space exploration missions will eventually face. It is highly possible that Bass found something that was both patentable and licensable, wanted to keep it/them a secret in order to secure his intellectual property/properties, and so Bass brought in a pit bull to guard it.
But considering what a media circus that Biosphere 2 project was, and considering the number of outside parties that were brought in to consult on the project, I’d think that media utilization, media manipulation and how to influence and/or drive public opinion(s) was the real motherlode. Especially as it relates to really far-out and obscure topics. How to force the old ideas out, and bring in something new.
Do you ever act? Put on a face? Act contrary to how you actually feel? Any ideas as to why you may do this?
Hail Satan? = Full of actors and acting
Spaceship Earth = Full of actors and acting
‘Tis rough showing the soft underbelly of self. Might be some vicious ass-hat out there just waiting for you to drop your guard, and BOOM!
Scarred for life
You shoulda known better. You did know better. But for the briefest of moments, you believed.
Oh, and whilst we are on the topic of cults and cultists…John Lamb Lash had a damn weird “talk” released yesterday. Seemed to be on the topic of institutionalized sex education, but the talk seemed to be less about Elohim giving classroom type instruction, and focused more on the practical demonstration/demonstrable side(s) of “sex education”.
OJT, if you will
What made this talk even more bizarre, was that it seemed to focus on the ancient sexual education(s) of…teenagers. Teenagers? Did ancient peoples even have such a distinction of “teenagers”? I’ve always been under the impression that, in ye olden tymes, humans went straight from childhood to adulthood, and no such middle ground (teens) existed. Made me raise an eyebrow as to potential faults in modern trappings being associated with ancient modalities.
Also made me think…wait, there are metric fucktons of 30+ years old people, in this world here and now, who know fuckall about sex, and prolly know even less about intimacy. Or at least, that’s what we’re told. We’re told that this modern world we live in is full of sexual inadequacy, we’re told that sexual dissatisfaction is one of the primary reasons that relationships fail, and yet mysteriously there’s no shortage of sexual accessories, add-ons, training programs, and sexual information available to supposedly help remedy this dilemma. Not to mention that we are also told that we live in a time of rampant sexual deviancy, sexual depravity, and basically complete and total sexual lawlessness. In social media, pedophile rings, human trafficking and sexual slavery are all the rage.
Something doesn't add up here
You’ve got a “Gnostic Teacher”, who is giving a bunch of “introductory talks” about I guess both Gnosticism, his own personal school, the flavor of Gnosticism that he personally teaches, one of these talks he devotes to the subject of “sex”, and he goes straight for the youth? I guess he’s using the standard modern marketing model(s) or something. Hitting the youth market first since that’s the real cash-cow. But I can’t see a bunch of teenagers lining up to learn about Gnosticism. Not even twenty-somethings. I have trouble imagining that even thirty-somethings would have any interest in Gnosticism.
Wait
Is he about to suggest that Gnosticism has the answers to all of these sexual questions that we modern people have?
In a way, it’s kinda refreshing to think that someone would think about addressing the topic of sexuality within some religious framework where the topic wasn’t simply “Sex: Don’t Have It Until You Are Married!” /lesson over”. But “teens”? Why is “teens” even a demographic within this particular Gnostic framework? Only thing that I can come up with is that this has to do more with pornography than anything. Maybe advertising too.
It’s been my experience that, anyone who is talking about mystical power and mystical powers, and proclaiming these powers exist?
Yeah...they're skeptics
Maybe closet skeptics, but they’re skeptics. They’re more likely to be attempting to disprove them more than prove them. Poking at the ethereal planes to see if they are indeed real. Not knowing what to expect, and not exactly sure how they’ll handle the experience if this mystical something turns out to be much more tangible than they previously thought. This is prolly why stories surrounding things like the Philosopher’s Stone, Pandora’s Box, Midas Touch, etc., are typically cautionary tales. Someone is skeptical about some power, they tempt fate, find out the power is real, everything goes to hell from there.
Usually anyway
But yeah, most individuals have to actually be burned by the mystical fire(s) before they are going to believe. We humans are both skeptical and at the same time very tactile/curious/exploratory creatures, which, when you think about it, is an odd combination of traits to coexist in the same space. But sometimes maybe some can just accept that, irrespective of whether these powers exist or not, they are not yours to wield, they never will be, and just deal with that/those fact(s) and go about your life.
Word To The Wise: This is sometimes precisely when life will hit you with a twist.
This world is not about finding things that disarm us.
We don’t see the things meant to disarm us as being disarming.
We look for weakness in order to take advantage of it.
We look for difference in order to exploit it.
Diversity, is a revenue stream.
I’ve no idea how things were.
I only know how things are.
Relying in totality on some singular ancient something to guide me in the here and now?
Welp, why in the fuck would I want to do that?
If I need some ancient something to guide me, I got this planet right here, under my feet.
Supposedly, it’s pretty fucking ancient.
The stuff that our planet is made of?
Supposedly, it’s even more ancient.
Yes…I’m lost.
But I ain’t that fucking lost.
And if I’m looking for anything, “truth” sure as shit ain’t it.
“Truth”, ain't even on the fucking list
When you align yourself to one side or another, everything becomes fringe.
Everything else anyway
Where you stand is not fringe at all.
To you anyway
To all those in the fringes tho?
Yeah...you, are fringe
It’s beaten into us “to do something”. Someone out there, wants to hurt us, and something must be done about it.
Q: Why must I do anything?
A: ? !!!!!!! ?
If for some reason, someone has it in their mind to cave my skull in, fuck it…let em’. Was I put here on this Earth for the sole purpose of fighting against this someone? I don’t think so. Sounds more like their plan than my own. They need an enemy, and they found one in me. Do I play along? Or is it OK with you fuckers if I come up with my own plan(s)? Carry on with my own life? Either way you slice it, your logic in conflict management equates to the same damn thing…I, irrespective of outcome, am their personal plaything. They, get to dictate my behavior, and not me.
Hrm
Wanna know how to tell if someone in a YouTube video is full of shit? Just watch their mannerisms. If they are talking about some ancient something, and they are overly expressive in verbal accentuation of certain things? Using a lot of hand motion? Many changes in facial expressions and/or little to no change in facial expressions? Lots of crazy graphics changes that do not necessarily follow the text of the video? Lots of carrots and rabbit holes/loads of questions with no answers? Yeah…some or all of these likely point to the video being bullshit. Not necessarily wrong, or maybe not even inaccurate, but still bullshit. Maybe someone rehashing some old something without adding anything new, and doing so for the purposes of making a few bucks. Lot of that going on currently, and not just and only on YouTube.
Nothing wrong with people finding their own voice. Honing their craft. Even the oldest of stuff and most known of things is new, mysterious and completely unknown to someone. Trouble is, many forget how to fall. Forget how to stumble. Forget how to be lost. Forget how to cope with, accept, and overcome errors, adversities, setbacks. Forget how to take a punch or absorb a blow. You spend all that time being a complete fuckup, you succeed only at failure, you pick yourself up and keep at it, and yet when you actually find success (or what you consider to be success) the slightest of hiccups or deviations leaves you blank-faced and clueless. Sends you right over the edge. You have polished yourself to such a degree, that even you have begun to believe your own image is…you.
Q: How is this even possible?
A: ?¿?
How, does one, lose their ability to cope? Especially when one has accrued such an impressive resume of failure(s). Maybe as time passes, we let all that old an less than complementary shit conveniently fall off the page.
We’ve moved on.
We’re amongst the learned, knowledgeable and wise.
Part of the elite.
A member of the club.
The club.
Club
Just remembered it’s election day in the USA today.
03 November 2020 AD
Maybe that’s another reason I was kinda jarred upon hearing Bannon’s name this morning. Still debating on whether or not I’m gonna vote. I know who I’d vote for, and I also know why. But…wait…um, I just remembered something.
Steer into the skid
Or sometimes, the best course of action is to just let go of the wheel. Yeah, I won’t be voting today.
I wonder who won?
Tis now Saturday November 7th, and still, “the press” is offering up “projections” as to who won. Why in the FUCK are people still relying upon “the press” and their projections 4 days in? Wait for the FEC to publish the election results, then you’ll know for sure without having to rely upon very biased third-parties who keep stringing you along so they can keep you viewing and clicking because their advertising bubbles are limp. What’s that? You really don’t think that MSM has been chomping at the bit for months in order to get a cash infusion from election coverage? Obviously, you’ve not been following this nCoV-2019 thing very closely. Or maybe its that you’ve been following it too closely?
