Joke is on you

Joke is on you.

Faster, the man ran down the alley. He quickly dove into an open dumpster container, and slammed the lid shut. Inside, he checked his state issue glock-45. It still had all 25 bullets in it. He wouldn’t need that many, he hoped. He peaked out of the lid, and slid the gun muzzle out. He followed at cat with it.

“Stupid cat,” he muttered. “Phew!” he pretended to pull the trigger. Then he saw it. It leapt out of the shadows. The man didn’t have time to scream. The dumpster lid closed with both them inside, and the gun went off, halting the screams and grunts coming from within. Now something just breathed. It let out a sigh, and pushed open the top of the dumpster lid and climbed out. It was a monstrous figure, gastly in the pale lamplight, standing half hunched over. It held the dumpster then slid off down the alley with the cat that followed it.

24 hours later. Peak Los LA Rush hour.

A million cars lit the highway. Plumes of noxious smoke drifted up over the highlights of the city. A lady in a broad fedora watched the trains of cars pass by her with aghast disbelief. She pursed her lips and shook her head and pointed a white glove at her companion–A white and red chester cat sitting quietly beside her in the passenger seat. It sighed and looked out the window.

“I can’t believe it’s raining again.” The cat meowed and scratched at its collar. “That makes it three days in a row. The evidence is going to impossible to disseminate when we get there.”

The lady simply nodded, and then she screamed. The cat looked over at her. It nodded.

“I see.”

The office where thirty or forty officers stood was only designed for three at once. A rather portly officer threw down some donuts on a desk, for which was covered with bullet casings, portraits of criminals, and dossiers as thick as French Accents, for which a stern looking gentleman of about 30 years of age peered back from one of the photos. The police chief looked up in disgust at the fat cop.

“Whose are these?”

The cop raised his eyebrows in injustice.

“You’re promoted to stage three operational chief, got that?”

No one wanted to be promoted to stage three operational chief, not in the middle of an ongoing criminal investigation concerning the quadruple homicides occurring within the last 24 hours.

“All had taken place at night.,” said district deputy Stevens.

“All had been chased down, and…”

Suddenly, there was a stir and all the officers in the room turned to see a pretty young redhead with green stunning eyes, that traced over every officer in the room like a presetting robotic transferring data interface. The eyes glistened suddenly then found their target. He sat in the back his hand on the desk, drooling slightly.

“Ahem.”

“Sloth, as it were, captain, is a retaining principle I see fits the molds of certain interoperational status pertaining to invalid justice, is it not?”

It was a question. The man just nodded. “Yeah, so? We got all the problems of a major corporation, and, all the politics of a religion spoiled by its own status.”

“Status…”

“Which is why you are here.”

“I see…”

“24 hours ago, we were hit with a string of random murders all centered around the center of town. We thought it was just a rogue clown from the invading circus affiliates, but…” he cantored, “we’ve narrowed it down to a climate stevens, or, “ he lowered his voice, “A bacteria folder.”

Meew…” said the unmistakable voice of a cat. The cat hopped up on the desk, and flit his asshole at the man in the suti, who snarled.

“Damn cat!”

Cat! CAt! Cat! The officers began chanting. As if under some remote control from a cvoiless entity under radar of suspension of disbelief.

The cat stood up and morphed into a man. He held out his hand at the cop. “Hello, I am Davis, your chief inspectional operations commander.”

Several of the officers in the tiny room attempted to kneel.

Davis turned to the stunned police chief.

“We need radar, surveillance, and most importantly…” he just smiled. “I’ll just text you.”

Davis and the woman in the fedora impatiently left the room, followed by a barrage of yells and counter yells from the officers in the room.

“Wait!”

“Please!”

“Are you…really…?”

Several of the men started to shudder, their friends holding onto their shoulders. “It’s okay, just relax. There Bob.”

The building trembled. It wasn’t everyday that the ubercomplex of the National Interest sent it’s preeminent visionaries into the midst of the squadron of men.

Shape shifters. These people defied laws of logic. No one could shape shift, not anymore. Hushed conversation at the the bars sent men scurrying into the night, drifting down the lanes of moral ineptitude, and into the arms of mother fury.

