*Ugh, the man’s a fool… /grimaces…*
*/rolls eyes… Enough, I don’t need to see it again..*
*I said enough, Clicky…Wait… /flicks ash… Hmm, purple is my colour…*
Today is my birthday, Dear Reader, and I am now 54…
*Years old. Too fast, Clicky… /puffs contentedly… Xenon and xenophobia share the same root…*
I don’t have an awful lot to say on the subject of my birthday, so here is Cade Fon Apollyon, the Okie Devil from Text US, with a brand new missive…
What if…Eden happened…because time ran backwards.
Supposedly, when a species goes extinct, the population is whittled down until only a few remain, and ultimately, there’s only one left. Or maybe two, then one, then… two… then…
Might indicate there is some creepy fucker lurking in the shadows.
There’s a lot to think about there. What is primary on your mind tho is probably what I meant by “some creepy fucker lurking in the shadows”. Well…why don’t you yourself give it a think. We are supposedly smart, sentient beings, and even tho our planet will likely someday end, our universe is supposedly infinite, so why don’t you think for a moment as to what it would be like if time ran not only forwards, but backwards. Or at least, downwards? Then maybe backwards.
I’m not being fatalistic here. What I’m thinking about is more the birth of the Universe than the end. There are those that believe that not only have we been here before, but we shall be here again. I’m…not exactly on-board with that theory, but I understand it a bit. And the mechanics behind this theory is kinda where I started this post with respect to Eden happening because time ran backwards.
Question is, does anything ever change through the iterations?
Singularity, Big Bang, Expansion, Contraction, Big Crunch, Singularity, Big Bang, etc., etc.. Does such a loop really imply some sort of precise exactness in the iterations?
Welp, I’d say no. Especially if decay is a thing, or even if change of any kind is a thing, or even if…addition is a thing. Any sort of change or annexation of matter from the previous iteration would, I’d think anyway, result in some change or changes. And of course if the exact same amount of mass was arranged differently in an iteration, I’d think that too would result in some changes between the previous iteration and the current. Might also affect future iterations unless of course there was some “master” something that kept track of the iterations. That’s a mind-bender in and of itself.
Where would such information be stored?
I dunno if I’m looking for a master here, but there sure as shit seems to exist some mastery.
!!!HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROOBEEDOO!!!
Yep, Roob is 101 or so years old today
(give or take)
Many happy returns to her.
I dunno how to add a song here without getting too mushy, but she’s almost certainly a lady, and I’ll just go with the first song that popped into my head.
This rather short something was started back on April 27th of this year, and as you can tell, I didn’t get very far. Life sometimes intrudes, the now has arrived, and I think I’ll keep this one simple and just stop here. Sorry for appearing lazy, but I don’t want to burden Roob with some massive rambling something for her to have to format on her birthday. You’re just have to pick up the slack for me by leaving a load of comments and possibly engaging in discussion.
Have a lovely Towel Day, Dear Reader and… Have a Song… ❤
Dear Reader, I have been reading Animal Farm by George Orwell, as part of the newly formed Gloom Dog Book club…
*Oh, it’s a great book choice to start with considering current political climes, Clicky…*
There’s a paragraph early on in the story that grabbed my attention because it synced with a conversation that I had with Cade Fon Apollyon on Friday evening, regarding: the 1966 movie Arabesque starring Gregory Peck and Sophia Loren; some randomly posted bible verse in the comments of a YouTube video of disco song that was a hit in Japan in 1977; and an unexpected stream of swan, monkey, lion and elephant appearances to cross my path that day…
*Yeah I know. It’s a bit whacky, butt bear with me and I’ll try to explain…*
First things first, here is the paragraph from Animal Farm that grabbed my attention:
‘Napoleon took no interest in Snowball’s committees. He said that the education of the young was more important than anything that could be done for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached by a ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that the rest of the farm soon forgot their existence.’
*Okay I’m getting to it… /drags… Get arabesque to show, Dear Reader, Clicky…*
*No, the movie… /rolls eyes…*
*An outbreak of flu is used as an excuse in the opening scene and the missing cipher hidden in a sweetie wrapper, labelled 9…*
*The title of Wes’ talk is meant to be sarcastic. Actually a ‘pollock’ is also a fish… /thinks… Wait, this is syncing with the ‘lost joke’ in your recent post, Clicky…*
*Vans with ‘Cubitts’ on the side were very prominent in the movie… /drags…*
*Weird fucking movie, Clicky. Enjoyable but weird… /streams smoke… To think, we only watched it ‘cos of a Twitter convo Cade had with @monkeynutshell shortly beforehand…*
*/flicks ash… A trio from Frankfurt…*
*Some elephant tweets had crossed my twitterfeed that day…*
*Menemosyne is an aspect of the Planetary Animal Mother, Sophia, according to Gnostic teacher John Lamb Lash… /final drag… Goddess of Memory and mother of the 9 Muses…*
*An elephant would be an excellent witness to a crime, Clicky… /stubs butt…*
*Wes’ latest vid… /grins… Talk about the elephant in the room…*
Okay, I’m gonna have to assume, Dear Reader, that you followed the conversation above and employed your Clicky when cued, to perceive the synchronicities that I experienced…
… So, let’s go back to the paragraph from Animal Farm that grabbed my attention…
‘Nose of a Lion took no interest in Snowball’s committees. He said that the education of the young was more important than anything that could be done for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached by a ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that the rest of the farm soon forgot their existence.’
