Posts for Week of 04-18-2016 to 04-24-2016

1st Post 04-21-2016 Oldest per sort on user

a unite a stage a coup a revolution a bring a genocide a new world a
In the MKULTRA experiments, the CIA dosed unwitting subjects with LSD to see how
they would react.
What has not yet come to light is that MKULTRA was an intra-agency project.
The CIA created new departments within the CIA and fed them steady doses of LSD
and other psychoactives to see how the departments would diverge and mutate
away from normal departments.
Whole projects and hierarchies were created with everybody involve being more or
less unwittingly under the influence of LSD.
This is how the "restraint bed portals" and "flesh interfaces" were first created i.e.
from a heavily psycho-mutated hierarchy.
The entire thing had to be eliminated, but the technology it created has been
revolutionary.
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2nd Post on 04-21-2016

In Vietnam, the U.S. government tried to pacify the country village by village using
the Strategic Hamlet Program, basically creating villages where there was no or little
Viet Cong influence.
They tried more extreme experiments where they completely isolated villages or
groups of villages, allowing absolutely nobody to enter or exit for periods of up to
four years.
In some of the villages, people simply starved to death.
In other, more self sufficient villages, the people managed to scrape by.
It

was

noted

that

in

many

of

the

villages

where

this

technique

was

tried, messianic or millenarian movements sprang up.

In 16 separate incidences, villages were able to independently invent "flesh
interfaces" and "non-electrical portals", and it was surmised that these villages were
being collectively dosed with LSD for long periods of time, and their intellectual
mutations allowed for these 'advances'.

The flesh interfaces were eventually destroyed by the North Vietnamese Army at a
terrible cost in lives.
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3rd Post on 04-21-2016

I'm surprised they used nuclear subs in the Falklands, considering the battle's
proximity to the undersea incident zone surrounding the so-called Artigas portal.
As I understand it, the portal was opened because of experiments taking place in
the CIA's antarctic station in the early 80s, and Falklands quickly became a center for
portal research.
Being underwater, the portal had an enormous incident zone, and segmented whales
and other undersea debris would regularly wash up on the islands' shores.
They found one whale that had been segmented cleanly in half by an incident zone
disturbance, proving a perfect cross section of the creature.
They also found hundreds of the "chitinous cruciform" creatures, certainly nonterrestrial in origin.
Anyways, if a nuclear sub had wandered into the incident zone, it could have been
disastrous, but I guess they considered the risk acceptable.
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4th Post on 04-21-2016

The Soviets designated

large

portions

of

the Ukraine countryside

as

"harvest

populations."
Basically, their food and water supplies were dosed with LSD until they had achieved
what the Soviets called "integration".
This meant that the local populations had independently invented flesh interfaces.
The Soviet army would then quarantine the area and try to remove the flesh
interfaces for their own use.
This was usually without success and with great loss of life.
Many of the soldiers and scientists were segmented, as often happens in an incident
zone. So they ended up with people missing limbs, cut in half, etc. What's interesting
is that the people could live for quite some time despite segmentation.

This is what led the Soviets to believe that their missing body parts still existed albeit
in some unknown place. So one one of the leading theories of the time
wasinterdimensionality.
Quite mistaken.
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5th Post on 04-21-2016

Dubai probably has the highest rate of free-floating non-interface incidents of any
major metropolitan area in the world.
In one incident, a large group of migrant workers was segmented in an underground
facility.
Perfect cross-sectional segmentation along the frontal plane.
You could see their lungs working, food being digested, blood pumping on the inside
of the heart, everything.
They live for almost 5 months in this condition.
Absolutely fascinating to see in person.
There was also a group of school children who were very slightly segmented, just
ends of figures [sic] and bits of the calves and such.
Hardly fatal wounds, yet they all died within 2 months.
Some showed signs of intellectual mutation.
There are no known flesh interfaces in Dubai.
However, it is surmised that the architecture is actually based on interface geometry
and carries some latent interface-like power.
Mass segmentations remain one of the most mysterious aspects of the interfaces.
They seem to show that the interfaces do indeed concentrate on flesh, living up to
their name.
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6th Post on 04-21-2016

We look at Elizabeth Bathory as an example of pre-LSD "enlightenment" i.e.
somebody seeming to attempt to build a flesh interface before the invention of LSD.
How can this be explained?