A high garden wall made out of beer cans jostled, and a man with a hammer opened the door. Come in, he said, and closed the gate. It began to rain again, and some music came on somewhere, and the buildings that were held up by ropes and sheets of plastic and paper began to tinge with the onslaught of more water.

A woman sat in the dirt on the ground mending a long rope with a long snake’s head attached to it. She began to whisper.

“Avaroosh deshnelicon. Averiginal westligodligodlida!!!! zimbaloonay !1!!!!!!!

She slapped the snake head and its jaws slowly opened and it hissed.

Several of the woman stepped back. It was a warning. The investigators were in town. And the kneeling sad sop of a man who’d been at the bar drinking with his cop friends sniveled and got up and looked at the snake woman.

“What will it do to them?”

The woman smiled, liquidated. “Drink their blood, of course.”

The man heaved. The woman laughed. And the snake hissed. A burst of black cloud came forth from its jaws. Tiny ants seeped from the clouds and trailed out over the dirts towards the man’s foot.

“Ahh! AAAH!”

“AAA hahaha !”

“AAAHHH you bitch!” The man kicked the dirt and ran for the door. His through was caught, however in the outstretched hand of a dragon god.

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Thinking of Being Nothing

Thinking of being nothing. All the day long one sits and thinks, oh, what am I? Who am I? When, one’s eternal answer is, I am no one. Am nothing. It matters not our response. Only our sacrilege. Only, our sacrifice.

Like, possibly, a samurai on the battlefield, or, the peacemaker on the highway, or the trucker swirling around mountain tops, one is ever in cadence with the deep mystery of not knowing.

And what am I? Who am I? What role? What being? What uncertain entity. I am nature, the degrees of god, itself. Yet why do I frustrate myself with this burden?

Who else sat here like I do, a monkey in time. Who else stroked the backbone of history, and wrapped itself around the coldness of never endingness? Who else pulled the cold turkey away from bones, and thought, this was it?

I did. As I glide on this ball into the rest of time, I construct melodies, and push them out. I know the sun isn’t supposed to be just ours.

People, know not, why they fret. They don’t understand why they’re drawn to the things that scare them. Because of some thing they can only see. Choose your mystery. Choose the conundrum of choice. Understand the rest. Shamefully.

Can a small man ever not know the largest object? Can clowns con cans of cameras couthly and confoundedly contriving concurrences by conscience confidences? Could be. But let not our fathers….

So, what am i but curious? Curious about how one can influence the supposition of man, and turn them into metaphysical anomalies.

Just writing. Ascorbic bass cabbage. Rumr ring web tempo.dba Adolf stl Donna sci stop.all lid :-(pd sm13th 4th to do do do ii edu uuhs

all daw stl lb egg j9b dBm full movie news.deck Werth.

And then, tomorrow starts, and who are you then? Are you just a bag of obligation, and indifference? Is looking for freedom, a little like stepping into thin air?

Is it, not caring if the balance is off, and just going? Is it, just letting yourself be itself? I thu k so. I think that is what people are looking for. The power to give just be alright with absolutely everything. That, is a discerning mind. One, that can tell what happens. Oh, did you see the news? No. I did not.

Rice paddies are pockets of knowledge, and the farmers are aliens. Rice granules contain a crystalline core that works like a magnet. Records your rectum.

People say we have invented the internet. I say we’ve invented a monster.

Inside of every code there is a chance that something could be misread. How? By chance. The operating system is colder oneday, the colon looks like a semicolon and changes the readout to be perform a destructive function, which creates a virus, and spins into systemic corruption. A world virus, one of the internet’s making will wipe out mankind. All that will exist is red assed baboons.

That is a million years from now. Think of it. A million years will go by in a flash. There’ll be so many goddamned parties in those years. People will survive.

But they’ll be nothing like us. They’ll be aliens. Bipedal clothes wearing hominids that sort of do what we do. They will invent time machines, and come back. And they’ll know it. They’ll be infinitely emotive, and robotic at once. Dumb and smart. As dumb as ever, but smart.

I am a man. Just that. Born on Earth. I wonder who I could be?

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Amadeus: The (F)art of Folly

Whence upon watching Amadeus, the master work of the 1990’s representing Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s retching, breathtaking, and incessant take on modern classical music, I couldn’t help but notice that it was the music, beyond anything, that saved a race of people on the precipice of annihilation. During that era, around 17??, the British were in war with ??, and although modern culture at that time, during the tail end of the Renaissance, was at an all time high, the hate, anger, and confusion of that time, was threatening to send the old world back into the dark ages. It was during this great time of duress, that time needed, a savior.

