Monday, August 27, 2007
Religion as Rebellion: God is the new Hot Topic
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Friday, August 24, 2007
Getting Political: Fundamentalists Make Me Glad I Don't Believe in All This God Bullshit
If you didn't catch the three part CNN special God's Warriors by Christiane Amanpour, you probably missed out on the most intelligent, enlightening, and inadvertently terrifying piece of journalism that has come out of the mainstream media in the last eight years. An investigation into the fundamentalist sects of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, the report detailed extremist groups and their unique takes on the religious crusade.
Whenever I learn something new, I feel like I have to celebrate my fresh wisdom with discourse. In honor of this, I will be posting a series of blag entries to detail my feelings about religion, both moderate and radical, in its relation to a variety of topics. This is hardly a grand undertaking, since I can talk out my ass with the pros, but I hope it will prove at least marginally interesting to all three of my readers. How did you even find this site? It's not like I'm making it easy for you.
As my first post on the topic, I feel like you should know where I'm coming from. I'm an Atheist, but certainly don't fancy these new fangled neo-atheists, or as I like to call them, Evangelical Atheists, these mother fuckers that can't stomach the idea that someone may disagree with them. Richard Dawkins can go fuck himself. Whats up with all this Meme shit anyway? And this whole "Coming Out" campaign? You mean to tell me that instead of holding my own convictions private, I should publicly proclaim my beliefs and berate those that don't agree with me? I didn't realize that being an Atheist was synonymous with being a dick. Also, if I see you wearing these shirts around town, I swear to God I will be disappointed in you.
Protip: The A stands for "Asshole"
On to my origins. My own personal experiences with religion are neither heartbreaking, nor heartwarming, nor all that exciting. When I was young my parents brought me to church for a few boring hours, I would drink my Juice brand Juice Box, and scamper between the pews to get to the bathroom in time. Not all that special. When I got home, I would tear off my stuffy clothes and dive right into Sonic the Hedgehog accompanied by delicious chicken teriyaki. I remember one day, we just stopped going to church (the same time as my parents divorce) and I was pleased as the dickens to have Sunday mornings empty and free for my own dalliances. Riding bikes around the block, surfing at the beach, playing Mechwarrior 2 until Kerensky came home. Those were good times. Although I still held a belief in God, I was not at all active in his pursuit. I knew the ten commandments in the same way I know all 150 Pokemon, less as dogma and more as trivia. As I grew older, the basic idea of a God seemed natural. It was there since I was born, and I assumed it always has been. Although me and my family were officially Presbyterian, nobody really went to church and I only read the bible between BattleTech and whatever bullshit E-Z Reader crap my parents were trying to force me into. No, I don't give a shit about Spot, nor do I give a shit about Timmy winning the fucking baseball game. I would much rather be reading over the trials of Frodo and the Fellowship as they journeyed to destroy the one ring. The precocious reader that I was, my family eventually capitulated to the fact that I really don't need to be stifled by the basics. While most kids were watching Thomas the Tank Engine and Barney the Homosexual Dinosaur, I was engaged by Jedi, the starship Enterprise, and Babylon 5.
Even so, my belief in a God never waned, in fact it was strengthened by Tolkien's none so subtle allegory. Then my mother decided it was time to go back to church. Now I could actually digest the sermon, and was struck with a nausea familiar to practitioners of seppuku. None of what this guy was saying felt right. And I don't mean to imply that through my unequivocal powers of deductive reasoning that I, as an 8 year old, managed to sort through this god bullshit. Rather, I was just unnerved by what he was saying. I need Jesus to feel loved? I need a personal connection with God to save my self from the evil's of this world? What the hell is up with all this eternal damnation stuff? Wait, everyone I know will be forever forsaken by God simply because they do not believe in this crock of shit you're spouting? I call bullshit. Being subjected to the preacher corrupted my rather benign view of God. God had changed from a good natured omnipotence with voyeuristic tendencies to a vindictive prick. But I still believed. I guess I just had it wrong. This guy knows all about this God stuff, it's like his job or something.
I stopped going to church when I learned to say "no". I naively misunderstood the implications of such an all-knowing asshole, thinking of him as just a big-ole-doody head. Then I became a teenager.
It all seemed to click for me in 2002. Some political speech was on Fox, with some guy yammering on about how God is on our side so on and so forth. But something caught my ear. He was saying that God wanted us to kill terrorists. I'm no theologian, but I distinctly remember there being something about not killing in the bible. I think it was on a big fucking stone tablet given to Moses by a burning bush. And I don't think it said, "don't kill unless..." I think it said don't kill. I think it said: Thou shalt not kill. Actually, it said: You shall not murder. But whatever, the concept seems simple, don't fucking kill. Easy enough. Yet this man makes a statement that hey, we should fucking kill.
I am noticing a contradiction.
Epiphany. Humans are fallible. God does not own a typewriter. Therefore, the Bible was written by Humans interpreting the messages of self-proclaimed prophets, who were also Human. So what we have here is not some divine doctrine from OUTER SPAAAAACE!!!! It is the voice of men that thought they could make the world better by saying hey, don't be a douche. Others said: Why? They said: ...isn't it obvious? Others said: No. They said: Ummm...an invisible man will kick the shit out of you if you don't.
And the world was saved.
Or was it?
BUM BUM BAH!
Tune in next time for another edition of: Wow what the hell is wrong with fundamentalists?
Next Episode: Religion as Rebellion, The Recruitment of the Young
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Over the Brink Pt. 3 "We are Fucked"
Yeah, I finally finished it. Longest 10 pages I've ever written. Writers block is a bitch. I realized that a straight up Lovecraft interpretation isn't my style, and has been done better by other people. So I made my own universe and put my own spin on things.