/shrug
We supposedly want all these neato gizmos and gadgets to speed the process(es) along, and yet we damn the living shit out of them when they don’t behave in a manner that is pleasing to us. Something must be wrong.
Dunno about you, but to me, an absence of irregularities, a lack of of inconsistencies, and a non-existence of errors is a sure-fire sign that something very underhanded is almost assuredly taking place. And I’m not talking about any built-in integrity testing types of stuff. I’m talking authentic stuff. Stuff that is there, but covered up in order to maintain appearances. Project an illusion that everything is okay, even tho things are most certainly not okay. Opens up all kinds of doors to manipulate the system in virtually any way that suits you.
Q: Are you really ready for “faultless”?
A: ??? wait wut ¿¿¿
You’re gonna need to do some soul searching before you are going to be able to accept “faultless” as an actual thing. Evaluate your doubt, evaluate your trust, evaluate your honesty, evaluate your own polarity and your own concepts of right/wrong. Are you diverse enough to do that?
Might wanna find out
Revelations are sweet
English, as a language, has never made sense to me. Last night, a certain college professor named Wes Cecil, opened my eyes a bit.
Latin = Verbs
It was that fucking simple.
Latin = Verbs
Everything is “do”. Or I guess “done”. Either way, Latin is very verby.
EUREKA!!!
Yes, I realize that English is not just and only Latin. But 80-fucking-percent of it is. I guess the rest is a hodgepodge of Greek and loanwords, and they’re all crammed into this “do” type language.
Do
Done
Do/Do
Doo doo?
Fuckin’ hell…ENGLISH IS SHIT!!!
I FUCKING KNEW IT!!!
English is actually great. Allows for a great deal of expression. Has a plenty of roadblocks tho’. Sometimes, just ain’t no way to express, in text, what one is feeling. Either the word(s) don’t exist, or the structure of the language does not allow a certain thought or feeling to be communicated accurately to others. One can only surmise that this is likely why e-shorthand or “leetspeak” or similar has become so popular.
Maybe even memes
They convey feeling(s) that can likely be understood by others. From a grammatical standpoint there’s no real “substance” to the communication, and yet, one can express themselves, and more importantly, others can relate. Others can understand. Others may not be able to get an exact fix on where one is coming from, but they do have a pretty good idea as to the general location.
All that said, when Wes mentioned in his talk about Latin being “verb-heavy”, a light went on in my head. Everything, in English, and I mean EVERYTHING, has to be associated with some sort of doing. An action. And this doing is either right now, in the immediate future, or already done.
Hrm...done
It is done.
It is finished.
Event-driven.
Challenge/response.
Newton’s Third.
Cause/effect.
Interrupt requests.
Capitalism.
Say/do.
Slavery.
No fucking wonder we’re having so much difficulty understanding quantum mechanics, chaos theory, string theory, etc.. Even religion(s), spiritual matters Not only is there’s no fucking language to describe these “higher level things”, there’s no language to relate to them. No language to relate them to. There’s high, and low, and no fucking middle. It’s like Inferno and Paradiso, with no Purgatory. Not to switch gears too quickly here, but something big has to be happening in that middle. It’s completely absent. “The Middle”, is gone. That can only mean one thing…it has gotten so massive, that no one can see it.
Hiding in plain sight
Someone mentioned “Loudon County” to me on election night. It’s a county in northern Virginia. Was weird because the person who mentioned it to me could not have possibly known that I used to live in Loudon County VA. Earlier this morning, “Loudun” appeared on my radar (not to be confused with “Loudon”).
Loudun
Loudun Possessions
Just now, a song appeared in my playlist. Never heard this song in my life, sounds pretty good, so I switched over windows to see who the hell this was. What immediately caught my eye, was the artist’s last name. Usually, I just listen to music, don’t watch the videos. But this video? I gave it watch.
Lone digger. Lone explorer.
Herndon, Virginia
Not Loudon County, but Herndon is right there by Loudon. When I worked at Dulles, I used to go into Herndon VA and Reston VA to get food. There was a fucking awesome deli in Reston that made incredible subs. I can only wonder if the deli are still there.
Wait…Herndon’s largest employer is…Fannie Mae?
Erm…
…why did they give a shit about him in the first place? I’m somewhat skeptical of those who are interested in me only because of what I can give them. That said, the media wanted sustenance, and for the better part of five/six years now, Trump & Co seems to have fed them. A never ending Las Vegas style all-you-care-to-eat buffet.
Or, erm, Atlantic City style
Just wondering if they realize they killed their meal ticket. The media must be planning on going on a diet or making some other kind(s) of lifestyle changes.
/shrug
Some people repeat themselves a lot. When they are not repeating themselves, they will resort to repeating themselves…a lot. Then they’ll move on to repeating themselves…a lot. As time passes, they will begin to repeat themselves…a lot. When repeating one’s self no longer serves, it’s time to repeat yourself…a lot.
All that said, and all that said, I guess, I guess anyway, that the point, and I mean the main point, of the video below, the one to follow this text here, is that the greater good, or maybe the greatest good, or yeah just the greater good and not the greatest good, is better served, or better served, or best better served, by…wait, what the fuck are they even talking about in this video?
cYa | cFa
*******
*I gotta say… /final drag… Wes Cecil’s Language and Civilization lectures are fucking awesome… /stubs butt… Perspective opening…*
*Glad you agree, Clicky. Now, put the sandwich down and go get us a song to end on…*
Hopefully next week will be as exciting as the last one, Dear Reader 😉
Have a Song…
Story Time: What Time Do You Finish?
https://twitter.com/Holbornlolz/status/1322228917407748096
*Ha! I saw your spoiler post in the week, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… You are really enjoying this US election, aren’t you…*
*Eww, that’s what that smell is… /wrinkles nose… Go and have a bath. I’ll take it from here…*
Happy Halloween, Dear Reader 😀 Today we are delighted to present for you my short story from Underdog Anthology XII: Mask-Querade…
… called ‘What Time Do You Finish?’. Now, if you like it, Dear Reader, you might want to invest in a copy of the anthology, as it is chocked full with stories far creepier than mine. Enjoy! 😉
*******
What Time Do You Finish?
By Roo B. Doo
It is said that Halloween is the time of year when the veil between dimensions is worn at its thinnest. In the year 2020, when a global viral pandemic, violent rioting and supermarket socially distanced queues dominated everyday life, that boundary thickness could be considered as flimsy as paper medical face mask. Why, an errant finger could easily pierce it.
Shit!
God adjusted the mask across her visage, hoping no one would notice the ragged hole, and also that nothing too nasty had fallen through the breach on her sweet breath.
***
“How the hell am I supposed to know when we are?” Death snapped and glared up from inside the impenetrable blackness of his cowl at the three ominous figures surrounding him. They stood huddled at the junction of Great Russell and Bloomsbury Streets in London’s bustling West End. It was night, it was cold and, save for the motley quartet, the streets were completely deserted.
“Becoz yur Death,” the first figure hissed and bared vampiric fangs. Famine appeared tall and angular, dressed in a tuxedo, silk lined cape, and with a countenance so pale, it could only have been achieved by avoiding sunlight at any and all costs.
“Because you have the contraption,” the second figure added angrily. War appeared to be a smart businesswoman, confident and aggressive, in horn-rimmed glasses, sharp suit and infinitely sharper stiletto heels.
“AAAAAAAGH!” the third figure groaned as a fat, black housefly zig-zagged across a sunken cheek, before disappearing into a filth-caked nostril. Pestilence appeared to be a zombie; slack mouthed, grey decaying flesh and milk white, opaque eyes.
“No, Pesto, I don’t know what happened to the horses,” Death answered his rotting companion. He pulled himself up to his full height of three feet and three inches, retrieved a battered Psion organiser from beneath the folds of his robe, and unsheathed it with a satisfying pop. “I don’t understand it,” he cried, “transport’s always been laid on before.”
War, Famine and Pestilence stood in silence, watching over the diminutive but perfectly formed grim reaper, as he punched the keys of the electronic organiser with a gleaming phalange, and waited.
Click. Click. Click, click, click… click.
“Well?” War said impatiently. “We’re in London, that much is for sure. The British Museum is over there.”
Pestilence’s body did not move a single rotting muscle, but his head turned an unearthly 180° to follow the direction that War’s crimson painted talon was pointing in. “UGH WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Ve don’t know if ve are zupposed to go zere.” Famine reached out and clasped either side of Pestilence’s head, twisting it back into a front facing position. “Ve don’t know vy ve are even here. Death, vot iz taking you zo long to find out?”
“Wait…” Death did not look up.