*Sorry for the spoiler, Clicky, butt those 9 puppies became Napoleon’s attack dogs, enforcing his rule over Animal Farm…*
*Yeah, it’s a lot to take in, Clicky…*
I’ve nearly finished reading Animal Farm, Dear Reader. It’s funny, George Orwell prefaced the story with ‘A Fairy-tale’, a pejorative term used to describe myths…
… Have a Song, Dear Reader… 😉
At last! Dear Reader, Underdog Anthology XIV: The Dark Ides of March has finally been published and is now available for purchase…
*Wrong book, Clicky, although finking about it… /lights up and smokes… I did write my anthology story over the Easter weekend…*
After writing ‘What Time Do You Finish?’ and following that up with ‘Christmas Death Wish’, I’d decided I would write a third installment in what is turning out to be a ‘Ronageddon’ series. If you haven’t read those stories yet, Dear Reader, please avail yourself of the links, below…
Synchronicity provided me with the title of the story you are about to read. That and Cade Fon Apollyon: I’d been mulling over story ideas for weeks, wracking my brains for an angle, when I hit upon an idea. I was very excited and headed straight to Twitter DMs to tell my best bud, but what I saw when I arrived was a poem, waiting. One that Cade had just written for me…
*/flicks ash… And on mum’s birthday too…*
Anyway, Dear Reader, I hope you enjoy ‘Walk I, With You’. See you at the bottom of the post for a Song 😉
Walk I, With You
By Roo B. Doo
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking umpteen…
God paused at the end of the first sentence on the first page of the battered book in her hand.
Disconcerted yet curious, God checked the cover of the book to make sure that the title and author’s name were correct before continuing to read on.
The Grim Reaper, skull nuzzled deep within the cowl of his robe, silently glided up to the bench closest to the duck pond in Victory Park. The ‘Do Not Use’ warning tape adorning it had deterred everyone from sitting there, but not Death. The Grim Reaper climbed up onto the bench and waited.
On a tree nearby, a coloured poster, too large for the display, had been tacked up. It simply depicted an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a middle-aged man, with tousled, blond hair, baggy eyes and jowly jawline. It was one of those pictures which are designed so that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BRO IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
God snapped the book shut and sighed.
I knew it! Somebody is monkeying about with Nineteen-Eighty-Four. Again!
She called for the fat, smug goose who administered the comings and going in the vast area known as the God Lobby.
Come with me, Brian. We need to make a site visit.
Spring was in the air and Victory Park was packed with people exercising in the pale April sunshine. Despite the brightness, the air remained frosty cool from both the transition of the seasons and the earliness of the hour. Death sat on a bench close to the duck pond and watched the hordes walking, running and star jumping in socially distanced formation. All their faces were dutifully masked.
Why are they torturing themselves? Death wondered as he watched a stream of hot breath pour through the sweaty face-mask of a passing jogger. They may as well be carrying a bundle of posies in front of their faces for all the protection those things give. Ah, the Black Death. Now that was a proper pandemic.
Death pulled a slim, black rectangle from the depths of his robe and flipped open the cover to reveal a bright, smooth screen decorated with coloured icons. Following the disastrous crash of the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Net (CCNN) that occurred on Halloween in 2020, God had resolved that an upgrade in tech was very much required, and the PsiPad was born. The Psion organiser, which had been gainfully employed by the Grim Reaper Service up until that point, was finally relegated to the Scrapheap of Obsolescence. There it languished alone; the hourglass having escaped the same fate by presciently forging a long-standing relationship with eggs.
Tapping the screen of the PsiPad with a bony digit, Death opened the PsiCalendar and studied his schedule for the day. He had arrived a little early for his next appointment but didn’t mind waiting. Having existed throughout all of time, Death was not opposed to occasionally killing the bastard.
A message flashed up on the screen which simply read ‘Molly’, and although the Grim Reaper shouldn’t be able to feel anything, Death experienced a sense of apprehension and anticipation prickle his bones.
Molly Darling was the pure soul child, whose poorly spelled letter to Santa had inadvertently instigated Armageddon and had caused Death nothing but trouble. Her letter, and her sincere Christmas wish contained within it, to end war, famine and pollution for the benefit of mankind, had fallen into the hands of Satan, and Old Scratch never wasted an opportunity for some devilment. Whether or not he’d had a hand in the CCNN crash that occurred at the same time was as yet unknown. Investigations into the matter were said to be ongoing.
On the whole, Death was against the making and granting of wishes of any kind; however, he’d been manoeuvred into making a wish of his own, with Molly as the beneficiary. He’d been presented with a choice; God always provides a choice: the removal of Molly Darling from life before she could send her letter, thus averting the end of the world, or rectify the matter in some other way. Death’s ethics forbade him from taking the first course of action, so he had plumped for some other way. Death’s wish had been granted by Father Christmas and subsequently Molly Darling had been born with the innate ability to correctly spell.
And that should have been the end of the matter, but for the unintended consequence rider that accompanies every wish granted, one that practically no one considers when making one. In this case, the very act of wishing had inextricably linked Molly to Death and attracted deaths to Molly.
Death scrolled back through the years on the PsiCalendar, counting the number of ‘Molly alerts’ that littered them. By definition, Death was only concerned with the dead, paying scant attention to the living around them. Now, courtesy of the newly issued bit of tremendous tech under his distal phalanges, Death was aware of just how many times his path and Molly’s had crossed during her short life so far. It was sporadic but not inconsiderable.
He found the date of the first Molly alert: 1st January 2013; the day Molly Darling was born. She had arrived in the early hours of the morning as Death was transitioning the soul of one Barry Munroe, a poor unfortunate struck by a speeding taxi, following a night of heavy drinking in celebration of the birth of the new year. The speeding taxi had been delivering a screaming woman to hospital, who was making a rapid delivery of her own on the back seat of the cab.