A farting savior, at least. Mozart was known for his rancid, raucous220px-Mozart_(unfinished)_by_Lange_1782, rambunctious rectum. One of his pieces, I mean “scores”, was about licking his soiled anus, all whilst whistling, and yodeling, and clapping along to torturous thunderous applause from thine heaven. So, you can see, that history, likes to “select” one of us, sometimes, for greater use, to balance out the forces that be, in grand, semi-symmetrical, ways. Terrence McKenna once called the Universe a novelty act, where each occurrence, whether it be big or small, was met with deluging forces of nature, and hence, became a universe unto itself, separate from whatever else was going on. Mozart, at the time, was tripping on acid, and he spread his thighs ever heavenwardly, and split apart the diamonds in the rough, and saved a nation, from its own disparity.

People need saviors, because it lets us sigh eternally in their direction, and they take the pain, like ZRA, does, and has, and always will. By writing weird, out of this century, music, he, Mozart, circumvented authority, and basically, just went into the future, where historians now just focus on him more than the petty bullshit happening at the time, and thus don’t follow histories b.s. so we live a more fruitful, if ignorant, life. Bullshit. Mozart fulfilled his dooty. Won’t you??

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Bushito, Way of the Samurai

Notice, I didn’t write, Bullshito. Hate to sound like Steven Seagal here, but it’s true, everything you’ve heard. Bushito, is a life style. It is a concurrence with nature. An agreement, you take care of me, I’ll take care of you. By respecting nature, by selflessness, you can tap into the most uncanny realms. Where you end up finding your car keys, at the last second. You wear your clothes until they wear out. You appreciate the fazes of all situations. And tap into the uncanny valley of surrealism with in reality, itself. Basically, it takes becoming yourself, fully realized. To yourself. Understanding that with the snap of a wrist, I can contort your hand into a pretzel. I can take your sarcasm, your hate, because I know it’s misplaced. I can take the pain, like Xzavier Renegade angel can. It’s showing utmost respect to all those around you, at all times. Even when you’re alone. It’s knowing there are no equal promises. No authority at best. No rule rich rule promenade.

Bullshito is the opposite. It’s flashy, at false setting. no measured nuance. And full of danger. In the real way, there is no fakeness. No ego. You are constantly striving, and struggling to be yourself. No someone else. Yourself.

steven seagal

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Smoking With Julia: Conclusion

Viscous was waiting for me on the 7th floor balcony, dressed in all red, as was his custom. Bastard. That damn crow sat calmly on his shoulder, drenched in somebody’s blood from an earlier battle. I crossed the floor in seconds.

I reached for my gun, as was custom, in my holster, and drew it handsomely. You’ve got some nerve, I said, coming here. It was then the top floors of the building exploded, sending flaming shards of glass behind Viscous.

You think, he said. then his eagle took off from his shoulder and split the night. It left blood spatter on the ground coming near me, but I side stepped. I lifted my gun and shot it. The foul cried in the night, but I didn’t see it. It was then Viscous rained in on my parade. He swung his sword, a Japaneseharunobu-katana, but I blocked it with my gun. Stupid move. I turned and blasted, but it only caught the underside of his jacket. He laughed and spun away, dragging his katana across the ground. It was then, the shrieks from the sword became the shrieks from above, and his falcon attacked. You think you can take me, he said, coming at me. I countered and blasted his falcon out of the air, it fell at Viscous’ feet, and he didn’t stop and swung heavily towards my shoulder, my good one. Nah huh, I said, and ducked. I blasted his foot, and he felt it, and yelled out and fell backwards near the ledge. I ran and tackled him. We flew over the edge and towards the giant swimming pool in the shape of you named it, a red dragon.

Petty, I recounted. Petty occurrences. It’s all so trivial, our meaning. I felt the water hit, and pull me under, yet I hardened my choke hold on my rival, Viscous. Soon , we would drown, and not know it.  It was then, Julia jumped in, full of courage, as was her custom. But it was a soft hand that held mine, suddenly, and started to guide me up. I let Viscous go, and swam as hard as I could up the 20 foot pool.