Does it blow? Is it great? I'd like your opinion. Anonymous posting is on (and always will be) so feel free to call me a genius. Or that I should go suck a dick. Either way, I'm just glad to be fucking done.
Please at least read the sections in italics. I believe they are of the highest quality, written from the perspective of the protagonist.
The rest, you can take it or leave it.
I hope you like text:
November 25th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
The bound volume of vulgarity that Mr. Eire has been so adamant about appears to be little more than an appeasement to the violent mind. Though the later half of the book is unreadable, hidden behind inscrutable text and symbols written in no tongue of the Anglo-Saxon, Mr. Eire's handwriting is quite legible, and I can only assume that his translations are accurate. Though why he would sully his mind with such barbarities is a mystery to me, indulgences in the occult are definitely an attributing factor in his mind's erosion. The first translated section seems to instruct on the basic tenants of this black bible. It is as follows:
Darkness is not the presence of 'dark', but an absence of light. The same is true with life, for death is merely the absence of life. And as a candle will illuminate a sunless day, so too can life shine upon the dead. For a man can light the wick of a candle, and in doing so can he ignite the embers of existence. But a candle cannot be lit without a match, a tool to his enlightenment. The match of life is that of Him. Deep within the wells of eternity He lies, waiting with the dead, breathing the ethers of their ruin. And in Him life is stored, flowing anew into this world upon His summoning. However, even the most volatile of alchemy requires a spark, a signal, a star in the night of His world, to guide Him on His way. And He will bequeath the champion with His own life, imbuing the Morning Star with all His powers, and the fountain of life within. And as the stars, the Conduit will roam our Space with absolute impunity, free of all constraints concocted in the minds of mortal men. She will be bound by no steel shackles, equal even with the heavens, blessed with irrevocable immortality, forged by His will. And now is the time when Life will fill the lungs of every serf, echoing the sounds of His every utterance, bound in gratitude to Her generosity. For She is immovable to all but Him. Rejoice! All suffering will end and She will be its undoing!
On these pages, the symbol I found previously carved into the watch is inscribed, an orb with rays leading out of it, like a doodle of the sun drawn by a child. It also seems apparent that Ashley believes himself to be this 'Conduit', this 'Morning Star', although the text clearly describes 'the champion' as being female. It is hardly a case of gender confusion, but Ashley's undoubtedly distorted psyche can easily ignore any inconsistencies through that tainted filter of a mind. For the mental hygiene of the staff and myself, and having found no strong leads in its contents, I have ordered the book to be thrown into the incinerator. It is for the best. It has already taken one mind, and that is enough for me.
November 26th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I am perplexed at where he found the paint to do so, but there was an elaborate design sloshed on the walls of Mr. Eire's room, a series of geometries I am familiar with from the pages of that tainted tome. Mr. Eire was found by the guards rubbing the lines out with his forehead. He was screaming deliriously, "Tear it down! Wash it off! Cleanse this place! I will not be taken in the night!" That mans troubles are only beginning. Who knows how long his body will last under such psychiatric turmoil. He has become almost a skeleton of his former self, and his refusal to sleep is only making it worse. We have decided to apply drugs, for his benefit. Tomorrow, myself and a medical team will walk through that doorway, and administer enough tranquilizers to keep him down for at least a few days. Perhaps then he will be eased of his mind, for at least a short while.
…
The room is cold. So cold. And only getting colder. Sparks trickling off the synapses are the only fire still stoking the dying furnace of the heart. The rare chills of its beats pump ice, clogging veins with slush and slurry, blood so thick it strangles the bones. The air is so fine that it slips between teeth, starving a chest tight. Whatever feelings are left in the extremities, I can't feel them. Whatever noises my ears are hearing, I can't hear them. Whatever life I was supposed to be leading…
And right when you get to that point of epiphany, when it's all okay because you just don't care anymore, something isn't going to let you. It's going to be a few white coats lead by an elderly gentleman carrying the type of needle that makes a child cringe. That fine pointed steel proboscis invades your body, pumping all its squamous juices until you just want to scratch your skin off, to kill the itch. But you can't lift a finger. Liquid hands are holding you down, and you're not getting up. You can try. I tried. I think I said something, something to the effect of don't do this you don't know what you are doing blargh. And then your skin unravels, and your body is bound by a more ethereal epidermis. Your eyes aren't looking at anything in particular, but they are seeing everything. And that rotten old face of a man expands until it’s a whole sky of wrinkles and folds and moles and every little thing. And you are going to look right at it until it becomes a whole spectacle of planets and comets and asteroids, all hurdling at incomprehensible speeds through that Sargasso Sea of infinity. And when you finally look to the horizon, you will see exactly what you expected. It is just as black, and empty, and devoid of hope as you ever imagined. But in the middle of it all, waiting just for you, will be an island of light; A little star still gleaming in a night that devours your vision. This star is going to get bigger. It is going to burn brighter.
And you are going to become afraid.
…
November 28th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
All is quiet since the previous pacification of Mr. Ashley Eire. Though I have had a sleepless night filled with terrors I'd rather not dwell on, my mind is eased by at least this brief respite from days of chaos. I am filled with a hope for tomorrow, and what revelations it may bring. I meet the day willingly. May the sun shine on us all.
November 29th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I have alerted security to potential delinquent personnel. A few of the nurses did not checkout of their night shift, and their families have not seen them at home. The last thing we need is a shortage of staff.
December 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Now some of the interned have gone missing, completely gone from their rooms. My mind is wracked by the thought of these deviants roaming free amongst the masses. Security has been dispatched to find them, though there has been no further progress on their capture.
December 12th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We are getting in a new batch of personnel today, rotating in for the holidays. I will remain as the overseer of this institution. Considering the drama we find ourselves in now, what with the disappearances and Mr. Eire staring comatose into space, it would be a lapse of judgment to leave this place unsupervised.