Death had given no consideration to the wailing bundle of new life at the time – why should he? – but in hindsight, the significance of Molly’s place of birth was not lost on Death, as it was in the back of a taxi on Halloween in 2020 that the savage deletion from existence of his good friends, War, Famine and Pestilence had occurred and Armageddon began. Death had changed Molly’s past to affect mankind’s future, yet he still retained the memory of that terrible night. For Death, Halloween 2020, both with and without that fateful taxi ride, existed at the same time, and within the same space.
It’s like Schrödinger’s Cab, Death mused deeply.
The PsiPad had also revealed to Death what lay behind a strange incident that coincided with one of the Molly Alerts, an incident that had baffled him until now. On 16th July 2016, Death had sat on this same bench, watching swaths of people roam across Victory Park. The insufferably hot weather had done little to deter the excited crowd from hunting virtual monsters augmented with their reality; it was the latest fashion. Instead of face-masks, mobile phones and electronic devices of all kinds covered peoples’ faces, which now caused Death to ponder upon the origin of the phrase ‘Track and Trace’.
On that day, Death had been awaiting the arrival of one Davy Keith, an otherwise healthy lad of 14, except for the undiagnosed hole in his heart and an all-consuming passion for collecting simulated Japanese monsters. Death watched passively as a pudgy toddler rushed along the path toward the bench upon which he sat, a tired looking woman pushing a stroller followed in the child’s wake. The little girl had all the grace of a drunken sailor and Death had assumed her wide milk-tooth grin and incoherent babble was aimed at the sun blazing high in the sky above Death’s head. That was until she tried to hug him.
A thought which had occurred to Death in that moment, on that day had haunted him ever since. Am I a monster?
Now Death knew that child had been Molly Darling and she had seen him. Following the aborted hug, and before her mother had whisked her away, Molly’s hand gestures had been her attempt to communicate with him: ‘Hello. My name is M-O-L-L-Y. I am deaf.’
It’s augmented reality, alright, Death decided with a sigh. He closed the cover on the PsiPad and returned it to the folds of his robe. Not long to wait now.
“Keep it up squad. Pump those arms,” the long-legged woman barked, as she strode purposefully among the regimented lines of exercisers performing push-ups beneath her gaze. She was a colossus of female physical perfection: full, round breasts, a washboard stomach and thighs so muscular they looked capable of pulverizing anyone’s head fortunate enough to be caught between them.
Lockdown had been very good for Wanda Warren. Before the arrival of the Rona and the restrictions that ensued, she’d struggled to attract many clients to her fledgling business: Fighting Fit. Whilst it was true that the small number of clients she did have were dedicated to not only her tough methods but also to Wanda herself, she was only a one woman band and the indoor gym in town, with its flashy machines, coffee shop and showers, had attracted many more members.
Now the gym was closed due to the Rona and the only place to exercise was outside. Competitive advantage had shifted firmly in Wanda’s favour, and Fighting Fit scooped up a substantial amount of new devotees. All males desperate to retain their fitness, blow off the excess energy built up from their now enforced sedentary lifestyle, and the outside possibility of being crushed between Wanda Warren’s dangerous thighs.
She caught sight of a familiar figure across the park. “And once you reach a hundred, give me one full circuit of the park. Now move it!” she ordered, before sprinting off in the direction of the duck pond.
“War,” the Grim Reaper replied.
Wanda pulled down her face-mask and sprawled on the bench next to Death. The difference in stature between the two cardinal colleagues was stark: whereas War was long and rangy, the diminutive Grim Reaper was small enough to reach into all the nooks and crannies.
War smiled radiantly. “I thought it was you.”
“I see you’re building up quite an army, dear lady.”
“Pfft. Early days yet.” War punched Death on the arm. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since…” Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall the last time they’d met.
Death turned to his beautiful colleague: in ancient Troy her face had launched a thousand ships; today it could launch a thousand more, all armed to the teeth with nuclear weapons. The last time he’d seen War, however, she’d been ripping Famine and Pestilence apart with carnal ferocity in the back of a London black taxi being driven by Old Scratch. “I am here waiting.”
“Oh, right. Not for any of my lot, I hope,” War inquired hesitantly.
“Possibly.” Death produced the PsiPad from his robes.
“Ooh nice kit. You got an upgrade?” War snatched the PsiPad from Death, opened the PsiCalendar and read the name of Death’s next appointment. “Really? No way!”
Death pulled the PsiPad from War’s grasp. “Yes and very much way.”
War stretched her arms out along the back of the bench and flicked at a stray end of warning tape. “Pesto’s played a fucking blinder with this Rona business, eh? It’s done my little enterprise no end of good.”
Death remained silent; he was far from convinced that Pestilence had any involvement in the disease that had swept the world in the last year. He’d certainly had to deal with a rise in suicidees and murder victims, but pretty much all the usual causes of death had remained relatively stable. Certainly all the deaths solely attributed to the Rona were vanishingly small. “Have you seen Pesto recently?”
“Not since…” Once again War’s furrowed her brow.
“How about Famine?” Death asked.
“AWOL,” War snorted. “Fuck knows where he is. Have you seen how fat these cunts are?”
“Good for business.”
“Indeed, business is booming.”
War stood up and pulled her face-mask back up over the cruel smirk that marred her lips; the first of the Fighting Fit squad would be coming through soon, and as their leader, it was imperative that Wanda uphold standards for the group. “I tell ya, the buggers love being told what to do. And the harsher you are, the more they fucking love it.”