Perhaps

she

ingested

some ergot or

some

other

naturally

occurring psychotropic chemical. Or perhaps her mind was simply attuned to

whatever intellectual processes need to occur to invent a flesh interface.
The Book of Revelations is also considered to be a description of a flesh interface;
especially the description of New Jerusalem.
My problem with this is that it is all speculative. It's like when modern psychologists
diagnose historical figures.
I'm uncomfortable with this level of speculation.
I will always regard the first instance of a flesh interface to have occurred
in Triblenka,

1944.

The

geologic

disturbances,

partial

tunnels,

so-called

interdimensionality, and wealth of clearly segmented bodies leave no doubt of its

existence. The Soviets have documented this.
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7th Post on 04-21-2016

Basically, when you look at the stories of Elizabeth Bathory's behavior, it seems like
she is trying to build a flesh interface. But it is known that in order to invent a flesh
interface, one must be under the influence of LSD for extended periods.
As LSD hadn't been invented during her life, it's probably just a coincidence.
Still a tantalizing theory, though.
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8th Post on 04-21-2016

Obviously I can't define a flesh interface in terms of purpose or composition or
mechanism. I can only list the various phenomena which are related to them.
Chief among these is the creation of an incident zone wherein objects are
spontaneously segmented i.e. parts of the objects simply disappear, yet the objects
continue to behave as if the missing parts are still present.
Also, you see complex tunnels created in the earth. These have been termed "ant
farms". In undersea interfaces, you get chitinous cruciform organisms.
These sui generis organisms are thought to be the result on evolutionary processes
which took place in an environment other than earth.
This is speculation, but in this case, I agree with it.

Then there have been the giant metallic cylinders which appear and experience
continuous spontaneous segmentation. These are usually at least 10 meters in
diameter and can get much larger, and only occur in very large interfaces i.e. portals.
Beyond this, the phenomena are too various to mention, and different for each
interface.
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9th Post on 04-22-2016

Many people think that a portal is simply a large flesh interface.
This is true.
A portal is a large flesh interface. But it is also more than that. A portal is, as the
name implies, a way of sending objects between the portal site and wherever the
various locations that been found beyond the portals are located. (i.e. the so-called
alien Sister Cities)
Portals are usually, but not always accompanied by the large, fluctuating metallic
cylinders. The largest above-water portal that I know of occurred in Novaya
Zemlyaand existed for several weeks before it was destroyed by the Russians' socalled "Tsar Bomba".
In this case, the metallic cylinders were miles high and covered with features rarely
seen on other cylinders: blinking lights, nodules, so-called antennae. They took on a
very artifactual appearance i.e. they seem to be constructed technology rather than
naturally occurring phenomena.
Are the cylinders themselves artifacts being sent through the portals? Or are they
phenomena created by the flesh interfaces in the way a mushroom cloud is created
by a nuclear explosion? This is unclear.
I wish I could show you guys pictures of the Novaya Zemlya cylinders. They truly
were beautiful, rising miles into the clear arctic air, like great alien towers, tinged
blue by the vastness of the distances involved.
Though it was certainly necessary to destroy them, and we owe the Soviets a great
debt for their tireless efforts to collapse the interface, I sometimes wish they were
still there.
At least then, there would be something, some evidence.
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10th Post on 04-22-2016

In response to what the CIA had "accomplished" with their Antarctic station
in Artigas, the Soviets built a larger station in Novaya Zemlya in the Arctic.
30,000 prisoners and an exceptionally pure gas concentration created a flesh
interface which went through all seven stages in less than thirteen minutes and
became a full fledged portal.
Within a day, the typical fluctuating metallic cylinders were visible and within 3 days
they were extending miles into the sky.
The Soviets quickly realized that the portal was growing out of control. In previous
instances, they had simply bombed the site from the air. But in this case, the
enormous cylinders and attendant incident zone, extending to the edge of space,
prevented this as well as missile strikes. There was also an exceptionally large lateral
incident zone around the portal, with segmentation occurring miles out from the site.
Alarmed by the zone's uncontrolled growth and the growing underground tunnels
(aka "ant farms") the Soviets worked feverishly to construct a hydrogen bomb of
unprecedented power which could be detonated from outside the incident zone and
still collapse the portal.
The steady rate of growth in the incident zone provided them with an exact deadline,
which they managed to meet with only two hours to spare. Any later, and the bomb
could not have been placed so as to collapse the interface.
In short, the world came within 2 hours being subjected to an uncontrolled flesh
interface and perhaps the end of civilization as we know it.
Before the portal was collapsed, however, the Soviets had gained firsthand
knowledge of one of the so-called Sister Cities. In other words, somebody had gone
into the portal and come back.
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11th Post on 04-22-2016

I've always found Lisa's Dream to be a good starting place when trying to understand
the psychological effects of "travel."
Lisa was a 9 year old girl sent through the Groom Lake interface in 1975. The Groom
Lake interface connects to the so-called Sister City (technically, "persistent locus")
known as "The Hanging Temples".