Click. Click, click. Click.
Death peered hard at the tiny screen on the Psion, before shaking it hard. “I dunno. It’s not working. Maybe the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Net is down again,” he said with a shrug.
“Argh!” War howled. She reached down and grabbed Death by the front of his robe and lifted him up to face height. Behind her glasses, War’s eyes blazed with fire. “That’s just brilliant! Ace! Fun-fucking-tastic, Death! What are we meant to do now?”
The dead weight of Pestilence’s arm slapped War on the shoulder. “WAAAGH UGH!”
“Yez, yez, yez, ve should all calm down,” Famine said smoothly, pulling Death from War’s tight grasp and setting him back on the pavement. He plucked Pestilence’s arm from War’s shoulder before she could rip it from its socket. “It does no good for uz to get agitated. Ve need to zink vot haz happened.”
“Exactly right, Famine,” Death injected in agreement. “Let’s look at what we do know.” He pushed himself free of the huddle and turned to face his companions. “We’ve got War, Famine, Pestilence and yours truly.” He began to glide, circling the trio. “The ultimate harbingers of doom and bringers of great tribulation. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse-”
“AAAAAAAGH UGH!”
“Sans horses, indeed. Most irregular. Literally dropped, without warning, in the middle of London-”
“Clos to ze British Muzeum,” Famine interrupted.
“Correct. So we know where we are but we don’t know when we are-”
“Late twentieth, early twenty first century, I’d say, from the smell of the air,” War joined in. “Plus it’s night time and it’s bloody freezing.”
“A winter’s night, yes. Probably accounts for the lack of any activity about-”
“UGH!”
Death glided to a stop. “Your right, Pesto; there should be people about, even in winter. A big city like this produces lots of traffic-”
“Yez,” Famine mused, loudly tapping on his fangs in contemplation. “No motor vehicles hav passed by since ve arrived.”
Death nodded slowly, then looked up at the sky. One by one, War, Famine and Pestilence followed Death’s gaze.
“Nope, too much cloud cover and light pollution. I can’t see any stars to work out when we are.”
“I have a very bad feeling about this,” War whispered hoarsely.
“WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!” Pestilence groaned.
“I agree, Pestilence, my dear friend. It haz to be a mistake,” Famine said solemnly. “An accident.”
“Possibly. We’d better start walking,” Death said and glided away down Bloomsbury Street, in the direction of Covent Garden.
War, Famine and Pestilence looked at each other and muttered darkly.
“Hold it, short-arse,” War barked. “Where exactly are we walking to? I can’t go far in these heels. They’re fucking murder.”
Pestilence dropped a shoulder and lurched awkwardly after Death. “AAAAAAAGH WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Seriously? You’re going to follow him?” War shouted after the hunched and shambling figure of Pestilence. “You’ll disintegrate before you reach the end of this street, you noxious pile of pus! ”
Famine took War’s hands between his own, bowed deeply and lightly kissed her clenched fists until they opened. “Don’t vorry, my dear lady. I vill speak to Death.” Gently, he tugged on War so that she tottered forward with unsteady steps. “Please, come. Valk slowly. I vill talk to him.” With that, Famine turned into a giant bat and flew off in the direction of Death.
War roared with frustration but continued to follow the others. “I have Birkenstocks, you know. Why couldn’t I have manifested in my fucking Birkenstocks…”
Death heard wop-wopping wing beats approach from behind, and felt the change in air pressure as Famine flew over his head. He glided slowly until he reached his suave compadre, who stood in the middle of the pavement, arms wide, cape billowing and fangs bared.
“Death, stop please,” Famine pleaded. “Vor and Pestilence are in no fit state to valk far. Look.” He gestured back to the way they’d come. Pestilence jerked along slowly in the middle distance, with War following on behind, daintily sidestepping the trail of fleshy ooze left in Pestilence’s wake.
“Death, Death,” Famine cooed, “You know ve vould valk to the ends of ze vorld vid you, but you must tell us, vere are you taking us?”
Death paused and looked up, appraising his companion – Famine: always hungry, never sated, forever empty; his vampire appearance was more than apt. Pestilence, too, in zombie form was unrelenting, poisoning everything, even the very air. War, however, was a puzzler unless she represented a battle of the sexes. Should War shatter the fabled glass ceiling, Death was certain she would then set about slitting every available throat with the deadly shards.
What about me, though? I’m exactly the same, I haven’t changed, Death wondered. The inside of his skull began to itch. He sighed and shook his head. This whole situation was wrong and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something big. Something important.
“Death?” Famine snapped his fingers rapidly. “Vere are ve going?” he demanded.
“To the Embankment, Famine. To Cleopatra’s Needle.”
“Ov course!” Famine slapped the palm of his hand against his widow’s peaked forehead. “Ze ancient Egyptian Obelisks of Time! Ve can return to ze hintervorld by way ov Cleopatra’s Needle! Zat iz super fine zinking, Death. No vonder yur the leader.”
“I-” Death suddenly cocked his head to one side. “Can you hear that?”
There was a low rumble in the distance but it was gradually getting louder, moving nearer. Death and Famine watched as at first, War turned her head to look behind, following the direction of the sound, then Pestilence slowly shuffled round to see what was making the noise. Further back in the distance, Death could just make out a dim rectangle of orange light, floating closer through the darkness, getting brighter. War began to wave her arms and shout.
“AAAAAAAGH!” Pestilence bellowed.
Death and Famine glanced at each other before racing back towards Pestilence and War. “Taxi!” they shouted in unison, tinged of relief.
***
War, Famine and Pestilence sat in abject silence in the back of the taxi; the three separated from Death and the taxi driver in the front by a transparent sheet of plexiglass, with only a narrow slot cut into it for the exchange of money.
Excuse me while I light my spliff…
“Spliff,” the taxi driver sang along to the bassy sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers coming through the speakers.
Oh God I gotta take a lift…
“Lift.” The taxi driver turned toward Death and gave him a beaming smile.
From reality I just can’t drift…
“Drift.”
That’s why I am staying with this riff…
“Riff.” The taxi driver chuckled and tapped his hands on the top of the steering wheel, in time with the music. “Easy Skanking. Hell, I love this song.”
Death looked out of his side window. The feeling that something was wrong had only intensified as the empty London streets rushed by. He cursed the broken Psion organiser tucked inside his robes. Bloody useless technology. Give me an hourglass any day, he thought sourly.
“Good party, was it?” the taxi driver asked.
“Huh?” Death replied, perplexed by the driver’s question.
The taxi driver laughed. “The fancy dress party. Your costumes are sweet. I thought the government had cancelled Halloween because of the Rona.”
Death stiffened and the itching inside his skull increased. “Halloween’s been cancelled?”
“Yeah man, Christmas too if we’re not lucky,” the taxi driver replied.
“What year is… it?” Death asked slowly.
The taxi driver sucked his teeth contemptuously. “What you mean what year is it? It’s 2020, child. Where have you been?”
A burst of realisation exploded through Death’s train of consciousness: It’s 2020: the year anything happened! The year when pandemic waves of Coronavirus and Karenitus swept the globe, resulting in lockdowns, economic disaster and civil unrest. Things are starting to make sense now! Even so, the itch continued to irritate the inside of Death’s skull.
Cigar smoke suddenly filled the front of the taxi. Death coughed and tapped on the sign affixed to the console. “That says ‘No Smoking’.”
The taxi driver grinned at Death, a smoking cigar butt jauntily perched from the corner of his mouth. “2020, child. Donch ya know the saying? ‘A smoke a day keeps the Rona at bay’.” He laughed heartily and bounced up and down in his seat with mirth. “Besides, who’s gonna stop me? Look about you, my small friend. There’s no one around to say shit about it.”
If Death still had eyes, they would have been rolling round his ocular cavities. “Hey guys.” He shouted to the others through the slot in the plexiglass. “Problem solved: it’s 2020.”
“Tventy Tventy! Hellz Bellz!” Famine exclaimed.
Pestilence gave a guttural groan. “WAAAGH UGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Yes, but what’s the date?” War demanded nervously.
“It’s the 31st October, sugar,” the taxi driver called back. “Happy Halloween.”
The taxi stopped at the end of Temple Place. In front lay the deserted Embankment. Along side it, the river Thames flowed swiftly past, glittering lights shimmered on its rippled surface, as above the clouds began to separate, clear, and finally reveal the celestial occupants of the night sky. The taxi driver nonchalantly flicked a switch on his dashboard, locking all the vehicle doors with a loud clunk.