“Until pushed too far.”
“I know! Brilliant, isn’t it? A win-win,” War laughed, briefly lowering her mask to suck air noisily up her quivering nostrils. “Can you smell the resentment and aggression simmering, Death? Itsa gonna be a spicy meat ball!”
“Lacking an olfactory system, War, I am unable to concur with your assessment,” Death replied drily. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
“Ha ha. You do that, short arse,” she smirked, affixing her mask back into place.
Wanda turned her attention to the first of her squad to appear, smacking his backside as he ran by. “Attaboy, Malc. Only a mile to go.” As each member passed they received the same backside slap from Wanda, but her words of encouragement changed with her assessment of their individual performance.
The last straggler stopped and stooped over with hands on knees, gasping for breath.
“What’s up, Jimbo? Don’t you have the heart for it today?” Wanda stood over the bent back of James ‘Jimbo’ Collins and gave Death a double thumbs up sign. “Here, have a sit down, old fella. Take five and then catch up with us once you get your breath back.”
She steered Jimbo toward the bench. Despite his apparent distress, he still managed to give her righteous backside a firm squeeze. Wanda rolled her eyes at Death and saluted before sprinting away to catch up with the rest of her Fighting Fit squad and finish the circuit of Victory Park.
Death ignored Jimbo’s ragged breathing and continued to wait.
Jocasta Darling luxuriated in the bright spring sunshine that came as a welcome relief after the unmitigated gloom of winter and lockdown. Not that Jocasta thought lockdown would be ending any time soon, not if the government’s broken promises over the past year were anything to go by. Still it was nice to get out for a walk, and despite the cold, the sunshine was glorious and lifted Jocasta’s spirits for the first time since the start of the year.
Her daughter Molly skipped alongside, occasionally pausing to smell the newly budding flowers or point out the birds traversing the powder blue sky. The pair made their way toward the pond at the heart of Victory Park, where Molly liked to serve breakfast to the ducks each morning. Jocasta just liked to see her daughter happy. Molly had been in and out of hospital since birth with one thing or another, and it broke Jocasta’s heart at what Molly had had to endure. And now her schooling had been disrupted, all because of the Rona, which appeared to ignore kids like a bad parent. Jocasta often wondered just exactly where the blessed government’s priorities actually lay.
Although the park was busy with exercisers, the pond area looked to be empty to Jocasta, except for a jogger sitting slumped over on a bench. As they drew closer, Molly eagerly grabbed the plastic bag from her mother’s hands and pulled out a crust of bread.
“Okay be careful. Don’t fall in,” Jocasta instructed her daughter.
Molly beamed at her mother, flashing an ‘OK’ sign, and made her way to the shady side of the pond where the ducks and swans were congregated, all the while ripping the crust into smaller, bite-sized pieces.
Jocasta wasn’t sure what the government’s guidelines were this week on the usefulness of benches, but this one was still clearly marked as out of bounds. She wondered if she should go and say something to the jogger: it really didn’t pay to attract the attentions of the Rona marshals that now patrolled the park. Even the slightest infraction was pounced upon, and she herself had been lectured several times on the essential need to wear a face-mask, despite both she and Molly holding medical exemptions due to her daughter’s deafness. At her age, Jocasta was finding it hard enough to master a new language, without being hampered by half of it being obscured by face coverings; sign language was so much more than just hand signs. But try telling that to the oiks in uniforms with quotas to fill. At least Jocasta assumed the marshals had quotas to fill; everything today appeared to be run on targets, quotas and guidelines.
Jocasta approached the bench. “Excuse me. Do you know if it’s okay to sit here?”
The jogger looked up at her, giving Jocasta a fixed stare whilst the fabric of his face-mask ballooned in and out with every whooping breath. “What?”
He thinks I’m a Karen, Jocasta thought, shocked at the aggression in his eyes. “No, I’m asking if you know whether we’re permitted to sit on the bench yet. It’s still taped off,” Jocasta explained. “I’d love a sit down too if it’s allowed.”
“Oh… I see,” the jogger replied, as he attempted to control his breathing. “Yes… yes, I think so… since the start of the week… I’m sure of it.”
Jocasta smiled at the jogger; her smile was as bright as the morning but much warmer. “That is good news. I wonder why the council haven’t removed the tape yet.”
“They’ll get… around to it… eventually.”
Still, the forbidding tape unnerved Jocasta and she hesitated to sit down. “I’m with my daughter Molly. She’s over there feeding the ducks.”
The jogger nodded without removing his gaze from the floor, as he focused on this laboured breathing.
“Are you feeling alright?” Jocasta asked anxiously.
“Fine… thank you,” the jogger replied. “Over-exertion… I’ll be okay…”
Jocasta didn’t think the man looked okay at all. Apart from his breathing, he was sweating profusely and massaging his left arm. From what she could see of his face and neck, the jogger was coloured puce, and Jocasta was certain that wasn’t a good sign for a man his age. “You know it might help if you remove your mask,” she tentatively suggested.
The jogger gave Jocasta another fixed stare, but the aggression had gone from his eyes. He reached up with his right hand and unhooked the mask from his ears. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he said, sucking in a great gulp of air.
Jocasta recognised her local MP immediately but didn’t acknowledge that she knew who James Collins was. Although she had never once voted for him, he’d been her representative in Parliament for what seemed like forever. He’d also been very vocal on the importance of lockdowns, mask-wearing and, now, mandatory vaccinations. That was something else Jocasta disagreed with him over, but if James Collins was using the bench, then she felt sure it was okay for her to use it too.