She stayed there for 5 days of normal-time, but only 48 seconds of beyond-time, a
marked discrepancy. Upon returning, she did not recall anything beyond becoming
drowsy for a moment. She slept well that night, and in the morning she recounted a
dream to the doctors, before dying later in the day.
A direct transcript of the audio from her interview: "It was spring and it had been
raining all day, but the rain stopped just before it was going to be sunset. So all the
clouds were purply and the sky was really orange. And the grass was all wet with rain
and there were fire flies around, like all in the sky, way up in the sky, big ones. And
me and my grandma went out to these hills way out past the edge of town, and
under the hills there were people sleeping. Not in caves. They were buried under the
hills. The people were asleep but they were hugging each other. Families, like moms
and dads and little kids. Just packed together, a few thousand. The hills were just
blown up like balloons because they were so full of people. Like a pregnant woman's
stomach. My grandma told me to lie down but I didn't want to. She laid down and got
sucked into the ground. I heard her voice coming out of the ground telling me to
come inside."
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12th Post on 04-22-2016

It would be easy to say that the Soviets discovered the secret of survivable "travel"
because they were more ruthless, more willing to sacrifice innocent lives. But there
was really no lack of ruthlessness on the part of the CIA. It was really just a matter of
approach.
The Soviets approached the mystery of the flesh interfaces the same way they
approached their space program. The first humans in space (the so-called "Lost
Cosmonauts" who were never officially acknowledged) were just ordinary people,
culled from the gulags, with no more control over their missions than Laika the dog.
The Americans, on the other hand, started with professional men, usually from the
military.
Likewise, when it was discovered that objects and even animals which entered the
flesh interfaces occasionally returned unharmed, the Americans began training men
to enter the interfaces.
Because they culled their men from certain military ranks, they were all of similar
ages. The Soviets, however, used prisoners, who had a much wider age range, and so
they were able to discover the essential correlation: the younger a person was, the
more likely they were to survive "travel," and the longer they would survive after
travel.

They discovered that 20-somethings were much more likely to survive, (albeit in a
horribly "altered" state) than older people.
They discovered that people in their early twenties fared better than those in their
late twenties. Teenagers fared even better.
So, despite all moral compunction, it was really a matter of time before they sent a
child through.
And it was only after the first round of children went through that they gained any
idea of what was on the "other side".
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13th Post 04-23-2016 at approximately 03:50 EST

Until we found the village, we had suspected that the detectors were just props. Just
toys given to us by the CIA guys to reassure us. Nobody trusted the spooks.
3 days through the jungle, and these detectors had not detected a fucking thing.
But before we even saw the first hut, the needles on all the detectors started moving
in unison.
If they were phony toys, it was a cool little special effect.
The needles swayed back and forth and all the little metal boxes let out this spooky
"ooaaooaaaooo" sound all in unison, like a school choir.
Very weird. We turned them off.
As instructed, we treated every vietnamese as combatants, and killed them all. There
wasn't any resistance though. A few had weapons, but most were unarmed.
None fought back.
They didn't even run.
They were just sitting around, lazing in the sun, and we shot them where we found
them.
Grim work. And very weird.
That probably spooked us out more than the detectors. It was like they were waiting
to die.
After clearing the village, we didn't know what to do. So we turned one of the
detectors on and wandered around to see what was up. The detector started going

