2006-09-13 11:03:35 ET
He kept digging in his backyard, especially at the odd hours of night. Then one night at around three in the morning there was a loud clang sound of shovel hitting stone and then a faint luminescence emerged from the pit. That was the night he disappeared for good and reappeared in the dreams of everyone in a ten mile radius. They nuked the town after that. Couldn't stand seeing him all sad and lost every night. But he just wouldn't leave. So they burned everyone and everything. Just to be sure.
2006-09-13 11:03:19 ET
Danny bites into a razor blade and chews all careful like, tongue probing for taste. Blood begins to pour out of his mouth and he taps his napkin against the side of his mouth wiping the crimson spit. "Pardon me" he says. A portrait of sharp and proper mannerism. So rare in these godforsaken days.
He bites down again. Hard. His tooth gives way as his jaws split the steel and break the thing in half. He swallows, bump of the razor riding halfway down the esophagus, getting stuck, and then slowly emerging. First a protrusion in the throat flesh. Then, a split, like a fissure in the earth and then metal, like a flat mountain, emerges out. Lava blood seeping out, drowning the villagers.
Danny puts down the fork and reaches for the wine glass. There is a shudder of his slender hand. His swaying a bit. Back and forth. A sure sign of diziness. He reaches for the wine glasses, grabs it by the neck, and holds it up to his blood caked lips and sips. And swallows. And with this new and sudden, strained effort the esophagus pushes the whole of the blade out. It flies out, blood and wine following it, and lands with a clink on the plate. Danny stares at it. He wonders where the other half is and, a second later, finds it with his tongue. It has become embedded in his palate. He tries to push it out with his tongue, face showing no sign of discomfort. Just a paleness. That's it.
The tongue pushes against the metal. The half-blade gives and tilts suddenly, propelling the tongue up and past it. Reflexively the tongue pulls back, decapitating itself. Danny blinks. Then blinks again. He adjusts his tie and notices a sudden lack of feeling in his hand. He sees it drop away in front of him and land on the table. Nerve signals telling it to move. He can feel himself moving his fingers only they're not. He sees his hand inert in front of him. And suddenly gravity increases ten-fold. He tries to look around but his eyes are frozen in place. Suddenly he sees the ceiling. Then directly ahead of him. Then his plate, the other half of the blade still on the plate. It's getting oh so closer.
The impact of his head smashes the plate. The blade shard jumps up and embeds himself in Danny's eye. The eye begins to bleed eye blood. Danny is pouring his soul out on the table. The surviving villagers rejoice.
|No news from the home front.|
2006-09-13 11:02:58 ET
Been on a Burroughs binge lately - books, audio, and all.
Found the following - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuMIaWG64Ak
2006-09-13 11:02:31 ET
He was shot in the head by a man wearing a panda suit. It was two thirty in the morning. He managed to crawl back to his apartment by utilizing the (usually inert) movement of his hair follicles that are located all over the human body. As he crawled back to his place of rest he reflected over the events of the past few days and came to the following conclusions:
1. His relationship with Medusa Jackson probably reflected his inability to decide between two options. This is why they never had sex. She was a hemaphrodite and he could never decide whether he wanted to be charitable or forceful.
2. His present condition was probably the result of his relationship with Medusa Jackson. The man who shot him was her coke dealer in disguise. He was acting out of revenge for Medusa Jackson had turned to a new drug of choice during the relationship - new coke.