The building, now rigged to blow, was starting to go. Thanks, Julia. We ran, the red dragon was over. We ran, towards nothing.

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Smoking with Julia Part:2

I lit up the last cigarette I found in my pocket. It was shriveled, but dry, and I stuck it in my mouth, and blew out a huge plume of smoke, right as the elevator door opened. I wasn’t expecting to see her standing there. Julia. She came up to my face in the smoke. Thanks, she said, for seeing me here. The elevator closed, with us inside. The elevator dinged, indicating that someone else was trying to come in, but I pushed the level 7 button, and it began.

The small, and cramped, single tower elevator, went up the 130th floor of an all glass building.  But, we staved off on the 7th, and the elevator door opened, and we rushed out. I hunched over, as my custom down this tred of corridor. Left. I went straight, but Julia went peeling left off in the other direction, her fine ass wrapped in leather tights, her hustling.

I shook my head,n dour grief, and began limping. Two bullets had hit my upper leg, and the pain was like a noose, slowing hanging me from a bathroom stall faucet. He, was here. He knew I knew it. Cameras, lined in the walls of the hall, so tiny that you couldn’t see them, told him as much. But, as I hunched further over, obscuring my face below the collar of my shirt, I began to have tunnel vision.

I kicked in the door in front of me without hesitating, walked right in and kicked the security guard responsible for the camera feed in the face, and pushed the blackout button. Then, I grabbed the hand radio, and faked the guard’s–Henry’s–voice, because I knew it so well.

 

All personal of the lower floors of the Durain Building please respond immediately to the upper sections of the building to investigate black out terminal. All those in response, code in.

 

With that, i kicked the guard in the face, for good measure, and left the room.  Guards lined the halls, but i proceeded in a slow motion to the exit, and proceeded to climb outside into the upper rooms of the building.

I’m not a cat, but I thanked god anyway, and flung myself into the dark room on the next floor up. it was empty. the guards would be here soon. I opened a drawer, and put a grenade in it. fuck ’em.spike and julia

 

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Smoking With Julia

neff-mens-sunset-dreams-tee1Today, as I drug myself across the finish line of fate, I knocked on the door with my forehead. A pretty blonde girl opened it, and she smiled but it turned into fear, as I fell headfirst into her first floor apartment. I didn’t mean to, but I got blood on her dress. She didn’t say anything though, but helped inside her apartment. I lied on the floor, like a dead dog. But she didn’t say anything, but helped me sit up, dead as I was. She held my hand like child. I said, water. She came back and sat with me, while I drank. It had been a long time since I was last here. It still smelled the same, of course. Lived in. I said, I have four bullet holes in my leg and arm, could she help me? She said, yes, to which I managed a much pained smile. Then, I passed out.

I smelled the cooking. It was a hot something or another. But it was the best smelling food I’d ever smelled in my entire life. Whatever it was.

A fat bowl of solid ravioli with breadcrumbs plopped down on my chest, to which I hastened to scream of pain, but instead was force-fed, like an infant. It was then, in between chews of the tasteless ravioli, that I understood why men killed. For, love, out of fear, out of remorse, out of courage. I swallowed, then I nodded to the pack of cigarettes on the nearby table. To which Julia immediately reached over, slid one out, like a champ, and flicked it to life, for me. Thanks, said I, numb in my left arm and leg, which were bandaged. She said, no problem, Spike. You deserve it. And she was right, I did.

After I finished the clove, and spent the rest of the evening in relative shock of still being alive, I finished off a half bottle of bourbon and turned on the tube to see if anything had been on the news of the battle downtown.

So far, nothing, just some jersey shore wannabees on the new acid, or ice, or something, a reality show, like nothing else is real. I quickly turned it off, just in case. Fuck all, be all. Sorry. I slept, some more.

Once the syndicate has you, they never let you go, that’s the bond of blood. I took my oath in my teens, like most of did, right when they know you have nothing left to lose. And I didn’t. My father was a road salesmen, my mother, a housewife, with no future. I ran away, away from the…world. But who am I? Who, am I?

I looked at myself in bathroom mirror of Julia’s apartment. She was at work, her second job…

I shuddered, and turned off the light. Time to go hunting.

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