Jocasta felt an icy blast at her back as she lowered herself onto the bench seat, at the farthest end from where her Member of Parliament sat. “Gosh, that feels very cold,” she said with a shiver. She felt the cold settle into her but, strangely, it did not feel unpleasant.
Fishing into her handbag, she pulled out a covered ashtray, which she placed on the arm rest of the bench, before lighting a cigarette. She dragged deeply and let out a satisfying whoosh of smoke, blowing it in the direction away from the bench. Jocasta had really missed not being able to sit down and smoke outside, and felt particularly aggrieved at the ban on sitting in public. For the longest time, outside had been the only place the public were allowed to smoke, and now she was expected to stand up to do it.
“I say… Could you put that out?” James Collins asked gruffly and gripped his left arm tighter. “Having trouble breathing… here.”
The sudden icy blast Jocasta had felt at sitting down now migrated to her eyes. She turned both barrels on her MP.
“No,” she stated, flatly.
“That’s… not very courteous…”
Jocasta took another puff of her cigarette and tapped the loose ash into the the ashtray. Again, she blew the smoke away from the bench. “We are appropriately socially distanced, are we not? I am not blowing smoke in your direction and there is no law against smoking outside.”
James Collins started coughing and waving his hand limply in front of his nose. Fat droplets of sweat poured from his grimacing face. “Can’t you see I’m… in trouble?”
“Yes you are.” Jocasta wasn’t sure what had come over her, but she felt very certain that the words coming out of her mouth were being said with the confidence of another’s voice. “You, James Collins MP, are a sell out. Not only are you a liar, a lecher and a rubber-stamp for oppression, but you’ve caused dis-ease, and I am sorry to tell you, but you will be going to hell.”
Jocasta looked over at Molly busily feeding the noisy ducks and waved. Molly waved back, tilting her head to one side with a curious look on her face. ‘Having fun?’ Jocasta signed to her daughter.
Molly nodded vigorously and signed back, ‘There’s a goose and he’s eating all the bread. Come and see.’
Jocasta chipped the end of her cigarette off in the ashtray and returned both to her handbag. She stood up, squared her shoulders, giving her MP a final withering stare. “Good-bye.”
She walked away, back along to the path to join Molly, leaving James Collins with a look of abject terror on this face.
“Hello, Jimbo,” Death said, pulling the PsiPad from the folds of his robe.
“So this is Hell?” Jimbo Collins asked, as Death guided him into the vaulted expanse of the God Lobby and placed him at the end of a queue of souls. Like Jimbo, they were all dressed in white and wore face-masks. “Looks like Heaven to me.”
“For some it is both,” Death replied. “Just follow the white line. You’ll get there eventually.”
The queue shuffled forwards, taking Jimbo along with it.
Death took the express elevator up to the Office. From there he could look across the vastness of the God Lobby, and see just how long the queue he’d placed Jimbo Collins in was. It snaked back and forth, up and down and crossed itself in numerous places.
Looks like a commercial for toilet paper, does it not, Big D? All that’s missing is a great, big, playful puppy.
Death turned to the voice of God whispering over his shoulder and bowed. “It’s certainly the most appropriate place to deposit little shits, Ma’am.”
God tittered; she did appreciate Death’s sense of humour.
“I take it you were there,” Death said.
How did you know?
“Molly’s ‘Come and see’ was a dead giveaway. That and Brian’s disguise. He put no effort into it at all.”
On the reception desk Brian, who was forever eavesdropping, ruffled his feathers and hissed.
Yes, we were there. The situation looks grim.
“Indeed it does.”
God moved away from the balcony overlooking the God Lobby. Death glided along behind at a respectful distance.
“Ma’am, I’m worried about the disappearance of Famine and Pestilence. I can’t find any trace of them since…”
Halloween? Yes, it is concerning.
“War’s nose is never wrong. Without Famine and Pesto to provide balance, I fear for the future of humanity.”
Then you must find them, Big D.
“Me?” Death felt a sense of déjà vu; he’d been in this position before.
Of course. You find everyone. Eventually.
God smiled at Death and her smile was a bright as an April morning.
*You fink I should feature Famine in the next one, Clicky? …/stubs butt… Maybe…*
So, please do consider buying a copy of Underdog Anthology XIV. It has 13 top notch stories and 2 poems to delight and terrify you…
Have a Song, Dear Reader… ❤
Happy 1st of September, Dear Reader 😀
*Better than a pinch-punch, Clicky… /lights up and smokes…*
… Here is a tweet I saw yesterday that really made me laugh…
… And here is a brand new missive from Cade Fon Apollyon for us all to enjoy. So let’s get to it 😉
Eating crow has its advantages. Yes, it can be degrading, it can be depressing, it can be confusing, and no matter what you say or do, you are going to look and feel like a prick 24/7. But if it means that you are going to be exactly where you need to be, exactly when you need to be there? Fuck it. It’s worth it.
^LOLA DUTRONIC “Everybody Loves You When You’re Dead” featuring Stephanie B.^
Definition and pivot points. If the arms or legs are more or less “board like” with no definition, you need to keep that in mind. Lack of curves or lines where there maybe should be a curve or line, but also keep in mind that everyone is different. With respect to pivot points, could be more than just a blemish. Especially on the upper parts of the forearm, thumbs, upper arms just above the elbow(s), inner thighs, tops of the thighs. Could be dark brown, red, crimson or purple “old” pimples, recurring pimples, or even what appears to be white spots (lichenification) that are not warts nor moles nor scars resulting from more traditional injuries like contusions, scrapes, cuts or some kind of blunt force/impact injury which does not break the skin. Also patches or specific areas of the skin where the hair follicles appear to be clogged, inflamed and/or pitted (Keratosis pilaris, folliculitis, strawberry legs, etc.).