December 17th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Mr. Eire has awoken from his trance, and has been taken off the IV. He seems far more stable than his previous condition. But when I approached him in person, he broke out in a fit of laughter. When queried on this behavior, he simply responded, "Nothing. It's funny. You'll see." Although I do not know if his mind has healed in any way, he is much more subdued. Now the security staff may have an easier time with him.
December 18th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Bizarre. Upon the day of Ashley's awakening, strange symbols have appeared on the walls and in the hallways of the various wards, dripping wet, red as blood. This cannot be his doing, for he was locked away, watched by the medical team for signs of complications with the drugs. I can only assume some troublemakers are loose in the building, or perhaps a mischievous return of the escapees. Though I have served with pride this great institution, its monolithic size is proving problematic. I have requested the police assist in its security.
December 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
What tragedy does befall us. Several members of the assisting police force have been found dead in the incinerator room, dismembered and flayed in a most grotesque way. The safety of myself and the staff has been compromised, and a large police battalion is now stationed here for out protection. They will also be investigating the murder of the officers. It is good to have a dogged and reliable regiment of law enforcement in a facility apparently overrun by incompetence. In that same room, the book I had explicitly ordered to destroy, a book that is nothing but a contaminant to the human spirit, was found in perfect bound condition. If we were not in such a state of panic, a harsh reprimand would be in store for whoever displayed such blatant disregard for my authority. But that is a matter for a more trivial time. I await the synopsis of the police on our current predicament. On a gentler note, in my discussion with Ashley, he informed me that tomorrow is his birthday. 28 years, how nice it would be to be so young again, and how tragic it is that youth suffers his fate.
…
Murals of the macabre are painted on the walls, awash in the blood of the innocent and apathetic. Intestines are strung up like tinsel, in celebration of this holiday's holocaust. Bodies ornament the floor and ceiling, bound there by their own flesh, dripping life's lubricant. Eyes and mouths are wide open screaming their demise. Heads are propped up like road signs, denoting the dark directions of the hallways and corridors. Imps crawl about in cop's uniforms, spraying hot death from their hijacked human tools of destruction. And I'm wading knee deep through dead stares and red coats, dyed with the color of their untimely destruction.
I can't help but be a little proud, like a parent. My offspring may be spawned from a womb of pure terror, but dreary me, they grow up so fast.
She says congratulations on becoming a mom.
"Oh yeah, I'm so glad to have a subconscious that is essentially hell's vagina."
She chuckles, and tells me that she always did like my sense of humor. A comic mind tends to be the only type that can withstand staring directly into the unblinking eye of infinity. That kind of mentality can step back from the daunting first person perspective, sparing me the unfathomable torment of direct contact.
"It feels like my head is on fire."
She says that's normal. I should be thankful my brain didn't implode.
"The book wasn't destroyed."
She says she knows. She knew it could only be undone for a brief time. She just wanted to give me the time I needed to prepare. And I used that time to run away to an insane asylum.
"It seemed like a good idea."
She tells me I'll never escape it. It's too late for me. My skull will one day lie within the throne of the fallen, with hers, and hundreds of others who have committed the folly of curiosity. A shrine to hubris. I'm doomed. There is no escaping it. But the trap has been set. If I play my part just right, there will only be one more generation of Conduits. The sky will empty, and the twinkling hopes of the damned will be extinguished. His stars will no longer burn. And we will all be free.
I stop somewhere between the avenue of no return and the road to annihilation.
"I'll do it. Might as well make lemonade out of an army of hope eating monsters. What do I do first?"
Use the sword to close the breach.
"The sword is hundreds of miles away sealed in a glass container. How the hell am I supposed to get it?"
You just brought demons from another dimension across time and space to a mental institution in New York; I think you can manage a few hundred measly corporeal miles.
"Tell me the incantation."
Yank an incisor out of someone's head, and carve this in a reverse spiral around your navel.
"This is going to hurt isn't it?"
Like you wouldn't believe…
…
December 23rd, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We have been held up in the south east section for the last few days. We are running out of ammo, and people. There is no clear front to fight these things. They appear from walls and shadows, pouncing on the unsuspected, taking their spark of life for their own. Some have even morphed into these creatures, their humanity stolen by some unseen hand. Oh God what monsters they are. All manner of beast, depictions of which I have seen drawn between the texts of that damned book. But such illustrations do not do justice the sheer horrors these things are. Tendrils and eyes grasping and searching, drilling into men's hearts and devouring their insides. Wings and claws, arms so numerous they become little more than a squirming mass. They be neither mammalian nor reptilian, a devious amalgamation of features to greater expedite our destruction. Some seem human, with equal proportions of arms and legs, but have bat like heads, and glowing orbs as eyes that seek out the darkness. They turn our weapons against us, sawing through a man, firing off guns into our midst, making every use of what they have to end our existence. We must constantly be on the move, as the contortions of the building have taken on a life of their own, conspiring against us. The corner we reside in is barricaded, and we must fight off any taint that intrudes on our territory. They can be destroyed. Some are susceptible to our lead volleys, while others need specific circumstances to be dispatched. One such monster withstood our barrage of bullets, but disintegrated upon being drenched with water. Another exploded when fire was brought to bear. They are a menagerie or tormentors that have us beset on all sides. We sent out a call for help prior to their complete outbreak, and pray that the cavalry will come equipped with the most advanced weapons of war. But now time is against us. There! I can hear them, railing against the walls, coming in on us! The barrier will only hold so long. Tentacles are peeking through, their puckered feelers testing our defenses. The guards are adept with their rifles, and they stand at the ready, but no human cunning can defeat monsters with otherworldly logic. Oh God! Here they come! A flood of fiends to wash away our lives! God help me! God help-
…
The wet thickness dripping off the end of the ultimate implement of annihilation was almost as heavy as the blade itself. The eldritch runes inscribed on the neck hummed merrily, sucking the edge dry. The hilt shook with the giddiness of a schoolgirl. I am beginning to question the wisdom of wielding a weapon that is both sentient and insatiable.