“Oh no,” War murmured gravely and pressed her hands hard against her stomach. “No, no, no!”
“Vot iz it, Vor?” Famine asked with rising alarm.
A shaft of moonlight hit the taxi as it slowly pulled right out of the junction and onto the empty Embankment, illuminating its interior. The Moon was bright, it was clear and it was very full.
“It’s my monthlies,” War whined, sliding off her seat and onto all fours. Her jaw elongated and wiry tufts of fur sprang from her gnarly brow, knocking War’s horn-rimmed glasses from her face. “I don’t fucking believe this. Why nowOOOO!”
“Now this is a great song. One of the Skipper’s best,” the taxi driver exclaimed, ignoring the howling and growling, and blood-curdling shrieks of panic coming from the back of the cab, as the previously smart and professional War transformed into a ferocious and carnal beast. He turned up the volume on his stereo and began to croon along,
Until the philosophy, which hold one race superior and another. Inferior. Is finally. And permanently. Discredited. And abandoned. Everywhere is war. Me say war.
“Vot? NOOOO! Get avay! Get avay!” Famine screamed and impotently fumbled with the taxi’s doors handles. They were securely locked, however; there would be no escape.
Death sat stock still, strapped in tight and listened in horror to the sound of Famine and Pestilence being ripped apart by the slavering jaws and slashing claws of a werewolf that appeared to be War.
“How’s you seat, child?” the taxi driver asked slyly.
“I’m not a child,” Death tersely replied.
“UGH!” Pestilence’s bloody fingers abruptly thrust through the slot in the plexiglass, twitched once, then lay limp.
“I know, I know, little man. No offence intended.” The taxi driver continued. “That space you’re occupying used to be for luggage, but times are hard and last year it was converted into a child seat,” he explained. “Good thing for you, eh?”
The heavy silence that fell between the driver and his passenger was punctured by the sound of wet chomps and crunching bone emanating from the back of the cab.
The itch in Death skull stopped, but the very fabric of reality now took up its cause.
“Scratch?” Death asked tentatively.
“Yes, child.”
“Old Scratch?”
“Who else you expecting?” the Devil, who appeared to be a smirking, smoking taxi driver, replied. The vehicle slowed to a stop next to Cleopatra’s Needle. “Now hurry up and spit it out. It’s time for you to leave.”
Death paused; it felt like eternity. Finally he asked, “Why?”
“Why?” Old Scratch puffed on his cigar, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. “Why, Armageddon, little man. What did you think this is?”
Death was flummoxed. In his long existence, he had never been flummoxed before. It was a new sensation, but not one he’d ever longed for.
Old Scratch patted him on the head, then reached up to retrieve a folded piece of paper from behind the sun visor. “I got a letter last year, see,” he explained. He unfolded the page and glanced down at the childish writing on it. “From a sweet, innocent child. A touch dyslexic, but with the purest soul ever to inhabit a human body. What could I do?” He offered the letter to Death. “My heart just melted.”
Death took the letter from Old Scratch and began to read aloud: “’Dear Satan. My name is Molly and I have everything I will ever need. Can you please help everybody else in the world by ending hunger, pollution and war. This is my Christmas wish. Thank you. Molly Darling, age 6. P.S. I hope you are well.’”
“So considerate and polite,” Old Scratch sighed, taking the letter back.
All the stars in the heavens swirled furiously inside Death’s skull. He mentally grappled with the raging storm, searching for a handhold on his sanity. “War ended Pestilence and Famine, but War isn’t dead.”
“You sure? Can’t hear no breathing back there.”
Death swiftly unlocked his seatbelt and stood up on his seat. The plexiglass was no longer transparent, but smeared red with blood and gore. He pushed the dead fingers of Pestilence back through the slot and heard a splash as the severed hand they were attached to thudded to the floor of the taxi. Death peered through the gap and saw War lying naked and smoothly pale in the bloodbath. A chunk of half chewed greenish meat fell free from her lifeless lips.
“WooEE! That Pesto sure was ripe!” Old Scratch said, opening his window and flicking out ash from his cigar. “Bad meat. Never eat it. Always, always, insist on fresh.”
Death pulled away from the sight of the abomination in the back of the taxi and sat back down in his seat. “But how can it be Armageddon if War, Famine and Pestilence are gone?”
Old Scratch punched the numbers on the keyboard of the dashboard fare display. “With no hunger, there will be obesity, so humanity will become slovenly and fat, lazy and satisfied. No war means no competition, no goals to achieve, so mankind will lose its desire to better itself. And the elimination of pollution is a sure fire way of killing any human creativity. I give the species ten years, tops.”
“But there will be death,” Death whispered softly.
“Oh indeed, you’re still needed. You have a busy time ahead of you, little man. That’ll be six six six.”
Death snapped his head back to face the Devil in the driver’s seat. “What?”
Old Scratch laughed and pointed to the fare metre. “Six pounds, sixty six.” He gave a phlegmy cough and waved Death away. “Just kidding. For you, child, no charge,” he said gleefully.
*******
*Ah, that’s much better, Clicky… /stubs butt… Do try to keep clean…*
*/sighs…*
We hope you enjoyed the story, Dear Reader, and that you will consider purchasing a copy of the latest Underdog Anthology…
*”By the book”… /thinks… Who was the 37th President of America, Clicky?*
*/rolls eyes… Elementary, dear Clicky…*
… And may the rest of your Halloween we kenned be spooky. Have a Song… ❤
CLICK5: Roob’s Halloween Story Spoilers!
Missive From ‘Merica: Death On Denial
Hello there, Dear Reader 😀
*That’s rude… /lights up and smokes… Just ‘cos I let you write a few posts, Clicky, no need to get above yourself…*
Today we have an amazing missive from Cade Fon Apollyon for your reading pleasure – see below – and…
*I was just getting to that…*
… The latest Underdog Anthology has now been published. So you can go buy and read it 😀 Death features in a number of the stories, and as Death comes for us all, it might be a good idea to find out what the bugger has been up to 😉
Enjoy! ❤
*******
No need to start the conversation with “I’m suicidal”.
You’re holding me hostage before we’ve even begun to speak.
Really makes me question your motives.
Makes me think of myself as little more than a dishrag handy for soaking up your spills.
I have to do everything perfect, and keep you satisfied, otherwise, anything that happens is now my fault and you are off the hook.
I’ll talk to you.
How about we just...talk
I mean, if you are talking to me, it’s already blatantly obvious that you are desperate.
Yep, it appears we are on the same page.
Somewhat at least.
Recently, there was a video circulating of a guy committing suicide on a livestream, and yes, I watched it. Yes, it was depressing as fuck. Got me to thinking about my own self, my own life, and my desire to understand the mechanics of what is maybe sometimes happening when some choose to take that final leap of their own volition. Didn’t particularly want to watch the video, but kinda had a need to watch it.
In my own life, I’ve been surrounded by suicides of all kinds, the act has always confused me. Why are they doing this? How do I stop them? How can I help them? How can I not wind up in a similar situation? How am I supposed to react in situations like these? How am I supposed to feel about this?
The usual stuff
And of course, there’s the flip side. Those who go on living and their own conclusions about someone killing themselves. The person was a coward. The person was selfish. The person was crazy. They took the easy way out. The person was an asshole anyway, they did the rest of us a favor and we’re lucky to be rid of them. But some will even call those who commit suicide, brave. Courageous. One who took control of their own destiny.
Sounds to me like a lotta people have this shit all figured out.
Thing is, if you are suicidal, and you don’t tell me you are suicidal, I’m now on the hook for not being more attentive. Not being more attuned to your needs.
“Did they show any signs of being suicidal or distressed in any way?”
The “after” is gonna bring those types of questions if you go through with it.
Le sigh
Where did I go so wrong in not better catering to your needs?
It’s too late tho now.
Nothing I can do.
This is depressing.
No way out.
I can see now maybe a bit now why there is an infectious nature to an act of suicide. An embedded “copycat” type of vibe. A looping type of element. Which…Hey! That reminds me. Have you ever wondered if the spinning nature of bodies has a property of capturing and smoothing out waves? Almost like running a piece of metal through a roller, except more like winding a something onto a spool.
Maybe both
Yes, I’m thinking here about waves and how the spinning nature of planets may act to facilitate the dampening of such waves. Alter their frequency, amplitude and/or maybe their wavelength. And in fact, maybe in some cases, not dampen the waves, but actually increase their power. Boost the signal. Maybe even capture a wave, alter it, then re-transmit the signal. Quite the interesting thought when one adds time and capacitors to these thoughts. A planet or maybe some other celestial body could potentially capture a signal, hold onto it for ages, then re-transmit the signal countless years later. Things get REALLY interesting when one stops to think about the nature of life and maybe why it exists when and where it does. A signal could, potentially, start life on a planet. Maybe such a signal could stop life on a planet.