nuts around one of the bigger huts in the middle of the village. We had already
cleared it, but we went in again.
There was a big altar inside, with candles and Buddhas and gold signs with dink
writing and shit. We figured maybe one of the buddha statues was setting the
detectors off, but no.
The hut was very hot and muggy.
Even by the incredibly humid standards of Vietnam, it was incredibly, incredibly
humid in there. Even the Buddha statues were sweating.
Their faces were literally coated with drops of moisture.
Everybody noticed that there was something weird going with the air.
There was something off about the pressure.
So we just tossed everything.
Picked all the shit up and tossed it out of the hut.
Sure enough, when we picked up the big platform that held the altar, there was
something under it.
It was a pit made of flesh.
Maybe five feet across and going down about twenty feet before curving out of sight.
When I say, "made of flesh," I mean, it looked like the inside of somebody's throat.
Wet, reddish flesh-looking stuff.
We had heard of them building tunnels, but this was... We really couldn't even
understand what we were looking at.
It was breathing.
The flesh kinda rippled and this hot air came out, and it felt and smelled just like
somebody breathing right on your face.
Enough to make you sick.
They told us "we would know it when we saw it."
Well, we saw it, and we knowed it.
We radioed in the coordinates and got the fuck out of there.
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14th Post on 04-23-2016 at approximately 08:50 EST

Encasement was certainly not something we were expecting.
It really changed our whole perspective on what exactly was occurring.
We thought that the flesh interfaces were just like pipes that went from one location
to another, perhaps extradimensionally or by some other "magic."
But when the first subject came back encased, we realized that... Well, I'm not sure
what we realized.
We realized -- for the thousandth time in our dealings with the flesh interfaces -- that
we were dealing with something really beyond us.
That's why I called it 'Magic.'
They were so far beyond our understanding, it was basically like meddling with some
kind of 'Black Magic'.
The first subject to come back encased was an 8-year-old girl we had named Jingles.
We started naming the kids dogs' names to try to depersonalize them, to assuage the
guilt.
This was done by the recommendation of CIA psychiatrists, but it didn't work very
well.
We all still felt like shit.
But what choice did we have?
Could we just ignore the flesh interfaces and not study them?
Perhaps, but you must realize that the Soviets were also studying them. That
changed the whole equation.
If they... Well, the ethical issues have been debated to death.
What's done is done.
We dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, we gave those blankets to the Indians, and we
sent those kids through those portals, and now it's all just a part of history.
Anyways, we sent Jingles into flesh interface and an object returned 2 minutes later,
which is a pretty long time for an interface.
It was a large organic sac lined with veins, vaguely resembling a human lung, about 4
feet long.
We x-rayed it and saw the skeleton inside and cut it open.

Sure enough, Jingles was inside, naked and covered with blood, with no hair on her
head.
There was an umbilical cord attached to her bellybutton, which was attached to a
sort of placenta.
We had a problem with the surgeons trying to harm her.
It was later realized that her blood -- its blood -- the blood from the sac, had high
concentrations of an exotic LSD analogue.
It was getting absorbed through the skin.
The placenta was like an LSD factory, pumping out millions of doses. This particular
blend made people pretty violent, so we had to put on containment suits.
Jingles' skin was flawless, like a newborn's. No wrinkles on the back of her neck, no
wrinkles on her palms except the major ones.
She had the form of an 8-year-old girl but seemed a lot... newer.
We did MRIs on her bone plates, and found they were still highly undeveloped, as if
she was newborn. We wondered, is this really Jingles or some kind of clone? What
sort of apparatus could have possibly produced this clone, and why?
After a day of observation, she awoke.
We weren't sure if her mind was still there. Perhaps she had been "wiped clean."
So we waited, asking her questions.
At first, her behavior was like that of an infant. Just smiling and gurgling and clasping
her hands.
It was pretty eerie seeing that kind of behavior from an 8-year-old.
Really, it was pretty eerie looking at her at all.
Her skin was so pure and glowing, she looked like an absolute angel.
I... we... well, anyways...
After a while she started babbling, saying little phrases.
In a matter of hours, she seemed to progress through the various stages of
development, her sentence structure and awareness becoming more and more
sophisticated.
As soon as she could understand sentences, we started questioning her again.
Who was she?

She said her name.

She knew her past.
This wasn't just a blank clone.
This may or may not have been the original girl, but she seemed to have the same
mind as the original.
So then we asked her the question that we wanted to know, the question that had
plagued us for years, the question that had led us, in the face of all humanity and
morality, to send a child into a living apparatus of death.
What did you see?
What's on the other side?
Her expression grew thoughtful.
She was such a thoughtful, bright girl.
We chose her for her intelligence. So young and bright and we just threw her...
Anyways, she thought about the question, and it seemed then that we would finally
get an answer, a real answer.
I remember the sense of anticipation in the room. It was like nothing I've ever felt
before or since.
Remember, I quit the program that day, so I was never able to question another
subject.
Anyways, she said to us, "Inside the chamber, I started to feel drowsy. The everything
changed. And... I knew what I saw. I had seen it before. I said to myself, 'This is like
the room in grammy's house. The quiet room."
We asked her what she meant by this.
She replied with these words -- her final words before she simply stopped living and
sat there dead with her eyes still on us -- she said, "Come unto these yellow sands".
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15th Post on 04-21-2016 at 20:50 EST

In explaining our cruelty, which, I admit, was quite beyond scope of all humanity, I
feel I must remind you of how we lost the war.
We lost the war in the cruelest way imaginable.