The “red knuckles” are likely to be a giveaway, but only initially. As things progress, the knuckles will lose some of their redness, and there may be an unexplained thickening of the skin in certain areas of the hand. Be mindful of nail growth also. Any slowing or speeding up of the “normal” growth rate, and also any dots, dashes or lines forming on the nails themselves. Especially those which are “in line with” the normal growth direction or any wavy or arcing types of line perpendicular to nail growth direction. When straight lines appear on the nails, compare to any parallel lines on the underside of the epidermis of the fingers; proximal phalanx, and sometimes middle phalanxes. Dots and dashes on the nails, check the skin around the distal phalanxes, and especially the undersides for any “waterlogged” appearing skin or peeling skin, small tears or bleeding that have no explanation. Important to “let the cuticles run”. Don’t push them back, don’t scrape them off, let them serve their purpose(s) in assisting the guiding of nail growth. And yes, they can pull and yes it can be painful, but let them catch up and find themselves within the architecture of the hands and epidermis.
The lunulae/half moons, may intensify, fade grow, shrink, and even disappear completely. Dunno what to tell you about that other than they too are part of the architecture and may be indicative that something is changing within a certain spectrum. All eight of my fingers were crushed in a metal garage door when I was pretty young so the pathology of my own nails may vary somewhat from that of others, but changes in the lunulae appears to be a more or less common thing.
To continue on with the current information dumpfest, the thenar webspace between the index finger and thumb may also be a good place to look for indications as to what is tugging in which direction(s). May check for any bumps or knots under the skin, and these may be either hard or soft (potentially ganglion cysts of varying age?). Also be aware of knots or hard spots in the muscles of the forearm as well as knots in the triceps of the upper arm. This will lead us up to any knots in the trapezius, and especially (initially) those parts above the shoulder which connect to the neck. And finally around to the scapulae, and especially any lack of definition and/or limited range of movement of these bones plus any lack of definition of the latissimus dorsi (especially under the arm).
Again, in my specific case I am an asthmatic, so my case may be a bit unique in that I likely breathe a bit different from most. Be mindful of the olecranal skin (yelbow) and also the skin around and behind the knee, and also any discolored forking or finger-like formations which give the appearance of meandering down the backs of the thighs and perhaps even the calves (also potententially under the chin and down the neck). Keep in mind that these are potentially unlike stretchmarks in appearance, and can resemble meandering divergent streams or lightning. I do have to wonder if stretches, rends/tears or perhaps even aggregate “injuries” may be a seeding mechanism for a different eventuality. We don’t always notice things in a timely manner, and we also have a potential for distancing ourselves from or even neglecting things over time.
Which reminds me to note: be aware of any scar-like formations which cannot be associated with an injury or similar. Could be an aggregation due to time. Many lifestyle changes are likely to occur from infancy to adulthood and all points in between, which means that ergonomical, environmental and kinesiological considerations will need to be addressed. Oh, and goosebumps or gooseflesh (piloerection). Especially those which are not associated with any sort of secondary type of sensation nor do they appear to be driven by obvious motivators. I can only wonder if it is possible for a region to get stuck in a feedback loop long after any original stimulus has long since past.
Echoes? Regional echoes within organic tissues? Surely not. Does make me wonder tho what types of environmentals could be affecting the data processing. Clothing? Cloth types? Other types of topical considerations such as chemicals, sunlight, etc.? The presence or absence of hair? I mean, does the body know that hair should be in a certain place, but the body becomes confused when the hair that should be there…is missing? Or maybe even that the hair that is there does not statistically equate with the hair which should be there? We’re talking about hair on human beings, not static discharge aerials on the trailing edges of aircraft wings.
Still, it is a very intriguing notion to think that the body actually keeps historical data on what should be where. Logistical and accounting data. “I sent this amount of keratin to pore 436 from August to February…there should be a hair there, but I’m getting reports that there is no hair there. Why is there no hair there? Where’d all that keratin go?”
Where would all of that transactional data even be stored? More than that, what would be the protocols involved with retrieving such data.
Q: Does the body shut down systems which it perceives as unnecessary?
A: ? ? ?
What about systems which it cannot perceive? Which begs the question, do systems shut themselves down when they perceive themselves as no longer perceived? Yes, a lot of this is going to be no-brainer types of stuff. But that’s not what I am thinking about here. Gotta be some answers to be found in these “foreign limb” and/or “phantom limb/phantom pain” dynamics. Lastly, the buttocks and the dynamics which have changed its daily placement(s) over the past few centuries, and especially in The West. Think not only chairs and more sedentary types of postures, but also think lymphatic system.
^Infected Mushroom – Kazabubu HQ / HD^
NOTE: Sorry about the long wall of text for you to sort Roob. About all I can do is offer a tune.
^Of Monsters and Men – King And Lionheart (Official Video)^
Two weeks ago, there was this…
The Cruel Monkey Experiments ONPRC Didn’t Want You to See
then yesterday there was this…
then today, I see this…
It would appear that the primate car wash accident actually happened on 13 August, and the PETA stuff appears to have been released on 17 August, but it also appears that the Oregon Primate Research Center and Oregon Health & Science University maybe aren’t the same things.
Ah…ONPRC was established by the NIH in 1961, but ONPRC and OHSU didn’t become affiliated until 1998. I wonder how that happened. How does a state-run university get its hooks into a federally funded something? Looks like the Oregon Health and Sciences University was cited in February of 2020 for letting some Prairie Voles die of thirst/dehydration.
