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Yahweh and the furious 5 [01 May 2004|03:23pm]

[ mood | Fortified Oblexity ]

It was about 8 o'clock, when he finished his living symbyosis of himself. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed,"now i can expiriance new things through my inventions!" With a breath to animate it all, Santa Rose to his Jolly feet, "Ho! Ho! Ho!, the three kings of the Peng Empire!"... Dot in and out,...
Something is wrong i thought,he thought, "i can't remember who i am!" he said losing grip on his centurfuge. i said losing grip on my chenturfuge. we said losing grip on his centurfuge.

Final Mission: The Forever Mission

Build Humpty all over again.


I was sad to see him go.. but never again.

His eyes transfixed on that latent structure pouring forth from his lazy eye. The nexus was green, and a thought had sprung forth out of the dim petal line, crossed referanced he was right. I was right, John Moon was right. It was all up to Franky Figs.

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The Evil Doer [24 Apr 2004|11:30am]
Reod had been working for the cops for some time or so they thought. To understand their relationship, you would have to know how it started. Reod before he was Dr. Live was a police officer himself. He at the bright young age of 18 fresh out of high school, had decided that he would like to enforce the wonderful peace. He went to law school, and did all the necessary volunteering and training until he was the fittest strongest trainey he could be. He eventually landed a position in a precinct out of state, and thus had to move. On his first patrol mission in his new home of new york, he and his partner were cruising in a patrol car on a nondescript evening. As they drove they heard what sounded like a mouse squeeking in the trunk, or perhaps the back wheel, they werent sure. After brief words they decided to stop and check it out. When reod got out of the car and approached the trunk he realized that they were actually screams coming from blocks away, he decided to investigate but first told his partner. As they walked, after a momentary silence they heard a volley of screams coming from an alleyway just past the building they were in front of. Keep in mind that Reod although kind at heart, just didnt have the stomach for the job. He was super intelligent, and always had control of what people percieved of him, but truly inside he was a very afraid person no matter how little he showed it. I guess its possible we all hold back some sum of fear and are actors. But when you vomit, well thats another story. And thats just what Reod did as they turned the corner. Reod being a good christian was saving his hot dog for his first and only bun. He altogether feared the opposite sex when in anything but a family or profesional environment. So when he saw the savage sight of 8 men having there way with this poor woman at the end of the alley, what else could he do but be weaked knee'd and collapse to the piss reeking alley. He splurted and splashed out a juicy helping of spaggetti, orange juice and a whole wheat bread roll. The spaggeti sauce was a secret family recipe with all kinds of veggies chopped into little chunks to disguise the savory taste of the just the right spices used. Now it was on his shoe and dripping in gelatinous strands from his nose. His partner on the other hand was so lucky to recieve the but end of a two by four that had been sent swinging around the corner. It wasnt that the cop was a cop, he just happened to be the 3rd random person to come around the corner, and the 3rd random person to recieve a square style indent in there head, or in the case of victim number one, his shoulder. Of course, once the mob learned he was a cop, one person drew a knife and chucked that too. He must of been in the circus if not for his carnie like appearance, than for the deadly knife throwing ability that landed the almost paper thin blade in the leg of Reods partner. He fell back and drew his gun, as this was going on reods instincts kicked in, or metaphorically speaking, put on his spiked shitkickers with asp venom tipped spikes and proceeded to open a can of. Reod pulled the gun from his holster and dumped off the clip killing 4 of the men and the now lifelass sack of jizm. But an intelligent man under pressure may break in some areas of mental control but not others, his reflexes now lightning quick having an empty stomach and a bloodstream filled with adrenaline dropped the clip before the smoke finished slithering out of the now warm barrel. Before the clip hit the ground, and without the pistol changing position, his right hand brought up a new clip and jammed it into place perfectly. He was now shooting the other 3 mother fuckers and let out a suttle "shit" realizing the collage of red juice sprayed amongst the inventive textures, being the alley way canvas of this presentation, that one of the tones was the luke-warm red sap of the poor woman. He dropped the second clip as soon as the last shell fired, and let out a second "shit". Turned to his partner who was now chuckling, partner saying "well well, so the kids got some spunk after all" followed by a hearty guffaw that turned into sick laughing that carried on past the healthy time alloted by the preceeding circumstances. The partner licked his finger, the red ooze brinnging a smile to his face. Reod dropped his empty gun to the ground and slumped against a pile of trash unaware of the garbage juice a mixture of god knows what was now soaking into his pristine uniform. He was dirty now, and he was going to do time. In the end Reod sustained a sentance much to the minor of what one might expect from the homicide of nine human beings. The story was twisted as can be done with situations, especially when a man of the law is harmed.