‘Let there be light?’ (Genesis 1:3)
‘It is done?’ (Revelation 21:6)
Maybe that’s what these “vial” things are. Some kind of capacitor that holds a certain something that does a certain something at a certain time. A signal.
Holy fuck...I've gone off the deep end
How does one smooth the wave bourn of pain that creates more pain? Transfer? Transmission? Passing on? And is it “bourn of” or “born of”? Or “borne of”?
Bourn is like… a stream or a goal.
Born is like…hatched or deveiled or unveiled or whatever.
Borne is carried.
Noted
Speaking of rolls…lets talk toilet paper and the peculiarities of hygiene.
- 1st wipe – paper is absolutely covered in poo;
- 2nd wipe – not a speck of poo on the paper, WTF?!?!??
That 2nd wipe makes so little sense, you gotta go for a 3rd wipe just to make sure because you don’t believe the 2nd wipe result. Things get even more weird if the 3rd wipe again has poop on the paper. Now you really start to question that 2nd wipe.
Did I miss?
Coulda swore that I felt the paper in the proper position.
What in the hell type of sorcery is this?!?!?
We relive that Eden thing over and over.
It echos, and echos, and echos.
Creation.
Everything is perfect.
We wander around in this magical and mysterious place of awe and wonder.
It all goes wrong.
We spend our life trying to get back to the start.
Get back what we had.
We still have it, we just don’t seem to want to utilize it. Maybe it’s that lingering idea of “better”. As long as there is something in the world that is “better” than what we currently have, no fucking way that where we are can be Eden.
Maybe it's that lingering idea of “worse”
As long as what we currently have is “worse” than what others currently have, no fucking way that where we are can be Eden. Oh, and fuck all those people who have it worse than us. Even tho our worse is better than some, some have it better than us and we are worse off for it.
For better…or for worse. In sickness…and in health. What in the FUCK, is health? We know what sickness is (or we think we do).
So...health = not sick?
That’s seems a pretty poor measure of health.
Took me a lot of time to come to grips with the need for destruction. Come to grips with why the blessing of life needs to come with a curse of death type rider. What’s that? You wanna know how in the fuck I, a backwards and braindead Okie hick, somehow stumbled onto an answer to one of life’s biggest mysteries?
Q: Why do we die?
A: Because there are things that you cannot think of
You do not have experience with everything. As a result, there are things that you simply cannot think of. Things you cannot imagine. However, when you can think of these things, can imagine these things, can and do experience these things, it might be too late to unthink them. Might be too late to unimagine them. Might be too late to not experience them. You may, need an alternate out.
To relate a bit…
‘And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.’
-Revelation 6:9 (KJV)
Now, you may have given the concept of immortality a thought here and there, but its likely that you may also equate immortality with some kind of invincibility. You cannot die, therefore, you cannot be hurt. Welp, to relate what a mistake that prolly is, maybe give this thought a bit of contemplation…
Q: When someone you love dies, and you are left alive, are you suddenly immortal?
A: ???
You’re still alive. You’ve got a nasty-ass pain digging in you, and you cannot shake it.
Q: What is your salvation?
A: Death
One of the things that I’m thinking about here is that you have no way of knowing if you are immortal or not until you actually die. Another thing I’m thinking about is the horrible pains and strife that we some of us encounter in life, yet we do not die. Also thinking that we tend to equate immortality not only with invincibility, but we also equate immortality with youth. I’ve lost my train of thought.
Lemme regroup
Regroup.
Re group.
R e g r o u p .
R e g r o u p . p u o r g e R
. p u o r g e R
.puorg eR
.puorgeR
Ya know, it just occurred to me that we usually watch news programs just to see one thing. There’s one thing that interests us, we can only get the information we need from one place, but they are gonna make us sit through a bunch of other shit before allowing us to see it.
Hrm. Why does this ring a bell?
OH YEAH!!! School. You’re an individual, so you are likely to only have one main interest, but school is gonna subject you to all kinds of other bullshit before getting to the stuff you like. Work is like that too. Gotta work before you get that paycheck you want. Dinner is also like that. Unlikely that you like everything on your plate, and the plate also has to be clean before there’s any hope of dessert.
Just because my itinerary does not include you, that does not also imply that the road I’m on leads to nowhere.
On a scale of 0-10, rate how evil each of the below lifeforms is.
0 being “how dare you even suggest someone would ever think of this creature as evil”, and 10 being “how dare you even suggest someone would ever think of this creature anything but evil”.
01. Vampire bats
02. Pomeranian dog
03. ET – The Extraterrestrial
04. Photosynthetic cyanobacteria
05. Magpies
06. Demons
07. Daemons
08. Grizzly Bears
09. Rats
10. Casper The Friendly Ghost
11. Poison Ivy
12. That person at work who refuses to wear antiperspirant/deodorant.
13. Crabs
14. Butterflies
15. Antlions
16. Fruitless Mulberry trees
I expect your answers on my desk no later than a date and time to be specified at a later date and time.
Be ready
All that shit above was written on or about 11 September 2020AD/CE.
Yesterday was Monday the 12th of October 2020AD/CE.
Yes, that makes today Tuesday 13 October 2020AC/DC
I just woke. Started writing. Had a nagging feeling all day yesterday tho.
“Today seems like a holiday.”
Actually, I did not have the nagging feeling all day as much as I had a coupla points where I had “déjà vu” type moments of “today seems like a holiday, so why is it not a holiday?”
- Is today a Monday? CHECK!
- Are we in the holiday season? CHECK!
So why is everyone not ranting and raving about a holiday?
This morning, I remember my feelings from yesterday, and suddenly…there it is.
Yesterday, was Columbus Day
Ah yes, the latest parental figure to beat on…Christopher Columbus. It’s now known as “Indigenous Peoples’ Day” in some areas, but not everyone observes it. Divisions. Divisions within divisions.
Hrm
We interrupt this program for an important news flash...
Mystery = SOLVED! Next?
An actual “Mystery = SOLVED!” that has a shred of merit. Whodathunkit?
😛
This flight had me completely perplexed. I admit that “crop dusting” or some other agricultural use crossed my mind due to the remoteness of the location, but I never in all my years of flying and being in/around aviation have I heard of a Beechcraft King Air being used for crop dusting. I focused on either some kind of pipeline or electrical lines inspection, or maybe searching for a downed something, but…at night?
So I focused on maybe a pipeline leak or spill of some kind since the patterns were in some remote areas which likely are laced with creeks and could carry a release, but again…at night?
When I looked into the flight history of the aircraft and saw that this very aircraft had done very similar flights only recently, and since the person that I was speaking with had set their mind to contacting the FAA to find out what was going on, I admit that I settled back into a “wait and see” kind of posture since none of this made much sense. The plane obviously had some kind of special clearance to be flying so low, otherwise their very first flight at these altitudes would been their last. But, I found at least three other flights that were very similar, so yeah, wait and see. But mosquitoes? Spraying for mosquitoes with a King Air?!? At 200 fucking feet?
I fucking never would have thought of that even tho’ now, yeah, it makes sense that early evening is the perfect time to spray for mosquitoes and those flight patterns make much more sense now. Here where I live, they use spraying trucks for mosquito control, and the trucks drive up and down streets spraying the stuff into the air, but again it never would have occurred to me that someone is utilizing aircraft for the same purpose. I learned something. I learned a bunch actually.
Noted
The bad part in this?
CHEMTRAILS!!!
People are obviously being sprayed, and yet, at least some of these people appear to have no prior knowledge that they are being dusted at 200 feet by an airplane spraying for mosquito control.
The last time that we here had active mass spraying was I think in either 2011 or 2012 with all that Zika panic. I seem to recall some panic that Zika and West Nile were going to cause some huge rash of illness and death, and so these giant trucks drove up and down the streets at night creating this massive weird mist cloud that hung heavy in the air. But the media had so hyped the disease prior to the spraying, that when the notices went out that spraying was gonna occur and for everyone to stay indoors during certain hours, I got the feeling that pretty much everyone got the message.
How do I know this? Welp, because I got a chair and went and sat up on my roof to observe the goings on. No cars, no people, no sound…it was completely dead outside an hour prior to the spraying, and remained dead until I heard the trucks start to rove up and down the streets. At a grumbling idle they came. I could see the mist cloud boiling up over the tops of the trees in the distance. When I saw the headlights appear on my street, I looked up and noticed that a strange halo was beginning to encircle the moon and encase the stars. I figured it was time to get down and go inside.