Q: Can you trust a health organization who treats living things in bad/poor ways?
A: Just wondering where their heads are with respect to care. Wondering within that particular healthcare chain, who decides when “poor health” ends, and “good healthcare” begins.
ONPRC letting those monkeys die in a high-pressure sponge bath ain’t very reassuring either.
^Smoke Fairies – Living With Ghosts (Official Video)^
After reading that monkey stuff and pig bit, it occurs to me that “robotics” has been a thing for a very long time. Long before robots were a thing. Nannies, butlers, maids, stewards, servants, slaves and more or less “single use” types of employees of all kinds. Lets not forget slaves. Maybe even one’s own family members. Tools. They perform specific tasks for one’s own purposes. They look and behave certain ways. They are programmed to give certain responses in specific situations. They are subject to wrath when they do not perform as they are supposed to. If that pole dancer don’t jiggle her ass just right and to my satisfaction, I ain’t gonna be sticking my hard-earned currency in her panties.
Q: Is my heart “a robot” to me?
Before you get too dismissive, if my heart starts to malfunction to the point of failure, I may just decide to rip that one out and get a new one because I live in a time where this is possible. And the surgeons and medical staff who do it? Yeah, they better perform their jobs flawlessly and as-advertised. All their equipment better be tip-top as well.
^Noisia – Lilith’s Club^
One can dig pretty deep on that less obvious robotics stuff if one so chooses. Just be warned that you’re likely to waft in and out of stereotypes and stereotyping along the way. Certain people don’t act in the ways you expect them to. Or maybe even they do act in the way(s) you expect them to, but they are only doing so because of your own presence. Once you leave, they’ll get out of character and go back to normal. Normal normal. Not the normal they think you think is normal.
Q: What is normal?
A: Dunno. It's pretty much none of my business really.
You cannot see into my head to see what it is that is driving my thinking here, but what I am primarily thinking about is “Lee” from John Steinbeck’s novel East of Eden.
If you’ve not read the book I’m not gonna spoil it for you, but let’s just say that there are layers to this Chinese character named Lee. Stunning layers. Layers which, in the case of a young mind like mine, can really put perspective on why certain living things sometimes behave in the way(s) that they do. Now, I said I wasn’t going to spoil it, but I was just checking out the footnotes of the Wikipedia article for East of Eden, and it would appear that someone has written a thesis on this Lee character. Perhaps you can bookmark the thesis, exercise some personal restraint, then read the thesis after you read East of Eden.
But whatever is fine
I will add tho that I’ve skimmed the first part of the abstract from the thesis which states that Lee is one of the most overlooked characters in the novel. That may be, and I could see how he could be overlooked, but I can tell you that the character Lee has mystified and amazed the living shit out of me for well over 30 years. Probably the most important character in the book, and I’d be willing to bet I’m not alone in that regard. But, that’s just my opinion. Don’t let my opinion(s) sway yours. Read the book, meet the Hamilton and Trask families on your own terms, and have your own journey.
^Bomb The Bass – Megablast [HD]^
Say! Wasn’t “Trask” the last name of the big man in the movie Working Girl?
*I love that film, Clicky…*
Strange way to connect.
Strange way to make a connection.
^Jain – Makeba (Official Video)^
Some are able to take advantage of free-will, others…maybe not so much. Kinda weird how things shake out in this universal hoedown to where some are able to do more or less whatever they please, up to and including disallowing others from doing as they please. Maybe there’s some logic in there tho. Maybe there’s some lessons to learn. Maybe the ones who learn these lessons can teach them to others. Only the good stuff of course. Don’t tell all the gory details. Clean it up nice and shiny so its appealing and attracts (and hooks) lots of fishies.
Wait…did we just go off the rails? Did we miss the point? Woah…did we just learn something about learning about what we’ve learned?!?
^LTJ – I Dont Want This Groove To Ever Ends^
Regarding “fail videos”...
VR Helmet “fails” are stupid 100% of the time.
Hoverboard “fails” are stupid 100% of the time.
Snow-skiing/snowboarding “fails” are stupid 100% of the time.
People leapfrogging access barriers “fails” are stupid 100% of the time.
Attempting to cut your own bangs “fails” are stupid 100% of the time.
Alpacas spitting “fails” are stupid 100% of the time.
Contrived “fails” are stupid 100% of the time*
*unless the orchestrated fail fails
Cycles are on my mind, and I’m seeing some cycles in some of the fail compilation vids I watch on YouTube. Yes, I watch fail compilation vids on YouTube. Lots of them. Recently been seeing a lot of recycling of old vids, and tons of vids which are obviously fake/orchestrated. I guess all these new YouTube channels are desperate for content. As such, anything remotely passable will do. And I’m not really complaining as much about the content as am interested in what kind of shift this is likely to cause within the YouTube organization itself.
Q: Can I manufacture a “fail video” where are of the elements of this video are entirely orchestrated and completely fictional, and then upload this video as a “fail video” or “watch people die inside” or “people being stupid” or similar?
The assumption is that the events depicted are authentic candid or even guarded/quasi-guarded moments which have been opportunely captured/recorded on video or film, and the parties involved have consented to make these visual recordings publicly available for whatever reason(s). Nonfiction. Maybe even biographical or historical in some senses, but authentic. Keep in mind that money is almost assuredly changing hands, which means that all fucking kinds of interests may feel the need to get involved at some point. I mean, if you are acting this stuff out, and you are getting paid, that means you are a professional actor. Professional filmmaker. Professional photographer or videographer. There are other processional interests in the world who may look unkindly upon your making money of what they consider to be their trade, and they may further look unkindly upon YouTube for more or less encouraging you to do it. And if you are making money off your vids but those who appear in them are not getting a cut? Yeesh. I hope you put some of that money back.