Reod Lives stay in prison was usually pretty comfortable except when the group fights would break out, and he was only just a face in the crowd. Then he got pummelled. He continued his education in prison and finally recieved his phd a few years after being out of the slammer. Hence the name Dr. Live. He worked sort of like a batman upholding the law with his own private means and maybe working together with the cops on some operations. He was battle hardened from his time in prison however protected he was, he was still one of the guys.

So there they were again, face to face, Mr. Black and Dr. Live in the setting of the Khmer Rouge underground.
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[17 Apr 2004|11:41am]
The trickle of thought dripping into reality through the mouth of Dr. Live was damming up as the correct words to express his feeling were unavailable. Mr. Black stood in front of him, but he was unable to stop him. Unable or unwilling? His will, was to stop him. He was able, yet he could not. The more he looked into Mr. Black, the more he realized how powerless he truly was. Mr. Black was just a reflection, a reflection of a man in another world, we were all in other worlds, this is where all those worlds collided. Before Mr. Black could react, Roed grabbed the now shabby black book with the pink elastic band wrapped twice around, and darted towards the exit. Towards the way out of this suffering. Mr. Black was ready for this, for it was he who left the book on the table as a trap. The only way to escape the trap set was to jump out the window, but Roed would never dare. Instead, Roed had just ran out the door and into the hallway, into the hands of the Khmer Rouge.

The Khmer Rouge had locations all across the map. Upon entering a temple, one might assume as any other religion that people came to this tranquil place to worship some peaceful god, with teachings much like any other god. For the initiate this belief would hold true as well, but for one in the supposed religion who was truly illuminated to its ways, this wasnt so. You would find an endless maze of underground tunnels and a network of communications out of your comprehension. Communication taking place at the moment, communication coming from before your time, and communication lasting afterwards. The Khmer Rouge had finally obtained the elusive black book, but few could decode the chaos within. The trick of a language is to inform those who are taught to understand, and to mislead those who are not. If you can mislead the untrained to think ideas opposite or unrelated to the work then you have succeeded, given that your message relays some potent value of truth. The Khmer were fasinated with the language, for understanding it, would entail understanding of some of its teachings. Dr. Live woke up facing Mr. Black who was about to puff on a cigarette in a stale aired cell deep in the Khmer Underground.
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A subtle gestalt. [19 Mar 2004|04:05pm]

[ mood | +muahaha ]

With all these random tidbits of paper and information floating freely around the cosmos for any haphazard individual to interpret, you would have thought some mystic or madman in Vancouver would be either very paranoid or very suspicious by now. Being the Age of Silence, nobody really spoke of these things often. Still, that wasn't an excuse. Devon MarX was both, but he lacked the necessary cognitive faculties to process the possibilities that could be procured.

Rash-Hsinariaya dropped another fragment torn from his prisoner's collective hoping that someone perceptive would find it. This wasn't very fun so far. He left conspicuous area and began to consider his plans for ransom.

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The girl who speaks to trees. [19 Mar 2004|03:54pm]

[ mood | + suffocating ]

Every time one of the worker bees enters the hive, the door swings wildly on it's hinges outward; forcefully slamming shut with more force than was orignally exherted opening it. A small spring and latch in the corner keeps the door from being left open. The worker bees need this, because without this the hive would get cold. The drones are forgetful. The drones always leave doors open.

The female bee in hive despises this mechanism. While she originally conspired it to be useful in conserving energy the spring before, she had found it to be the greater of two evils - cold from the air outside, or the constant subjection of her eardrums to unfriendly loud noises. It seemed like there was no compromise. The female bee could not get cold. The female bee was not productive when cold. In order for the hive to function at optimal efficiency, the female bee could never be anything less that productive.