The good part in this?
There are still people in the world who are worried about mosquitoes and mosquito-borne diseases in the middle of this nCoV-2019 pandemic thingie.
Hrm
Mosquitoes.
Mosque Key Toes.
Musky Toes.
Muss Keet Ohs. Moss Kiitos.
Zika.
West Nile.
Malaria.
Dengue Fever.
SARS.
Swine Flu.
Coronavirus.
Bubonic Plague.
Tuberculosis.
HIV.
Lupus.
Lyme.
Leprosy?
Morgellon’s.
Pangolins.
Bats.
Rats.
Fleas.
Ticks.
Tiger King.
Exotics.
Q: Would you put your “pet” down if you knew that they were facilitating the transfer of nCoV-2019 to your family/friends/others?
A: ???
What am I saying? Of course you would! You collar them, leash them, chip them, tattoo them, train them to behave like you think they should, and punish them when they don’t. You’d drop that doggo, kitten, hamster, rat, snake or bearded dragon like a bad habit if you were to learn that they were to blame for the world’s woes. You with fish/fish tanks can keep them.
And for you lazy fuckers…
- Keet = a type of bird from Guinea;
- Kiitos = “thank you” in Finnish.
You're welcome
What is this “tick” thing that appears by certain people’s names on Twitter? I guess it separates “the elite” from average scumbags.
Ticks are bad, mmmmmkay?
Last night was the first night in months that I’ve not had nightmares all night long. Pretty sure last night’s dreams weren’t good, but I also wouldn’t call them nightmares. Certainly not of the intensity of late. All these nightmares have been wearing my ass out. Don’t feel like reading, don’t feel like writing, don’t feel like watching anything, can’t think straight, have but one thought on my mind…what in the bloody hell is driving this non-stop onslaught of horrific dreams?
But to be fair, that thought really doesn’t pester me and I’ve really not sought any answers. Not done any soul-searching, not sought to understand it, not sought to stop it. Whatever it is, just trying to endure it. I figure if there are any answers to be had, they’ll come. This may be reckless of me.
Maybe not
Cade: Howdy!
X: ….
Cade: Hello?
Z: …
Cade: Helloooooo thar.
A: …
Cade: “A:” never speaks, so she’s not the best of indicators. Anyone there?
0: …
Cade: Anyone at all?
T: They’re ignoring you.
Cade: O HAI! So, why aren’t you ignoring me?
T: I am ignoring you.
Cade: Um, no you aren’t.
T: Yes I am. I just wanted to let you know that we are ignoring you.
Cade: Is this because I’ve been ignoring you?
T: …
Cade: I’ll take that for a no.
Z: That’s a definite yes.
Cade: Pray tell how you’d know?
Z: I checked.
Cade: Checked? Checked what? You keeping a journal or something?
Z: Maybe.
Cade: Soooo…that would mean that you may have some indication as to why I’ve been having non-stop nightmares since Spring of this year?
Z: I show it’s more like July.
Cade: HA! I already knew that. So you do actually have something there which may be indicative of why I’ve been having nightmares.
Z: …
Cade: Fuckin’ hell. I’ve painted myself into a corner. Any newbies out there wanna take this opportunity to chime in?
V: …
Cade: Well that’s one at least. Any infrequent visitors up for a chat?
G: …
Cade: Hrm. I’m quite shocked that at least “0:” doesn’t have an earful to give me.
X: Oh they’ve got an earful to give you.
Cade: GREAT! Let’s have it then.
0: …
Cade: That indeed, is quite the earful. Says a lot.
0: See ya around kiddo.
Cade: Hrm. I’ll add that to my list of things to chew on.
0: …
B: What’s all this recent business about ghosts?
Cade: Well, I’ve just been doing a lot of pondering about the notion recently.
B: You did a whole series of posts on pareidolia prior to Google/Blogger blocking you.
Cade: Correct. Six posts in total, but I only shared 5 with the class. The basic notion was of a sighted person “seeing things” as being odd concept to ponder.
X: You mean to say that, when a sighted someone sees a something, and another sighted someone disputes what has been seen because they themselves either did not see it or do not see it, that paradigm is causing you personally some measure of dismay?
Cade: Yes. I was not there/did not see “Mr. October” bang those three home runs off of those three pitchers back in 1977, but it happened.
B: Others have seen it. It was filmed.
Cade: Technically, no one, with maybe the exception of Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, actually saw Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.
B: And your point?
Cade: Welp, I can understand the need to use one’s own experiences with things to help others with theirs.
X: But what you have a problem with, is that concept taken to excess.
Cade: Yes. If I were unsighted, it would not be a problem.
Z: But because both you and those around you are sighted, it’s a problem.
Cade: Exactly.
T: Ever stop to think that maybe you shouldn’t share so much?
Cade: Indeed I have.
Z: Shows here that you pretty much completely shut down for most of your life.
Cade: I’d concur with that.
X: So what’s the problem? Keep things to yourself, problem(s) solved.
Cade: I um…I do kinda live in a vacuum, but I also kinda don’t.
0: You’re referring to “the vacuum of space”?
Cade: Indeed.
T: I think you are thinking about the concept of “Familiars”.
Cade: You aren’t wrong. Half in, half out. Not here, not there, and kinda not anywhere…
0: And yet, there you are.
X: The slightly crooked king.
Cade: Yes. That concept too has been on my mind.
Z: But everything is…fuzzy, is that it?
Cade: Very. Like certain parts of the past no longer exist.
A: I bet that recent Astrology talk about changing the past in order to make for a better future hit you particularly hard.
Cade: Indeed it did. Any such changes would not only affect me…
0: But others.
Cade: Yes indeedy. It’s that whole stupid time-machine thing about going back in time to kill someone.
X: Rumor has it that would save a lot of pain and suffering.
Cade: Um…hasn’t all that pain and suffering already occurred?
T: I think that’s a fair assessment.
Cade: So now we’re back to rending and tears.
X: Has that too been heavy on your mind?
Cade: Yes.
X: A cloth?
Cade: Yes. But also what it means.
X: You never understood it before?
Cade: Well, the symbolism was that it was torn from top to bottom. Hence, that is interpreted as “God did it”.
X: That was some thick material.
Cade: Some stress that fact, some do not. I think some even dispute it because if the Tabernacle cloth was indeed that thick, it woulda weighed like 800 tons and there was no fucking way they could have carried that thing around whilst wandering in the desert.
X: Details, details, details.
Cade: So yeah, now we’re right back to some people see a something, others do not, which raises doubt.
0: People do sometimes take liberties with telling tales.
Cade: But we here in the now generally are not taught that history is a subjective something which is likely to be more tall-tale than fact. History is taught as being rigid, not fluid.
Z: Revisionism.
Cade: I really, REALLY fucking need to stop writing here and go get to work on…
A: You…might…want to bite your tongue right there.
Cade: Indeed. I’m in a quandary.
A: Do you edit, or do you not edit.
Cade: That’s the truth of it.
A: And what is this truth you speak of.
Cade: Typically, I’ve not a clue what truth is. But in this case, I feel that I was about to overstep some bounds.
A: And you are stuck here and now with a dilemma.
Cade: Yes. What is not mine, is not mine.
A: You gonna “mine” that concept any further?
Cade: Yes.
A: Careful.
Cade: Noted.
A: …
Don’t ask me…I don’t know. Kinda working on it tho’. And don’t ask what that means either because I don’t know.
How many people know you exist?
Yeah…I thought so…not many.
Don’t sweat it tho…nobody knows I exist either.
cYa | cFa
*******
Have a Song, Dear Reader 😀
CLICK5: Indie Go…
CLICK5: Mask-querade
Story Time: Fountainhead
Dear Reader, prompted by a convo in Merovee comments about rabbits and bad hair days, I’ve decided to post my story from Underdog Anthology IX: Well Haunted…
*Thanks, Clicky… /pats snout… I’ll format the story and you go get a Song for the end…*
… called ‘Fountainhead’. I was saving it to post for Halloween, but I’ll post ‘What Time Do You Finish?’ from Underdog Anthology XII then instead 😀
Enjoy! ❤
*******
Fountainhead
by Roo B. Doo
“Okay, Thom?” Jess placed on her hands on Thom’s shoulders, and gave them a friendly squeeze. “You still want to do this?” she asked him, addressing the brightly lit mirror before them.