3. He hated pandas.
|I need a vacation.|
2006-08-30 18:02:25 ET
God, I need money. I'm avoiding doing this one job but I'm still doing it. Slowly. Eventually I'll accumulate enough money to take a fucking vacation, long overdue. Two weeks. I'm thinking Vegas or at least Nevada. And I need to find someone with a car. And guns. Lots of guns. And radiation suits and geiger counters. Venture out into the desert to the nuke site and find pockets of concentrated oxygen and plant centipede cultures in there and watch them grow big. Prehistoric sizes. Bigger. Six feet or over. Half flesh, half machine. Have you ever seen a millipede? All plastic segments with little metal clockwork legs crawls upside down on your arm if you let it. Shoots yellow cyanide - ok for you unless you swallow. It's a fucking machine, I tell you. Moves like a train but no wheels. Just hinged spokes. But a centipede is something else altogether. Like a robot grew flesh. Snatches bats out of the sky in the dark. In a cave. That is where we'll breed them. Go in there one night with three-inchers. Come back before the departing flight, two weeks later. Find them three feet long and still growing. Venomous fiends. I wonder what they'll feed on. What the hell are they eating? May be there's a race of albino humans deep in them caves. Drawn phosphorescent by the radiation. Feeding off worms and maggots and sometime cannibalistic tendencies. And when all alone eat their arm or their leg. Chew right through it. They can. Nerves are shot. Third degree radiation burns. Crawl slowly through the half artificial tunnels. Don't dare venture outside except may be at noon but then they're blind. Can't do it at night though. Show up like a bare dick on the satellite feed. They send in a dark copter. 5.56 NATO straight to the head, 22 inch barrel, scoped. At that range, at that velocity it fragments soon after hitting the skull. Brains chopped up in the head and all that the brains and metal and bone shards flying out. Poor mutant never stood a chance. Triggerman smokes a cigar. Up in the air is the last bastion of freedom in this godforsaken land. Now I've seen everything, he thinks. They descend lower to confirm the kill. What for? I've seen it through my damn scope. Instructions are to get close, says the pilot. BANG. What was that? They're too low and the fucking centipedes are leaping, twisting themselves in the air, and snatching at the craft with their rear appendages. One. Two. Three of them. Going after the craft. Forcipules snatching at the tail. One gets chopped up by the rotor. Climb climb climb. Fuck. Now I've seen everything.
2006-08-30 18:02:02 ET
Comments? Criticisms? Death threats? Human sacrifice?
|This definately needs a re-write.|
2006-08-30 18:00:23 ET
April 10, 1988
I woke up today to the sound of explosions and jack boots on pavement concrete. Looking outside I saw half the town was airbombed and the Waffen SS going from house to house and shooting any unluckies they could find. I am writing this from my cellar in which I hid a few hours ago. I hope to God they do not find me. I want to live. What are Nazis doing out here anyway? I thought they died out with the 40s? Unless... unless these are retroNazis. Unless this is a retrowar.
[Next page, same date]
April 10, 1988
It is as I had suspected. The town lies in ruin. The town lies in oblivion. Smoke rises from the ash and bodies and rubble but the jackbooted thugs are nowhere to be seen. It appears that, like most fashions, retroNazism was a fad and a quick one at that. Lasting no more than 12 hours or so. I hope no such fashions arise again for too many people here have died. I suspect there are other pockets of retroNazis elsewhere in this nation. It is very likely now that retroNapoleonism and retroRedCoats have gone old and cold and stale. "War is in" they say. It's been like this for a decade. I fear whatever the next fad is. I fear what the waves of time and cultural insanity will bring in and forth to this world.
[Mostly pointless entries. It skips forward until February of next year.]
February 12, 1989
After nearly a year of peace we now face retroVietnam. There are shots somewhere far off and napalm raids and vendors on the street hawking black pajamas and ChiCom SKSs. On the other side of town there is a sale on French dictionaries. Inbetween the two there is much bloodshed. Another fad. Another dozen thousand dead. Pseudo-Vietnamese and pseudo-French and pseudo-American forces clashing in the jungle of concrete and rebar. The Tet Offensive - noon time. Hue is overtaken and then retaken. Everything plays out like it did and then branches out into something new. It's all fake. It's all real. And thousands upon thousands die each day. The sides keep shifting to what's fashionable. retroVC is in, come buy your black jammies, tie yourself to a tree, we've got a discount on 7.62x39 right here come get yours! And suddenly the whole neighborhood's dressed up all black and digging tunnels. Across the street they get a shipment of brand new aluminum M16s, space black finish, "self-cleaning" so you don't need a kit. They snatch them up and turn fire onto their friends now temporary enemies dressed in black hidden in tunnels and bunkers and foxholes. But the cartridges use the wrong powder. The barrel's not chromed. Fucked. RetroVietCong overtakes RetroAmericana. Americana pushes back. Blood and bullets and bombs.
[Nothing for 3 days. Then]
February 15, 1989
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Shots ricochet, shells explode, and then a sudden silence. Bodies on the ground and uniforms, black jammies and GI uniforms, empty. Everyone's naked and changing into retroVisigoths and clamoring over each other to get to vendors hawking what's new and fresh and hip and in and it's all retro again. "Fuck the Romans!" they yell "Fuck the Empire!". Another retroWar. They don't seem to pause now. Eventually either they'll all be dead of attrition or they'd go through all the conflicts in the world and then who knows? May be they'll go retroRetro. May be they'll find something new. All I know is I'm putting on my animal hides, unsheating my sword, and going forth to fuck the old worlds.
|Jump to page: [Previous] 1 « 11 12 13 14 15 » 47 [Next]|
Back to Enamon's page
Everything on this page is copyrighted to the individual page owners and/or subkultures.net.