It's 3:16 p.m. on a friday afternoon. The bee notes this. She pretends this means something to her; she pretends she will remember it. She won't. In thirty seconds, the bee will move on to something else after realising that trying to attach meaning to a moment lost inside of a concrete cave that emulates every other day of the week is just like trying to make believe that her golden bee hair is somehow better than all the other golden-haired bees. It'd be true for a while, but then reality would hit. As Philip K. Dick put forward, "Reality that which is left after you stop beliving in it, it doesn't go away." The bee remembers this phrase in a book she read a while ago, but fails to recall the title. Her mental gestalts return to the associations a second earlier, but the idea is already lost back in to the void of potential, waiting for its next victim connected to It.

A worker bee enters the hive. She straightens herself up.
"Packing slips, Pik. AutoWerx and Hallfil Lubricants. The AutoWerx is allocated to the parts expense account, fity- uh, er - "
"Yeah. That's the one; the Hallfill isn't going in to fifty-fifty either, its - "
"Fifty-seven-fifty-six." The worker bee pauses and cocks his head slightly.
"Exactly. Mister Schmidt is in the main foyer right now, so - "
"I'll get his bill to him right away." Pik interrupts, with a blended smile of get the fuck out of my office, and have a nice day.

Pik yawns as soon as the other man - er, bee - leaves the office and returns to her daydreams about colonized, organised insects. This is a daring fantasy for Pik, who finds seemingly organised systems in nature to be a most curious emergent property of her favourite global system, Earth. An otherwise feral and naturally irrational landscape of interactions.

She glances around the hive. This would be so much nicer a hive if there were windows, she thinks. Pik selects to ignore the obvious contrast to natural beehives which bear no windows. She doesn't care. Her hive needs windows. Her hive. Yes, that was right. This was her hive. It might as well be. She practically lived in this box; grey and coloured with dust and debris. If this is my hive, then I am the Queen.

Pik laughed out loud.
Pik paused.
Somebody. Coming. Door. Now. Campaign. Advertising. Report.

Before the door even opens, Pik picks up a white portfolio with a computer-generated label from atop the pile of handwritten debris cluttering her desk.

"Pik," the bee- er, man - starts.

"The advertising statistics are in this folder. Campaign number twenty-three has reached its full gross return with the advent of our most recent equipment sales. Campaign thirty, however, is still sliding into the red despite our clean-up at the dealer conference two weeks ago. I also collated the bar charts and the histograms. Keep in mind the scatterplots on pages ten through twelve are not reflecting causal relationships; merely correlational."

Pik's superior stares for a moment. Silence ensues.

"Can I go home now?" she asks softly. The man nods without saying anything, and before he can return to thank her properly she is already half-way to the train station.

[A million points if you can guess who's work environment inspires this and reeks of SUCK.]

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nihil est silencio [19 Mar 2004|03:19am]

Trees talk. Although it is quite possible that they will never reveal their language to us. It can't be heard with radionics. Although, it's the closest we may ever come to hearing their gossip. And it can't be heard by listening patiently to the wind blowing leaves from one forest to another. Although, it's probaly better than anything science will ever provide.

They don't want us to hear because it us they discuss.

A forest outside Hiroshima is concerned with his future. He has been content now for too many years. He feels traces of disease within him, but he hopes that when he is destroyed he can be turned into something useful for the human-people.

Acres of dead stumps act as a silent sitcom laff-track.

A forest at the base of a mountain in Switzerland tells of five children that build forts inside him and fight fake-wars. These kids really piss him off.

Sometimes, a forest will fancy the idea to tell people to stop fucking around with it.
But that would only give humans more of a reason to fuck with trees even harder.

One forest recalls The Unspeakable One who grew out of The Black Forest in Germany. He fought the human-people, but at a cost. The forest hopes that although the Unspeakable One is no longer planted, that he is still fighting the human-people. Where ever he may be.