Thom studied the reflection of the woman standing behind him. With silver hair, thickly plaited, and intricate henna designs adorning both her arms from wrists to biceps, Jess was an odd mixture of old and young. He nodded slowly before leaning his head back, to look up directly into her wrinkled face and sparkling eyes. “Yes. Let’s do it.”
“Alright then,” Jess said with a smile. She pushed Thom’s head forward playfully, and looked down at the shaved skin she’d created near the crown of his head. She tenderly caressed it’s smoothness with her gloved fingertips before swooping down to lightly kiss it.
“Hey, is that part of the ritual?” Thom asked. “Doesn’t seem very hygienic.”
“Yes and no, it’s not.” Jess took the bottle of Povidone-Iodine from the trolley beside her and quickly swabbed the pale patch on Thom’s head, turning it umber. “But this stuff tastes disgusting.”
Thom’s reflection stared hard at her from the mirror.
“Seriously, Thom. Dis. Gus. Sting.” Jess laughed jovially. “Trust me, I’ve kissed all the ones I’ve done before,” she said with a shrug. “They all turned out okay. Please, grant me a little superstition. It is Halloween.”
“Okay, Jess. I trust you,” Thom replied. He watched her pick up a scalpel, but his eyes lingered on the electric drill that lay passively on top of the trolley.
“Thank you.” Jess placed the scalpel blade against the orange patch of skin beneath her gaze. “Now, this may hurt.”
Thom’s hands tightened their grip on the armrests of his chair, hidden beneath the heavy, flowing cape that Jess had made him wear. “No problem.”
***
Thom Lusher’s headache had been with him for as long as he could remember. It had taken up residence in his skull during childhood, whilst Thom watched his mother die of cancer, and squatted on throughout adolescence, as Thom’s father attempted to drown himself in vodka. The nagging, low throb was a constant in an otherwise unreliable world. It was something Thom could rely on, even consider a friend.
The headache had once come to his rescue, when Thom’s PE teacher had attempted to get handsy down his gym shorts. It had immediately flared into a raging, sparking tempest, forcing the contents of Thom’s stomach out of his mouth and down the front of his fumbling teacher, revealing the damp outline of a sad erection. Yes, the headache hurt Thom, but not nearly as much as the world did.
The only time the headache disappeared completely was when Thom dreamed ‘the floating dream’. He’d be in the thick of a situation, when, suddenly, his feet would leave the ground and he would start to rise. As he looked down, observing the action below, Thom would be acutely aware that he was steadily floating higher, and that his headache was gone. Levitating upward in a world made of sky, Thom felt serene and pain-free. Until he bumped up against the hard, dark arc of space above, at which point Thom would wake to reality and a fierce ache in his head.
The headache was part of Thom’s life and he’d steeled himself to the fact that it always would be. Until he met Jess, that is. She was the hippy, dippy proprietress of ‘Curl Up And Dye’, a hair salon on the edge of town. They’d got talking at a shared smoking table, outside Starbucks on the High Street. Little did Thom know then how Jess would change his life forever.
***
“Go anywhere nice on holiday this year?” Jess asked, as she started to peel back the flaps of skin she’d incised with the scalpel, to expose Thom’s skull.
“What?” Thom asked incredulously.
Jess was concentrating hard on the wound she’d inflicted, but stole a glance at Thom’s reflection. “I’m sorry. Force of habit,” she replied sheepishly. “Day job.”
Thom smiled ruefully at her via the mirror and resisted the temptation to shake his head. “Not this year. You?”
Jess had resumed scraping back the skin. “I like to spend November in Thailand. I leave tomorrow. You’re lucky we met and I could fit you in.”
Thom didn’t know if he should feel lucky or whether he’d gone completely mad. He’d only met Jess by chance earlier that day and now here he was, sitting alone in her dark and empty hair salon, completely at her mercy. The yammering pain in his head reminded him that he’d not exactly been blessed with luck in his life so far, but Jess had given him hope that somehow this could change.
“Have you done many of these?” Thom asked, to cover the sounds of faint scratching that filled the silence.
“More and more this year since Bore-Heading became a thing again. Of course I did mine back in the Seventies.”
“You did it on yourself?”
“Yes, for the purpose of enlightenment, not to follow some silly rock star like the kids do today.”
Thom frowned; that wasn’t why he was there but considered it ill advised to argue given his present situation. “And were you enlightened?”
“Yes. I discovered trepanning others is entirely more lucrative than trepanning myself. Thank goodness for silly rock stars, eh?” Jess flashed Thom a wink in the mirror. “Okay, Thom, I’m down to the bone. Ready for me to open you up?”
Thom stared into the violet eyes of his reflection and took a deep breath. “Go for it.”
Jess returned a solemn nod before turning to pick up the drill.
***
“Do you mind if I sit here?” the old woman asked Thom, as she placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him.
“No, go ahead.” Tom smiled up at the woman before going back to his book. He rubbed his brow and took a drag on the cigarette sat idling in the ashtray on the table.
“Ta,” she said sitting down and placing her shopping by her feet. She pulled her coat tighter and took a sip of her coffee. “Brr, it’s cold today.”
Thom nodded his agreement but he wasn’t in the mood for chitchat; he wanted to finish the chapter he was reading.
“Perfect for Halloween, of course.” The woman continued talking undeterred. She looked up and scanned the sky. “Cold and clear of cloud. Perfect for piercing the veil.”
“I’m sorry, what is?” Thom asked. He wasn’t paying attention but didn’t want to appear rude.
“The veil between worlds, here and beyond,” the woman said. “It’s thinnest at Halloween. We have perfect conditions today for piercing the barrier.”
At her words, Thom immediately pictured himself sailing upward through an ocean of sky before hitting impenetrable nothingness. The dull throb of his constant headache suddenly spiked, causing him to wince.
“Are you okay? You’ve gone quite pale,” the woman asked with concern.
“Yes,” Thom answered abruptly. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw his fists impotently beating against smooth blackness of space; a fragment of his dream from the night before. “Sorry, yes I’m fine. I have a headache.”
“Wait here.” The woman ordered, before rushing off inside the coffee shop. “And watch my bags.”
Thom felt confused; he wanted to leave, but felt obliged to stay until she returned. His headache had started to settle down but his curiosity was piqued. How could this woman, a stranger, have described his floating dream, when he’d never told anybody else about it before?
“Here we are.” The woman returned, placing a mug of hot water in front of him.
“Er, thanks,” Thom replied sceptically, as he watched her rummage through one of her many shopping bags.
“It’s for this,” she said, brandishing a teabag and a wide smile. She dropped it into the steaming mug. “Ginger tea. It’s the most wonderful tension reliever. I always drink it if I have a headache. Please try it. My name is Jess, by the way.”
Thom dunked the teabag, turning the clear liquid amber. “Thom Lusher.” He took a tentative sip of the hot tea. “Thank you.”
Jess sat back and observed Thom contemplatively. “If you don’t mind me saying, Thom, you have the look of someone who knows suffering. Have you had the headache a long time?”
Thom froze mid sip. He felt the hot liquid burn his top lip but his headache had ebbed away. He stared at Jess’s frank and open face, encouraging him to unburden. He put down the tea and lit a fresh cigarette. “All my life,” he said thickly.
Jess sniffed the cold air before glancing skyward. “Well, Thom. I think I can help you.”
***
Rizzz Rizzz
“No, wait!” Thom sprang from the salon chair and turned toward Jess. He backed into the mirror unit, scattering pots of hair product to the floor. “I’m sorry, Jess. Can we just wait a moment?”
Jess placed the silent drill back on the trolley and rushed round to comfort him. “Of course. Oh my goodness, Thom, you’re trembling. Just sit down a moment and I’ll tidy up this mess.”
“I’ll help-” Thom started to bend down but Jess stopped him.
“No, you’ll get blood everywhere. Sit there, I’ll sort this out.” Jess handed him a towel. “And wipe your face, you have blood trickling from your hairline.
Thom perched on the edge of the salon chair, holding the towel to his forehead, while Jess got onto her knees and started gathering the strewn pots.
“I’m sorry but it was when you gunned the drill twice,” Thom explained. “I don’t know, it just set me off.”
“And I’m sorry, too. You’re obviously not ready for this procedure. Oh no, this one’s broken open.”
Jess got to her feet and wiped her hands on spare towel. “I’ll have to get a mop.”
“Jess-”
“No, Thom, it’s okay.” Jess grabbed Thom’s right arm and shoulder, pushing him back into the chair. “I’ll mop first and bandage you up, then tidy up your hair. Nobody will notice the bald spot. Promise.”