She says I shouldn't worry. Human meat isn't its forte. Just keep cutting glyphs into the bullets. I'll need every one.
"These creepy crawlies aren't as resilient as those abominations in the catacombs. Just shank 'em or shoot 'em. They wither and die like weeds."
She says the summoned are only as potent as the summoner. Those were the devils of her mind, and these are the children of mine.
"So my seed are weak sauce. Thanks for the boost in confidence."
She says she never managed to bring a fully formed Z'thly into our plane of being. That is an accomplishment. Take that as a sign of strength, to allow such a thing into life.
"Or a sign of weakness that I couldn't hold it back."
However you want it. But its destruction will seal the tear. You cannot leave unless you desire an open doorway to nothingness siphoning the life of this world.
"Fuck that. I just want something other than eternal damnation."
Then drop your socks and grab your gun. You remember the plan?
"Empty the revolver into its six mouths, each bullet a different letter in the spell of sedition. Its tendrils will seek to crush me, but the hexes on my body will sear its skin, as wards are apt to do. I then dive into its writhing mass, plunging the blade of apogee into its eye. All the while, I have to fend off the fiends and mind bending freaks of my own creation, for the succulent taste of my soul is like gravy to them. I think I got it."
Also, the Z'thly has merged with the building, an extension of its own body. As the cyclopean thing crumbles, so does the structure. Both will be absorbed by the brink…
"So get the hell out quick or spend an eternity with an omnipotent incarnation of lust, my body becoming a perverse play thing for it to toy with. Quasi-dimensional rape is not how I see this night ending. I'll learn to run."
You can't run from something that transcends movement. You'll have to trust me to lead you out.
"So follow the tunnel? Follow the light?"
I'll be the light in your darkness.
"Hey, they didn't name you Providence for nothing."
They named me Providence because white people are assholes.
"No argument from me."
Ashley?
"Yes Providence."
I love you.
"I sure hope so…"
…
They were gathered around the black cathedral, eyes fixed on the house of the cursed, mesmerized by its unnatural beauty. Spires and pillars and abbeys and arcades stood in testament to its foundation, a black core ravenous and alive. They watched the monolith as sheep watch the slaughterhouse, an unknown avenue whose doors lead to destruction. And they all winced as a blinding spear punctured its buttresses, piercing its center, trailing off into space. A vortex opened the sky, pulling back the peel of reality, a hole draining the minds of the onlookers. The gibbering mass was a puddle of supercilious bipeds, arrogance and importance replaced by emptiness and insanity, wailing incessantly. Brick and mortar fell into the air, dropping off the face of the earth, leaving nothing but a dark stain on the soil. There stood silent an entity who had looked directly into the face of oblivion and lived. He looks himself over, and over the people and what they have been reduced to. They are lucky. They no longer have the cognitive capability to understand their suffering. He will know it, every inch of it, every curve of it. But it will not last. For he will find an heir to his folly, and there will be redemption, for even the tallest buildings are founded on a single stone, and the fiercest fires are lit by a single spark. And if that stone were to crumble, or that spark is snuffed out…
…He will find another. Yes, He will find another.
Does it blow? Is it great? I'd like your opinion. Anonymous posting is on (and always will be) so feel free to call me a genius. Or that I should go suck a dick. Either way, I'm just glad to be fucking done.
Please at least read the sections in italics. I believe they are of the highest quality, written from the perspective of the protagonist.
The rest, you can take it or leave it.
I hope you like text:
November 25th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
The bound volume of vulgarity that Mr. Eire has been so adamant about appears to be little more than an appeasement to the violent mind. Though the later half of the book is unreadable, hidden behind inscrutable text and symbols written in no tongue of the Anglo-Saxon, Mr. Eire's handwriting is quite legible, and I can only assume that his translations are accurate. Though why he would sully his mind with such barbarities is a mystery to me, indulgences in the occult are definitely an attributing factor in his mind's erosion. The first translated section seems to instruct on the basic tenants of this black bible. It is as follows:
Darkness is not the presence of 'dark', but an absence of light. The same is true with life, for death is merely the absence of life. And as a candle will illuminate a sunless day, so too can life shine upon the dead. For a man can light the wick of a candle, and in doing so can he ignite the embers of existence. But a candle cannot be lit without a match, a tool to his enlightenment. The match of life is that of Him. Deep within the wells of eternity He lies, waiting with the dead, breathing the ethers of their ruin. And in Him life is stored, flowing anew into this world upon His summoning. However, even the most volatile of alchemy requires a spark, a signal, a star in the night of His world, to guide Him on His way. And He will bequeath the champion with His own life, imbuing the Morning Star with all His powers, and the fountain of life within. And as the stars, the Conduit will roam our Space with absolute impunity, free of all constraints concocted in the minds of mortal men. She will be bound by no steel shackles, equal even with the heavens, blessed with irrevocable immortality, forged by His will. And now is the time when Life will fill the lungs of every serf, echoing the sounds of His every utterance, bound in gratitude to Her generosity. For She is immovable to all but Him. Rejoice! All suffering will end and She will be its undoing!
On these pages, the symbol I found previously carved into the watch is inscribed, an orb with rays leading out of it, like a doodle of the sun drawn by a child. It also seems apparent that Ashley believes himself to be this 'Conduit', this 'Morning Star', although the text clearly describes 'the champion' as being female. It is hardly a case of gender confusion, but Ashley's undoubtedly distorted psyche can easily ignore any inconsistencies through that tainted filter of a mind. For the mental hygiene of the staff and myself, and having found no strong leads in its contents, I have ordered the book to be thrown into the incinerator. It is for the best. It has already taken one mind, and that is enough for me.