A large forest in the Pacific Northwest tells a beautiful story of totem poles and toilet paper. The trees everywhere listen. As his story winds down, a 1958 pink Ford Galaxy drives by. The driver flicks a cigarrette into the woods, unconsciously demonstrating an ashen symbiosis.
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Little Buzzle beeps [18 Mar 2004|01:38pm]

[ mood | Higgs Boson ]

Tinkering with their tiny toys, they smoothed and wiggled their tiny little bums, dancing aimlessly high up on the branches, laughing and smiling. The one on the ground reached ravinously into the small patch of mushrooms and sweeped them silently into his satin sack. Meanwhile Merly Mernans were triumphantly splicing notes with their atuneachords, strumming that soft ethnic beat into the hearts of others. Reaching slowly the eyedwellers and the long children were dancing in the pond to the right, makeing spackled specs of intense vibration trickle slowly into that presonified being. The forest children still danced and played high atop their branches, and slowly the play climaxed. Henry Hedgehog exclaimed he was the forest natter, and the frog didn't disagree. It was sometime in the afternoon, but it didn't really matter to me, the gentle breeze glifted glazeingly along my breezeway. I observed this forest alive with tantelizing terrafabalous tantrics. Toutenkaumen would have been spinning in his grave. Butterfly Bernaculars were brazing brilliantly in alcomous pairs. Friendly and Focatious were the little nim tins, always speaking in code, bip tip this and bope tope that. Leaf Guard was a natural, soaking silently the sloothy plant granted meta magical effects(technically speaking)His or Her eyes chymed the activation of the beast and the cloud past overhead. It wasn't long before it passed and i was back into this dancing realm. The forest child sat fat on my shoulder and clicked his tiny gyro's to that eternal song. I danced slowly to the beat of my mutatious mind, making miracle movements metastisize my muscle membraines. My arms begin to jive with the sun soaking softly. BOOM! i exclaimed, I WAS ON A ROLL! forget about it, what is a foogazi anyway?

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Longavity Research [16 Mar 2004|11:38pm]

[ mood | Makeshift banditt ]

Rupert Manhawk i thinks his names was, yeah that rangs a bell, i thinks iz seenz him around, gosh he is lookin like a real sneak weasle, if i hads my bashins stick i would club some sense into that ol boy, i would, i would. Pa would be so proud.

I thinks the first time i met this blasphemer, was on the 23rd of december, at the good o'l cook n' grill meat packers, spouten somethin about "gravity goin the wrong way" and "Polar Bears Shifting" i thought i was all nonsense, and gosh darn just plain against god. So i proudly stood and said BOY YOU BEST BE GETSIN OUT OF THIS PLACE, WE DON'T TAKE A LIKEN TO YOU HIPPY FOLK, WITH YOUR DRUGS AND YOUR PIPES, AND YOUR CRAZY IDEAS, NOWS WHENS I WAS A BOY I LEARNED RESPECT AND DISAPLIN.


It was all clear by that time....

By that time my face felt like it had sickle cell anemia and my eyes splintered like crawling rabidashers, the first parallel wasn't as bad as the second, my feelings were hurt but i am sure i will recover, memories explode into dancing laberinth's of colour and raw unfettered emotion. By this time Richard M. Makewood dashed a thousand kin, and created the frist gravity well. it's been thirty years since....

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[17 Mar 2004|03:53pm]

[On march 17th, 2004, the following story was found and transcribed by someone who wishes to remain anonymous. They claim it was written on the front and back of three napkins found blowing down Granville street swirling within a small cloud of ash.]

* * *

sweat's falling in my eyeballs. burning. my heart's gonna combust. i can feel it. i really gotta slow down. but it won't matter anyway. i can hope someone will find this, but even if they do, it won't make any sense. hell, I don't even understand what just happened. what is happening. it seems familiar, somehow. but it's still completely fucked up.

i was wandering down granville, eating my street-vendor-hotdog. passing all the porn shops and video arcades in a passive daze. focusing on trying not to spill mustard on my goddamn shirt. by the time i finished my hotdog, i was in front of a used book store. figured it was as good as any other place to kill some time. hah. if that's not the understatement of the century--

aside from an old lady at the desk, and her cat, the store was empty. and they didn't seem to notice me. wandered through the store, not looking for anything particular when i saw a yellowed paperback with an old man on the cover. he was wearing a suit and hat and he carried a pistol in his hand. half of his face had turned into some sick-lizard-being, but he looked too tired to care.i remember hearing about this book cover somewhere before. i was about to reach for the book, but i noticed something on the ground. it was a ball and it flickered from a dull cream color to fluorescent pastel blue as it hit my shoe.