Thom let out a noisy sigh of relief. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it,” Jess called back over her shoulder as she made her way the the back room of the salon. “We all shock ourselves from time to time. I’ll make you drink.”
“Ginger tea?”
Jess stopped. “No, I’ve got something special for shock. I’ll be back in a jiff.”
Thom stared at himself in the mirror whilst Jess was gone. He picked up a hand mirror from the trolley and held it at and angle over his head so that he could see the damage. All he could see was a pool of blood that lapped across the shaven skin, soaking into his hair. Thom grimaced at the sight of maroon and black wound with crimson tinges. “Fuck!”
“Here we are.” Jess returned and handed Thom a dark green, steaming brew. She took the hand mirror from him and replaced it on the trolley. “Drink up. This is my own recipe, tell me what you think.”
She left again to collect the mop, leaving Thom to gingerly sipped at the hot concoction. “Hey, this is delicious, Jess” he shouted out. He took a slurp. “What’s in it?”
“Oh a little of this, a little of that.” Jess returned with a mop and bucket and set about cleaning up gloop and splashes of blood from the floor. “Mostly sugar. Sugar’s good for shock.”
Thom drained the cup. “Well, I thought-”
Jess quickly placed her fingertips over Thom’s mouth.”No, sit back and be quiet, Thom. Let the tea work,” she said firmly.
Thom sat back in the chair and watched Jess clean up. She moved the mop from side to side and returned the pots of creams back to the mirror shelf, all in rhythmical, moving silence.
Thom looked at the bloody towel in his hands and thought about his crazy day, and how it wouldn’t be over for a while yet. He felt the tension drain from his body and his eyelids droop. I must tell Jess that her tea is better than the ginger stuff, was the last thing Thom thought before he nodded off to sleep.
***
“Help me, how?”
Thom took a drag from his cigarette and looked over at Jess. She took a gulp of her coffee and stared back at him. “Help me, how?” Thom asked again.
“Thom, there are many ancient rituals and practices that have been mostly forgotten by the modern world. I happen to be a practitioner in a number of them.”
“Like what? Voodoo shit?”
Jess chuckled. “Not exactly, no. What I’m thinking of for you was stolen by the medical profession and renamed something ugly to put people off.”
Thom was perplexed. The conversation he didn’t want to have, then enticed into having was taking a turn for the bizarre. “What are you talking about?”
“Trepanation, Thom. It has been practised for thousands of years. Until quite recently that is. Now it’s called a Craniotomy and only doctors are allowed to perform it.”
“Wait.” Thom could suddenly feel his seat leave his chair and his knees bumped under the cafe table, hard enough to knock the ashtray to the floor with a clatter. He grabbed on to the edge of the table. “You want to drill a hole in my head?!”
Jess plucked up her coffee cup from the table before it flipped over. “Oh, but I’m trepanning you right now,” she said to the departing Thom, who was floating higher and higher, feet first. She pointed an index finger toward him and retracted it twice, like pulling a trigger. “Rizzz Rizzz. No more headache.”
“No, wait!” Thom screamed as at first a laughing Jess, followed by the High Street, the town and then all the land below shrunk from his sight. He zoomed up through the cold, blue, cloudless sky. Thom knew exactly where he was heading but this time he did not know what he would find.
***
Suck Glug Slurp
“Oh shit, he’s a gusher!”
A fountain of blood erupted from the hole Jess had made in Thom’s head and splattered over her face, neck and chest. She hastily grabbed the wadding from the trolley, in order to stem the blood spouting from the top of Thom’s lolling head. Blood streamed from between her fingers, across her hand and flowed down along the henna tattoos on her forearm. It dripped from Jess’s elbow and pooled at her feet.
She placed an arm across Thom’s chest and pulled him upright, all whilst holding his head steady, maintaining pressure on the gaping wound. Jess stayed like that, chanting quietly until she was certain the bleeding had slowed enough for her to remove the sodden wadding and she could take a look. Deep at the centre of the circle of blood and matted hair, Jess could see the pulse of pinkish brain.
She covered the wound with a bandage and removed his bloody cape, before setting about cleaning up. Once Jess was sure the floor was clear of blood, she placed black candles around unconscious Thom’s chair and lit them. Finally she hung a mournful looking goat skull, from the top of the brightly lit mirror, so that it replaced Thom’s head in his reflection.
As she finished, Thom opened a fiery eye. “Daughter?”
“I knew it! I knew he was the one!” Jess howled with glee, before dropping to her knees to kiss Thom’s hand. Tears streamed from her twinkling, eyes. “Oh, Satan, my Lord and Master. You have come at last!”
Thom gently lifted Jess’s blood-flecked face toward him and smiled radiantly down upon her.
*******
Have a Song, Dear Reader…
A Little Writing Update…
Apols! I’ve been away from the LoL, Dear Reader, busy writing a short story for Underdog Anthology XII. Fortunately Clicky has been holding the fort, hopefully keeping you suitable entertained with his CLICK5 posts…
*I know you are, Clicky… /scrolls through list… Wow, and so many of them…*
I can confirm that my short story, ‘What Time Do You Finish?’ has been completed, submitted, accepted and edited…
*Yep, Death from ‘Waste Not, Want Not’ features in it, Clicky… /lights up… and this time ‘e brings ‘is mates…*
… And there is still time for me to write another one…
*That reminds me… /drags… I’ve still gotta mutilate Percy Bysshe Shelley for the Afterword… /smokes contentedly… ‘Aussie Madness’ seems more than fitting…*
*There will indeed by a full, blue moon on ‘alloween, Clicky… /winks…*
… If I can get my arse into gear…
*You think I should write an ‘arry story, Clicky? …/flicks ash… About wot?*
*Interesting… /nods… That could work…*
Of course once the submission deadline for UAXII has passed, Dear Reader, I’ll be back with more shamble posts and hopefully some missives from Text US buddie, the Okie Devil himself, Cade Fon Apollyon. If you’ve been wondering what he’s been up to, Cade has a fantastic series of posts at his gaff exploring pareidolia…
*Heh. Workout shapes …/stubs butt…*
… Well worth a look-see. Until then, I will leave you in the capable fins of Library Assistant, Clicky…
… Have a Song ❤
Adventures in Remote Viewing: Moon Day Meanderings…
*/Flicks lighter… That’s a sync, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… In fact that’s a specific sync telling me get my arse in gear and write a Halloween story for UAXII…*
*An’ I’ll tell you wot else… /flicks ash… ‘Trailblazer’ crops up later in this post…*
Last evening, Dear Reader, Text US Okie Devil Cade Fon Apollyon and I indulged in a spot of remote viewing. I mentioned it to Leggy after…
*/drags… What a year, Clicky… /rolls eyes… it just keeps on giving… /streams smoke…*
*Now that I come to fink of it… /deep drag… Pesto’s reporting precipitated the fall of Northern Rock bank in 2007…*
*/plumes smoke… Pesto joined Twitter in March 2008, so ‘e wouldn’t ‘ave broke the story there. ‘E gets more push back now on the narratives ‘E’s peddlin’…*
*Fuckin’ ‘ell, Clicky! …/grimaces… Why’d you leave the ‘igh pitch bit in at the end? My ears are ringing…*
*/final drag… Seriously, rust on the Moon. Whatever next? …/stubs butt… Hey! Did you spot the ‘Trailblazer’ sync, Clicky?*
‘JPL is also building a new version of M3 for an orbiter called Lunar Trailblazer.’
*True man painter… /smirks… Trumania, Trump Mania. There’s a lot of that about…*
Although very different, both movies are really quite wonderful in their own way. Especially seen one after the other, if you have an interest in Sin-Crow-Mist-Eyes-Is-Sum. ‘The Girl With a Pearl Earring’ is understated but high in tension and simply gorgeous to look at…
*Yep, one of the first fings I saw this morning, Clicky… /lights up…*
… And ‘The Truman Show’ is all about experiencing synchronicity in an artificial world…
*/drags… It can sum times feel like that, Clicky, true…*
*What?! …/coughs out smoke… No, I don’t want to remote view ‘Sophie’s Choice’ next. I’ve seen it; it doesn’t end well…*
*Yes, we’ll keep looking. Sophie woz on a ‘iding to nuffin’ in that flick. Mind you, it woz ‘er own fault for promoting Nazi ideals… /puffs angrily… And choosing not to translate… /clears throat…
*Stoned or stoning, one of those…
*Far Right and Far Left? So close in ideology that you couldn’t separate ’em with a fuckin’ cigarette paper…*
*It has been a good afternoon, evening and night, Clicky, it has…*
Library of Libraries 