^Chemical Brothers – Song to the Siren^
Why would I even be thinking about shit like this, let alone on this “fail” topic?
Yeah, this UFO “Disclosure Movement” nonsense. Gotta be able to tell what is real, and what is fake, and gotta be aware of who is making these determinations for you. Prolly also important to be aware of who could “fake” things, and what systems might be in place which would prohibit them from doing so. Remember, if someone tells you that a something is authentic (especially if an “expert” tells you) and you don’t believe, you are going to be castigated. You are going to be classified. Non-believer at best, irrational idiot at worst.
lolz…kinda funny to think of a UFO investigator or UFO enthusiast calling people irrational just because they now have the governments of the world and other powerful institutions on their side.
d i G R E s s
^The Cube Guys – ‘Baba O’Riley’ (UK Club Mix)^
Gonna be a lot of money moving through these various interests. Center for the Study of Extraterrestrial Intelligence, SETI, National Science Foundation, US Defense Department, NATO, United Nations, NASA, ESA, Space-X, Blue Origin, NSA, CIA, FBI, INTERPOL, all that and more are gonna be involved somewhere along the line. That means money. Question is, how can you justify the expense if any of the evidence supporting these claims is…fake. What the fuck is “fake” anyway? I mean like, outside of orgasms, what is “fake”.
^Pan-Pot – Weltlinie^
This appeared for me over the weekend.
Where I found it, Pellagra was associated with…Schizophrenia? Hrm. I admit I did not read all the details on the blog that associated Pellagra with Schizophrenia, but seeing as how I’ve been pondering foreign limb syndromes, alien hand syndrome, phantom pain and body integrity dysphoria, I wonder if there is a possibility that some malady creates a need to achieve a state/circumstance unlike the present state and/or circumstance.
EX: You are experiencing a malady, you’d rather not be/you wanna be cured.
I guess one could argue that a certain trauma could cause some sort of psychosis or mental break. But speaking from my own experiences, there are potentially some strange pharmacological wheels turning there. They’re nested way the fuck in the background, but they are there. And regarding the connection between Pellagra and Schizophrenia I’m thinking less here about wishful thinking, fantasy and escapism, and thinking more in terms of fight or flight (or fawn). Maybe even post-traumatic stress disorder. I see no mention of Schizophrenia in the Wikipedia article on Pellagra. Still, did see this…
Nonpolar amino acids. Photo-sensitivity. Dermatitis. Dementia. Poverty gets a mention under Pellagra, corn also gets a mention, but no mention of Vertigo under either Pellagra nor Hartnup Disease.
“Y’know that ringing in your ears? That ‘eeeeeeeeee’? That’s the sound of the ear cells dying, like their swan song. Once it’s gone you’ll never hear that frequency again. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Movie = Children Of Men
Ear cells. Wait…ear cells? What in the fuck are “ear cells”? There’s hairs in there, fluids, bones, membranes, but “ear cells”? What in the fuck is she talking about?!?
^Remco Beekwilder – Public Resistance [EMERALD002]^
May seem like a stretch, but I’m seeing a whispy connection via race and locale/geographic location. Not saying that it’s necessarily anything sinister, but it sure as shit feels weird. Could just be me tho. I’ve thought a lot about fats and oils from the 1500s forward, and how they have moved as people have moved over the past 500 years. Have thought some about vegetables too, but I personally have thought more about animal based oils and fats seeing as how protein-based foods are likely to be somewhat erratic in the diet, whereas carbohydrates probably not as erratic in the diet (for some anyway).
Think: poverty. Or even famine, s’il vous plaît. Pestilence too. After all, crop circle makers aren’t the only things in this world capable of destroying various agricultural crops for their own personal gain(s).
^Max Bett – Mad Clinic^
Might wanna also take into consideration that the 365/366 types of diets have only become a thing in the last 50-75 years or so, and especially in the last 20-30 years. Reliable refrigerated shipping and especially air-cargo have radically changed not only where things come from, but also their availability. “Seasonal” is pretty much not a thing anymore, and most can get whatever they want, whenever they want. Depending on where one lives of course. And your own personal financial situation. Which brings me to the point of derivatives. Doesn’t matter where you get your proteins, vitamins, minerals, fatty acids and/or “essential oils”, what matters is that you get them.
^Nicolas Jaar – Mi Mujer ( Lyrics In The Description Section)^
Whilst we are on the topic of pollutants, you may want to consider that some entities have no interest whatsoever in solving the problem(s) of pollution. Some pollutants are like obscure little calling cards which allow certain entities to have access to metrics which very few have the resources to track. They’ve acquired a type of sight which not many have. It’s almost mystical. You really think that they are going to willingly give that kind of vision up after working so hard to obtain it? And hey, whilst you are blinding the big powers by removing small data from their big machines, why don’t you locate all Yogis and Yoginis and pull their legs off, so that they can no longer sit in the lotus position and get all enlightened and see stuff no one else can see.
^Psyk – Night Currents (Neel Remix) [NON033]^
Everyone wants to see.
Maybe even smell.
Maybe all that.
^Hybrid – Break My Soul (Live at Audioriver)^
^# 14 – Jonny Greenwood – Convergence^
*Yeah, I know you started your post yesterday with a white rabbit, Clicky… /stubs butt… I wouldn’t worry about it…*