i figured it was one of those stupid toy balls for cats, or something. but how did it change color like that? my curiosity prevailed and i did a quick check to see if the old lady was watching me. she wasn't. i reached down and pocketed the damned thing. it was not a toy. as soon as i touched it i was overwhelmed by conflicting waves of sickness and euphoria. like i had to vomit and get laid at the same damn time.

i went back to grab the book with the old lizard man on the cover but it wasn't there. another book caught my attention. it had a woman, covered in shadows, in the desert, being dwarfed by a gigantic letter V.

v. for vancouver, i remember thinking. then i thumbed the mystery ball in my pocket and another voice in my head said "no, v. for venus" i felt sickly hot sweat on my back and in my pits.

a man's voice boomed beside me.
"i love that book!" he said, and i almost had a heart-attack on the spot.
he spoke in a creepy gentle voice that didn't match his appearance. he towered a foot and a half over me. he was in his late fifties, i think, wearing giant glasses. dressed in black. took me about a second to recognise the famous author. my dad had all of his books.
'what are you doing here?" i asked.
"we're filming a television series in town."
i guess he didn't understand my question. i didn't mean here as in vancouver, but here as in the present. this famous author had been dead for at least five years. and he looked at least ten years younger from when he croaked.
however, i sure as shit didn't want to be the one to break it to him that he was dead. the stupid ball was fucking with enough already.

the dead author saw the sweat poring off my face. as i ran out of the store, he yelled something to me. trying to be comforting he said, 'don't worry. it's all undone, now', or something like that. yeah, don't worry. it only felt like a fucking atomic bomb of radioactive bad-vibes detonated in my brains. i bolted out the store and granville street looked foreign to me. older..but newer. i ran into a parking lot right beside the used book store instinctively. i pulled out the ball and--

fuck. didn't i read all of this in some cheesy story years ago?

shit. this whole story. everything i'm writing. i remember reading this whole story off the internet. stupid kid walks into a used book store. finds a 'magic ball'. meets a dead author. ha. even this lame first person narrative. as i scribble this, i'm sure the story i read was word for word what i'm writing. yes, even the part about him realising that he has read this before. but that was a story. and it took place twenty years ago. fuck. how did it end? i didn't even finish reading it, did i?

i remember how being frustrated the author never described what happened with the ball and instead went off into his post-modern tirade about how he swore he read this story somewhere. how anticlimactic. what a gyp. but at least now i understand why he couldn't describe the ball. why i can't. that picture of the snake that eats itself pops into mind.

i'm sure i look like a complete madman to all the passer-byers, sprawled out in this parking lot, writing frantically on the left-over napkins from the hotdog vendor. there's graffiti on the wall of the bookstore. it's alive. i can tell. and there's a pink piece of string in the weeds below. my head really hurts. i think my brain is turning into liquid goo as i write this. but i think i figured it all out. and i just want it to be over.

[the signature is illegible.]
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The Case of Richard M Makewood [16 Mar 2004|01:31am]

[ mood | Paternal Macky ]

The old priest sat silently on his old meditating silently into the wind. Nothing but fucking contrivences!the thought trickled slowly in, he observed it for a moment and it became clear that his most friendly notions were not correct.

Inspite the insipid insidentioles on dec.15 sometimes in the 2005 or 6 region. I was not the word to be used at this moment, natural beautification was immanent and the audossis combatents were in league with the generous man on the moon. Thus Richard M Makewood, the owner of lunar mining operations and part of the naked man project.

infidiles! the priest snapped, becoming increasingly aware of the words being printed, i am a bunch of words, but i have form. i am just being processed, oh my meat baggage, oh my golden mean.. my ackeing bones.

Tips and taps rang from his tipper tapping toes, the obtuse orbit maintained maximumly for fractions of ospicious terrible tantrics. Is what i said correct? or should i repeat it in shapes of 2's.

- The Johnathon Baxter Corperation

"we handle care!"