November 26th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I am perplexed at where he found the paint to do so, but there was an elaborate design sloshed on the walls of Mr. Eire's room, a series of geometries I am familiar with from the pages of that tainted tome. Mr. Eire was found by the guards rubbing the lines out with his forehead. He was screaming deliriously, "Tear it down! Wash it off! Cleanse this place! I will not be taken in the night!" That mans troubles are only beginning. Who knows how long his body will last under such psychiatric turmoil. He has become almost a skeleton of his former self, and his refusal to sleep is only making it worse. We have decided to apply drugs, for his benefit. Tomorrow, myself and a medical team will walk through that doorway, and administer enough tranquilizers to keep him down for at least a few days. Perhaps then he will be eased of his mind, for at least a short while.
…
The room is cold. So cold. And only getting colder. Sparks trickling off the synapses are the only fire still stoking the dying furnace of the heart. The rare chills of its beats pump ice, clogging veins with slush and slurry, blood so thick it strangles the bones. The air is so fine that it slips between teeth, starving a chest tight. Whatever feelings are left in the extremities, I can't feel them. Whatever noises my ears are hearing, I can't hear them. Whatever life I was supposed to be leading…
And right when you get to that point of epiphany, when it's all okay because you just don't care anymore, something isn't going to let you. It's going to be a few white coats lead by an elderly gentleman carrying the type of needle that makes a child cringe. That fine pointed steel proboscis invades your body, pumping all its squamous juices until you just want to scratch your skin off, to kill the itch. But you can't lift a finger. Liquid hands are holding you down, and you're not getting up. You can try. I tried. I think I said something, something to the effect of don't do this you don't know what you are doing blargh. And then your skin unravels, and your body is bound by a more ethereal epidermis. Your eyes aren't looking at anything in particular, but they are seeing everything. And that rotten old face of a man expands until it’s a whole sky of wrinkles and folds and moles and every little thing. And you are going to look right at it until it becomes a whole spectacle of planets and comets and asteroids, all hurdling at incomprehensible speeds through that Sargasso Sea of infinity. And when you finally look to the horizon, you will see exactly what you expected. It is just as black, and empty, and devoid of hope as you ever imagined. But in the middle of it all, waiting just for you, will be an island of light; A little star still gleaming in a night that devours your vision. This star is going to get bigger. It is going to burn brighter.
And you are going to become afraid.
…
November 28th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
All is quiet since the previous pacification of Mr. Ashley Eire. Though I have had a sleepless night filled with terrors I'd rather not dwell on, my mind is eased by at least this brief respite from days of chaos. I am filled with a hope for tomorrow, and what revelations it may bring. I meet the day willingly. May the sun shine on us all.
November 29th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I have alerted security to potential delinquent personnel. A few of the nurses did not checkout of their night shift, and their families have not seen them at home. The last thing we need is a shortage of staff.
December 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Now some of the interned have gone missing, completely gone from their rooms. My mind is wracked by the thought of these deviants roaming free amongst the masses. Security has been dispatched to find them, though there has been no further progress on their capture.
December 12th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We are getting in a new batch of personnel today, rotating in for the holidays. I will remain as the overseer of this institution. Considering the drama we find ourselves in now, what with the disappearances and Mr. Eire staring comatose into space, it would be a lapse of judgment to leave this place unsupervised.
December 17th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Mr. Eire has awoken from his trance, and has been taken off the IV. He seems far more stable than his previous condition. But when I approached him in person, he broke out in a fit of laughter. When queried on this behavior, he simply responded, "Nothing. It's funny. You'll see." Although I do not know if his mind has healed in any way, he is much more subdued. Now the security staff may have an easier time with him.
December 18th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Bizarre. Upon the day of Ashley's awakening, strange symbols have appeared on the walls and in the hallways of the various wards, dripping wet, red as blood. This cannot be his doing, for he was locked away, watched by the medical team for signs of complications with the drugs. I can only assume some troublemakers are loose in the building, or perhaps a mischievous return of the escapees. Though I have served with pride this great institution, its monolithic size is proving problematic. I have requested the police assist in its security.
December 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
What tragedy does befall us. Several members of the assisting police force have been found dead in the incinerator room, dismembered and flayed in a most grotesque way. The safety of myself and the staff has been compromised, and a large police battalion is now stationed here for out protection. They will also be investigating the murder of the officers. It is good to have a dogged and reliable regiment of law enforcement in a facility apparently overrun by incompetence. In that same room, the book I had explicitly ordered to destroy, a book that is nothing but a contaminant to the human spirit, was found in perfect bound condition. If we were not in such a state of panic, a harsh reprimand would be in store for whoever displayed such blatant disregard for my authority. But that is a matter for a more trivial time. I await the synopsis of the police on our current predicament. On a gentler note, in my discussion with Ashley, he informed me that tomorrow is his birthday. 28 years, how nice it would be to be so young again, and how tragic it is that youth suffers his fate.
…
Murals of the macabre are painted on the walls, awash in the blood of the innocent and apathetic. Intestines are strung up like tinsel, in celebration of this holiday's holocaust. Bodies ornament the floor and ceiling, bound there by their own flesh, dripping life's lubricant. Eyes and mouths are wide open screaming their demise. Heads are propped up like road signs, denoting the dark directions of the hallways and corridors. Imps crawl about in cop's uniforms, spraying hot death from their hijacked human tools of destruction. And I'm wading knee deep through dead stares and red coats, dyed with the color of their untimely destruction.
I can't help but be a little proud, like a parent. My offspring may be spawned from a womb of pure terror, but dreary me, they grow up so fast.
She says congratulations on becoming a mom.
"Oh yeah, I'm so glad to have a subconscious that is essentially hell's vagina."