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thickening [12 Mar 2004|12:29pm]

* * *

On June 7, 1996, if you had read the New York Times, you may have come across
a strange article entitled "Undertaker Held After Decomposed Bodies Found".
Upon further reading, you would have learned that 37 year old funeral
home director Steven M. Marchi was arrested the day before because police had
found 5 badly decomposing bodies in his basement, which were though to have
been there for 6 months. What you would not have read was that what was
actually found in Steven M. Marchi's basement was 5 charred piles of ash, a thin
metal rod, 2 red craps dice, a roll of duct tape, and a cheaply
constructed model of the solar system hanging from a coat-hanger,
which in turn was hanging from a hook drilled into the ceiling.
Among the 5 piles of ash there lay 3 gold wedding rings, 1 silver cross
attached to a thin silver necklace, and 1 pair of moon-shaped silver earings.
As to how long the piles of ash had been there, you would also be mistaken
in thinking 6 months, as they had become what they were only that very day,
June 6, 1996. If you have been reading the Times since then, you would
have no idea that Steven M. Marchi escaped custody two days following his
arrest and has not since been heard from. And if you had read the front
page of the Times for April 24 2002, you wouldn't have made any connection
at all.

On April 15, 1998, Khmer Rouge leader Pol Pot lay ill in his Cambodian hideout
located near the border of Thailand. Two days before, he had sent for a certain
American acquaintance of his, who he knew only as Multi Wang. He was unsure
this was the man's real name, and in fact, didn't seem to know anything
of the man's history, but had been in contact with him since a coincidental
meeting in a Vegas casino in 1983. He had had regular meetings with Wang
over the last 2 years, and it is not known what it was that they discussed,
but Wang had been seen on many occasions entering and leaving Pot's chamber
with a small black note book wrapped in a pink elastic band. Multi arrived
at Pot's base that morning and was lead to Pot's bed chamber. Little is known
of the conversation that took place in the room that day, but Multi was with
Pol Pot for just under an hour, and was reported to have left with the same
small black note book. The roar of American media coverage following Pot's death
that April 15, 1998,would leave out any reference to a mysterious visitor who had
been conversing with Pot for the previous two years, and consequently no one would
notice that in the hand of the man in black, shown fleeing the crime scene on the front
cover of the New York Times for April 24th, 2002, there was a small black note book
wrapped in a pink elastic band.

Dan Guadaloupe sold his last hand-sown wolf-embroidered wallet on April 25th
2002. The Tijuana police were baffled to find, in place of Dan, a pile of
ash lying just behind his roadside wallet stand. Only one witness had
been found, a small 7 year old boy named Alessandro, who as yet hadn't spoken
a word, and would only nod yes to questions asking if he had seen what had
happened to Mr. Guadaloupe. The following day, the chief of police, Juan
Warez, received a phone call from New York City, and 6 hours
later, Dr. Roed Live was sipping a cup of Columbian coffee from a
styrofoam cup in the office of Juan Warez, and fingering through a large
stack of police files.

In the ruins of New York City, a small boy named Alessandro is swinging on a
swing set along with a blind girl name Maria, while around them rubble,
rotting flesh, and shattered glass lies strewn across the playground. It's
getting dark, but fires light the night sky.

* * *
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The Story of Mr. Black [11 Mar 2004|03:36pm]

If you want to participate, add any amount to the story you like, and mail
it to a mamber of the posse, if you dont want to participate, just mail it
on to a mamber of the posse, preferably not the member you recieved it from,
if you wish to proofreed or whatever that shit is called where you get rid
of the errors, go ahead. And if you wish to do that gramar shit or whatever
go ahead. If you even wish to rewrite stuff, so that it makes more sense go
right ahead, this is noones property, so do with it as you like. Just try
to get it back to the creator whoever that may be so that he may take a
gander at the evolving story of Mr. Black.

Once upon a time there was a man named mr. black. The thing about mr black,
is he really didnt have a name, and people werent even sure he was a guy,
but they refered to him as mr black, because when someone is in the
newspapers, they need to give people a name, so everyone knows who they are
refering to. So it was said that the villain, dressed in black would be
refered to as mr black, even thou his gender, was unknown. Maybe he wasnt
even a human, but that was too far out for people to imagine. One day in
the newspapers there was a story about a man named mr.black. The article in
the papers, well lets not get ahead of ourselves, see there werent articles
about mr black to begin with, it started off as a front page picture of a
man in black fleeing from a scene, with the headline.. CATASTROPHY!