She chuckles, and tells me that she always did like my sense of humor. A comic mind tends to be the only type that can withstand staring directly into the unblinking eye of infinity. That kind of mentality can step back from the daunting first person perspective, sparing me the unfathomable torment of direct contact.
"It feels like my head is on fire."
She says that's normal. I should be thankful my brain didn't implode.
"The book wasn't destroyed."
She says she knows. She knew it could only be undone for a brief time. She just wanted to give me the time I needed to prepare. And I used that time to run away to an insane asylum.
"It seemed like a good idea."
She tells me I'll never escape it. It's too late for me. My skull will one day lie within the throne of the fallen, with hers, and hundreds of others who have committed the folly of curiosity. A shrine to hubris. I'm doomed. There is no escaping it. But the trap has been set. If I play my part just right, there will only be one more generation of Conduits. The sky will empty, and the twinkling hopes of the damned will be extinguished. His stars will no longer burn. And we will all be free.
I stop somewhere between the avenue of no return and the road to annihilation.
"I'll do it. Might as well make lemonade out of an army of hope eating monsters. What do I do first?"
Use the sword to close the breach.
"The sword is hundreds of miles away sealed in a glass container. How the hell am I supposed to get it?"
You just brought demons from another dimension across time and space to a mental institution in New York; I think you can manage a few hundred measly corporeal miles.
"Tell me the incantation."
Yank an incisor out of someone's head, and carve this in a reverse spiral around your navel.
"This is going to hurt isn't it?"
Like you wouldn't believe…
…
December 23rd, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We have been held up in the south east section for the last few days. We are running out of ammo, and people. There is no clear front to fight these things. They appear from walls and shadows, pouncing on the unsuspected, taking their spark of life for their own. Some have even morphed into these creatures, their humanity stolen by some unseen hand. Oh God what monsters they are. All manner of beast, depictions of which I have seen drawn between the texts of that damned book. But such illustrations do not do justice the sheer horrors these things are. Tendrils and eyes grasping and searching, drilling into men's hearts and devouring their insides. Wings and claws, arms so numerous they become little more than a squirming mass. They be neither mammalian nor reptilian, a devious amalgamation of features to greater expedite our destruction. Some seem human, with equal proportions of arms and legs, but have bat like heads, and glowing orbs as eyes that seek out the darkness. They turn our weapons against us, sawing through a man, firing off guns into our midst, making every use of what they have to end our existence. We must constantly be on the move, as the contortions of the building have taken on a life of their own, conspiring against us. The corner we reside in is barricaded, and we must fight off any taint that intrudes on our territory. They can be destroyed. Some are susceptible to our lead volleys, while others need specific circumstances to be dispatched. One such monster withstood our barrage of bullets, but disintegrated upon being drenched with water. Another exploded when fire was brought to bear. They are a menagerie or tormentors that have us beset on all sides. We sent out a call for help prior to their complete outbreak, and pray that the cavalry will come equipped with the most advanced weapons of war. But now time is against us. There! I can hear them, railing against the walls, coming in on us! The barrier will only hold so long. Tentacles are peeking through, their puckered feelers testing our defenses. The guards are adept with their rifles, and they stand at the ready, but no human cunning can defeat monsters with otherworldly logic. Oh God! Here they come! A flood of fiends to wash away our lives! God help me! God help-
…
The wet thickness dripping off the end of the ultimate implement of annihilation was almost as heavy as the blade itself. The eldritch runes inscribed on the neck hummed merrily, sucking the edge dry. The hilt shook with the giddiness of a schoolgirl. I am beginning to question the wisdom of wielding a weapon that is both sentient and insatiable.
She says I shouldn't worry. Human meat isn't its forte. Just keep cutting glyphs into the bullets. I'll need every one.
"These creepy crawlies aren't as resilient as those abominations in the catacombs. Just shank 'em or shoot 'em. They wither and die like weeds."
She says the summoned are only as potent as the summoner. Those were the devils of her mind, and these are the children of mine.
"So my seed are weak sauce. Thanks for the boost in confidence."
She says she never managed to bring a fully formed Z'thly into our plane of being. That is an accomplishment. Take that as a sign of strength, to allow such a thing into life.
"Or a sign of weakness that I couldn't hold it back."
However you want it. But its destruction will seal the tear. You cannot leave unless you desire an open doorway to nothingness siphoning the life of this world.
"Fuck that. I just want something other than eternal damnation."
Then drop your socks and grab your gun. You remember the plan?
"Empty the revolver into its six mouths, each bullet a different letter in the spell of sedition. Its tendrils will seek to crush me, but the hexes on my body will sear its skin, as wards are apt to do. I then dive into its writhing mass, plunging the blade of apogee into its eye. All the while, I have to fend off the fiends and mind bending freaks of my own creation, for the succulent taste of my soul is like gravy to them. I think I got it."
Also, the Z'thly has merged with the building, an extension of its own body. As the cyclopean thing crumbles, so does the structure. Both will be absorbed by the brink…
"So get the hell out quick or spend an eternity with an omnipotent incarnation of lust, my body becoming a perverse play thing for it to toy with. Quasi-dimensional rape is not how I see this night ending. I'll learn to run."
You can't run from something that transcends movement. You'll have to trust me to lead you out.
"So follow the tunnel? Follow the light?"
I'll be the light in your darkness.
"Hey, they didn't name you Providence for nothing."
They named me Providence because white people are assholes.
"No argument from me."
Ashley?
"Yes Providence."
I love you.