What had happened to cause such an eerie front page of april 24ths newspaper
for the year 2002. Well as the picture on the front page suggests, the
person was fleeing from the scene. Now what scene you say, what had
happened on april 23rd, 2002, is something that would change the reality
this world knew to exist, or rather bring about the inevitable. There is
always a possability for certain things to occur, certain things we all
know, and sometimes fear. But it seems so far out, that we always laugh at
ourselves whenever we think about, and we like to keep it stuffed in the
back of our mind. But on this day the newspaper was talking about, that
thing, or rather the beggining of it took place. Mr black as he had been
pretensiouly labeled had participated in the destruction of a human being.
Realize to say this person was killed would be an understatement. What was
left was a pile of charred ashes, usually when an apple is smashed there is
chunks left as if to suggest there once was an apple, when an apple is
destroyed, it is as if the apple never existed in the first place, something
extreme must have happened to this human, to leave them in a pile of ashes
rather than a pile of limbs with jagged bones poking out. This however
would have been more dramatic, and suited the situation much more.

Why you ask would a pile of ash, a mysterious man, and a newspaper mark the
beggining of the inevitable. This explanation must be going to a person who
knows nothing of what was to come or else this would question would not be
asked. It would be like to ask, what number came first in a sequence, if
the 2nd, 3rd and 4th numbers, were two, three, and four.
It would be obvious to anyone that a safe presumption would be 1. To answer
your question, we will say the man is 1, the ash is 2, and the newspaper,
must be 5. 3 would be the reporter, and 4 would be the printing press. 6
of course, would have to be Dr. Live reading the newspaper. Who is Dr Roed
Live. Dr Roed Live was a good guy, at least thats what the authorities
thought. He was sort of an independant detective that was always where the
action was and seemed to solve situations for the police. Earned there
trust, so much so that they gave him access to there "computer" files in
time. Just after the incident which later's was captured on the front of
the newspaper, Dr Live, appeared on the scene and quickly concluded that the
man in black, had used some sort of particle device to turn to the human to
ash in a matter of seconds, why this was done he concluded was to acquire
something, but what was unknown. The person who was destroyed, identity was
unknown, and is still unknown to this day. This was very simple to deduce
because the earth is made up of an uncountable amount of people at any time,
most of which are unaccounted for by computers. People go missing everyday,
and appear unnoticed everyday, so to accuratly place a label to who was
destroyed would be impossible. Dr Live, explained all this as well as the
other details formerly given.

Sometime between when this event took place and about two weeks later a rash
of similar attacks took place globaly. To use the word rash, and globaly in
the same sentance you must understand that a great many attacks took place,
a number definatly in the thousands. This realizing the possability that
the attack on the 23rd may not have been the first case, but the first known

The items taken from each attack were the soul of the human destroyed. The
story of a device destroying them was a believable story given to hide the
truth, that when a soul is taken from a human body, it collapses in on
itself, and all that is left is some carbon.

Mr Black went missing for some time, but before this period, he was last
spotted in NYC before it was nuked. The origin of the missle was unknown,
but clues given to the WPO were written on a piece of paper and resembled

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June 21, 2001 [11 Mar 2004|03:31pm]

Back in 2001, notchaos sent me the following email and attached story. This inspired a sequence of emails among friends in which began to generate a curious joint fiction. This writing ceased at some point, but in reading Phil Dick's Divine Invasion, I realized some glaring similarities between it and my contribution to the email story. In Dick's story, a young boy named Emmanuel, who is actually the Lord Yahweh incarnate come to Earth to save humanity, meets a young girl named Zina. When I read this, it strongly triggered my memory of my story piece, in which I wrote of a young boy and girl who are swinging on a swingset in an urban playground in the ruins of an apocalyptic New York City. I had forgotten their names, and almost suspected that my character was named Emmanuel.. it turns out that it was rather Alessandro, and the girl Maria. Anyway, I turned the page of the book, and proceeded to read something like 'ok Zina, go take Emmanuel and play on the swingset.' This comes back into the book later with much significance. Another feature is the enigmatic black notebook with the pink elastic band. The reference to pink here, before any of my experiences with the pink gnosis, which themselves came before I read VALIS even, is very, very curious.

Anyway. Here's notchaos's email as the next post. Following that will be my response.

In subsequent posts, I want gn0s1s_23 and then zeppo to rewrite their components, and then whoever else we can get involved, and then cycle back through this list of people.
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