"I sure hope so…"
…
They were gathered around the black cathedral, eyes fixed on the house of the cursed, mesmerized by its unnatural beauty. Spires and pillars and abbeys and arcades stood in testament to its foundation, a black core ravenous and alive. They watched the monolith as sheep watch the slaughterhouse, an unknown avenue whose doors lead to destruction. And they all winced as a blinding spear punctured its buttresses, piercing its center, trailing off into space. A vortex opened the sky, pulling back the peel of reality, a hole draining the minds of the onlookers. The gibbering mass was a puddle of supercilious bipeds, arrogance and importance replaced by emptiness and insanity, wailing incessantly. Brick and mortar fell into the air, dropping off the face of the earth, leaving nothing but a dark stain on the soil. There stood silent an entity who had looked directly into the face of oblivion and lived. He looks himself over, and over the people and what they have been reduced to. They are lucky. They no longer have the cognitive capability to understand their suffering. He will know it, every inch of it, every curve of it. But it will not last. For he will find an heir to his folly, and there will be redemption, for even the tallest buildings are founded on a single stone, and the fiercest fires are lit by a single spark. And if that stone were to crumble, or that spark is snuffed out…
…He will find another. Yes, He will find another.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
I'm back from being gone.
Maybe I should have left a note on the fridge. Life is more important than you internet, get used to it. Particularly when those things in life have tits. Girl tits. And a leaked copy of Bioshock. That's a one two punch. Expect words tomorrow. Lots of words.
There's no earthly way of knowing / Which direction we are going / There's no knowing where we're rowing / Or which way the river's flowing / Is it raining? / Is it snowing? / Is a hurricane a-blowing? / Not a speck of light is showing / So the danger must be growing / Are the fires of hell a-glowing? / Is the grisly reaper mowing? / Yes, the danger must be growing / 'Cause the rowers keep on rowing / And they're certainly not showing / Any signs that they are slowing.
There's no earthly way of knowing / Which direction we are going / There's no knowing where we're rowing / Or which way the river's flowing / Is it raining? / Is it snowing? / Is a hurricane a-blowing? / Not a speck of light is showing / So the danger must be growing / Are the fires of hell a-glowing? / Is the grisly reaper mowing? / Yes, the danger must be growing / 'Cause the rowers keep on rowing / And they're certainly not showing / Any signs that they are slowing.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Killer Badgers Have a Taste for Terrorists
I shit you not.
http://www.smh.com.au/news/unusual-tales/badly-badgered-in-basra/2007/07/13/1183833734411.html
http://www.metro.co.uk/news/article.html?in_article_id=56932&in_page_id=34
http://www.metro.co.uk/news/article.html?in_article_id=56932&in_page_id=34
Seriously though, if there were a Badger Battalion, I would sign my rights away so fast...
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Shit Time Doesn't Care About
Most people reflect on treasured moments as a way to polish their childhood, to freshen an experience that has long since dulled. People want to remember those good times, because good times are so few and far between. This is not what I'm doing. If anything, I'm polishing a toilet seat, just so I can shit on it all over again.
When I feel uninspired, I partake of the creations of others, to feed and fire my ambition. But sometimes, a stray google search will lead me to one of these filthy memories. This is what I am doing today.
Joss "I wrote Firefly do you remember Firefly?" Whedon has not always been the beloved darling of the nerd world. Yes, he wrote Buffy. Yes, he is all kinds of amazing. But there are two things that caught my eye, both of which fill me with equal amounts of mirth and disdain.
First, Joss Whedon wrote "Alien: Resurrection".
Wow that was a shitty movie. I remember going to the theatre, giddy and excited, thrilled at the idea that Ripley did not really die in that dry ass long film Alien 3, or at least there was some reasonable plot twist for bringing her back. And for the first few minutes, I was embraced by satisfaction. This is actually pretty cool. Ripley is now a badass human alien hybrid. And although the corporation I love to hate is now nothing but plot hole, this whole 'science gone mad' premise is functionally tolerable. I won't be seeing any pulse rifles, but at least I got that darling of the 90s, Winona Ryder. But then, absolutely nothing of interest happens. Its Alien 3 all over again. The characters seem like they could be interesting, and Joss obviously got some inspiration for Firefly from this project. But there is no point of interesting characters in a movie where dialogue is intentionally sparse, to build suspense. But no suspense is built. And as much as I would love to blame it on shoddy directing, I can't. I can see right through the screen to the writers room, and Joss clearly had no idea how to connect the end and the beginning. They just run away from the Aliens. Of course, that is what they are supposed to be doing, but all the situations that are supposed to make the escape compelling fail. And on a personal note (BIG SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE SNAPE FUCKS DUMBLEDORE), how the hell did Winona Ryder get up to the door to open it for Ripley? I get that she is an Android, I know that that is how she survived getting shot and falling to her certain death. But there is no other way to get to the door. The entire reason they were stuck in the situation they were in is because it was the only fucking way to the door, and then Winona just teleports to the other fucking side? That is some bullshit. (SPOILERS OVER I LOVE YOU MOM)
So that sucks mah bawls. The coolest part about the whole thing is that Sigourney hit a three pointer over the shoulder, which is actually pretty fucking cool. In fact that is super goddamn awesome. Rent the thing just for that. No, fuck that shit, you can watch it right here.
When I feel uninspired, I partake of the creations of others, to feed and fire my ambition. But sometimes, a stray google search will lead me to one of these filthy memories. This is what I am doing today.
Joss "I wrote Firefly do you remember Firefly?" Whedon has not always been the beloved darling of the nerd world. Yes, he wrote Buffy. Yes, he is all kinds of amazing. But there are two things that caught my eye, both of which fill me with equal amounts of mirth and disdain.
First, Joss Whedon wrote "Alien: Resurrection".
Wow that was a shitty movie. I remember going to the theatre, giddy and excited, thrilled at the idea that Ripley did not really die in that dry ass long film Alien 3, or at least there was some reasonable plot twist for bringing her back. And for the first few minutes, I was embraced by satisfaction. This is actually pretty cool. Ripley is now a badass human alien hybrid. And although the corporation I love to hate is now nothing but plot hole, this whole 'science gone mad' premise is functionally tolerable. I won't be seeing any pulse rifles, but at least I got that darling of the 90s, Winona Ryder. But then, absolutely nothing of interest happens. Its Alien 3 all over again. The characters seem like they could be interesting, and Joss obviously got some inspiration for Firefly from this project. But there is no point of interesting characters in a movie where dialogue is intentionally sparse, to build suspense. But no suspense is built. And as much as I would love to blame it on shoddy directing, I can't. I can see right through the screen to the writers room, and Joss clearly had no idea how to connect the end and the beginning. They just run away from the Aliens. Of course, that is what they are supposed to be doing, but all the situations that are supposed to make the escape compelling fail. And on a personal note (BIG SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE SNAPE FUCKS DUMBLEDORE), how the hell did Winona Ryder get up to the door to open it for Ripley? I get that she is an Android, I know that that is how she survived getting shot and falling to her certain death. But there is no other way to get to the door. The entire reason they were stuck in the situation they were in is because it was the only fucking way to the door, and then Winona just teleports to the other fucking side? That is some bullshit. (SPOILERS OVER I LOVE YOU MOM)
So that sucks mah bawls. The coolest part about the whole thing is that Sigourney hit a three pointer over the shoulder, which is actually pretty fucking cool. In fact that is super goddamn awesome. Rent the thing just for that. No, fuck that shit, you can watch it right here.
Kickass.
Now, the second piece of shame is Titan A.E. As a pubescent mother fucker, I thought the movie was pretty badass. I mean, you had spaceships, you had space, you had spaceships in space, and you had generic 90s pop-punk electro metal, and it was animated. But then I saw it again at a buddies house on a rainy afternoon too cold to go to the beach but too dry to spin in circles crying "FREEDOM!" mid-frolic. He was reticent to play me at Halo because he knew his ass was mine, but I didn't want to play Virtua Fighter because there are only so many times I can get the shit beat out of me by a tiny chinese girl while retaining my heterosexuality. So we watched an old dvd instead. That DVD was Titan A.E. And wow, that is a piece of crap. Like Aliens, it starts out with a world of potential, only to be obliterated by some assholes with a laser cannon (world of potential! I am the Pun master!). It just starts with such adrenaline. All hell breaking loose, poorly rendered CGI blue things attacking Earth, millions of innocents being blown into the vacuum of the cosmos. But then we go to an interstellar truck stop, and Matt Damon dicks around with some hot asian chick played by Drew Barrymore. You know what, back up. Lets see that again: "...hot asian chick played by Drew Barrymore". That's all you need to know about this movie. Sucks mah bawls.
I mean the only thing that could save it would be something awesome. Really awesome. So awesome that nothing could ever compare to how awesome it is. So awesome that it would validate the use of this picture:
Something like Jeneane Garofalo as a giant space kangaroo. Oh wait...
Also, beware Matt Damon's Space Peener.
Joss Whedon must have been thinking of Firefly when he wrote this and Alien, because the whole 'wacky hijinks in space' seems to coincide with the premise.
This was also Don Bluth's last animated film. I would be sad about that, but he probably would've just kept making Fieval spin-offs that became increasingly more perverse until he just goes all out with, "Fieval Goes to Japan and Totally Rapes This Chick". Actually, its kind of tragic that we will never get to see Fieval's sexual assaults in the Land of the Rising Sun. Don Bluth, I will miss you.
All in all, Titan isn't total suckage. Plus, Jeneane Garofalo as Giant Space Kangaroo. Fuck yeah.
Join us some other time when I un-flush the turds of the past for our mutual discontent. See ya then kids!
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
A Belated Memoriam: Weekly World News
The print edition of the worlds most ironic check-out line magazine is dead. Long may it live.
This happened like, a few weeks ago, but I was busy living life etc. etc. At least we will still have the web edition.
http://www.weeklyworldnews.com/
May Bat Boy rest in peace knowing his wacky hijinks have brought comfort to millions of gullible old people.
http://weeklyworldnews.ytmnd.com/
Also: Lycanthrope is the "PC" label for Werewolf. Humies like me and, presumably, you, can't use that term, as it is derogatory.
However, there is some controversy over the use of the term "Werewolf" in some Howl songs, as groups such as WWA, or Werewolfs With Attitude, use it frequently. Some critics see it as reclaiming the word, while others believe it perpetuates the stereotype of Moon Kin and denigrates the Lycanthrope population as a whole.
Sarah Silverman has also taken flak for using the word in a comedy routine: "I dated a Werewolf once, but I broke up with him because he wanted me to cut the crap out of his fur. I know! How inconsiderate of him. I mean, how I am supposed to eat his ass without shit clumps to hold on to?"
Oh Sarah! You make me want to vomit out my urethra! Delightful!
This happened like, a few weeks ago, but I was busy living life etc. etc. At least we will still have the web edition.
http://www.weeklyworldnews.com/
May Bat Boy rest in peace knowing his wacky hijinks have brought comfort to millions of gullible old people.
http://weeklyworldnews.ytmnd.com/
Also: Lycanthrope is the "PC" label for Werewolf. Humies like me and, presumably, you, can't use that term, as it is derogatory.
However, there is some controversy over the use of the term "Werewolf" in some Howl songs, as groups such as WWA, or Werewolfs With Attitude, use it frequently. Some critics see it as reclaiming the word, while others believe it perpetuates the stereotype of Moon Kin and denigrates the Lycanthrope population as a whole.
Sarah Silverman has also taken flak for using the word in a comedy routine: "I dated a Werewolf once, but I broke up with him because he wanted me to cut the crap out of his fur. I know! How inconsiderate of him. I mean, how I am supposed to eat his ass without shit clumps to hold on to?"
Oh Sarah! You make me want to vomit out my urethra! Delightful!
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