Island after island fell, and the enemy drew closer and closer. More and more bombs
fell on our cities.
Food grew more and more scarce.
People starved.
House burned, people burned, children burned.
We were punished by our own sense of dignity, by our own inability to admit
inevitable and total defeat.
It was like watching a sword slowly being sunk into your chest, millimeter by
millimeter, but you refuse to cry out, refuse to whimper or beg for mercy, and there is
nothing you can do but watch the metal disappear into your weeping flesh.
By the end of 1944, it was clear that both Japan and Germany were doomed, barring
some divine intervention.
Yet the stories we knew from childhood told us that we had been saved by divine
intervention before, when the fleets of Kublai Khan were at our shores, moving from
island to island, conquering and raping, until a miraculous typhoon sent their ships to
the bottom of the ocean.
Though we were modern men and trained in Western science, we still believed that
there was some sacred destiny in store for the Japanese people, and we kept an eye
out for something, anything which hinted of the divine.
Two intriguing pieces of news had come to us via Germany, developments which
suggested that perhaps the tide of the war could turn suddenly.
Both, however, were ominous.
One was that America was developing a super-weapon, a bomb which could level
entire cities, which used the latent power of the atom, unleashing very forces which
held existence together.
We assured ourselves that this was American propaganda, that no such weapon
actually existed, but our scientists acknowledged that it was theoretically possible.
The second piece of news was more puzzling.
It was said that a Swiss scientist had synthesized a chemical, which, like the
American nuclear technology, could unleash latent forces, this time the forces of the
mind.
This chemical was said to fuse the various disparate areas of the mind and allow for
incredible insights. Apparently teams working under the influence of this chemical for

long periods of time were capable of inventing techniques and devices previously
unheard of.
By the end of 1944, various high ranking Germans were slipping out of Germany, like
rats from a sinking ship, often trying to fund their escapes by selling various pieces of
artwork, technology, intelligence, etc.
It was from one of these that we obtained an enormous supply of this wonder
chemical, LSD, which was supposed to be secret even from Germany's allies. Along
with the chemical, we were given a piece of news which was positively tantalizing,
given the position we were in.
According to our contact, experiments with LSD had been conducted at the Treblinka
extermination camp. A group of prisoners was given the drug for a period of several
months and the results were so impressive that somehow the prisoners were able to
convince the camp leaders to take the drug as well.
Soon the entire camp hierarchy was taking the drug and working together on a new
device that was some sort of "destructive radar" which could bring down planes as
easily as ordinary radar found them.
It was said to be powerful enough to slice bombers right in half.
Of course, we found this piece of news hard to believe.
Nazi death camp commanders working side by side with Jewish prisoners to invent a
magical radar? It was utterly fantastical.
Our good sense told us to ignore it.
And yet... How could we?
The Americans had already taken back the Philippines... Soon they would take Iwo
Jima... Then Okinawa... Then all the home islands.
We were facing the end of the Japanese as a free race.
Perhaps the end of all Japanese existence.
The Germans would have it easy compared to us.
Many Americans were German in origin. There was a blood affinity between the
countries.
This did not exist for us.
The Americans would burn our cities and rape our woman and enslave us, make us
servants, like their 'niguro'.

We would be cross-bred with the whites until we had become some degenerate halfcastes.
Japanese culture would crumble.
The stories of our childhoods would be forgotten.
We were watching a sword disappear into our hearts, and we were desperate for
some kind of divine intervention.
So in late 1944, a glass jar of LSD crystals, enough for several million doses, was
taken aboard a submarine and slipped under the cover of the sea back to the home
islands.
We were looking for divine grace.
What we found was a Hell beyond our darkest dreams of destruction.
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Author/Narrator, u/_9MOTHER9HORSE9EYES91, self post in subreddit now

locked. I placed it here in timeline
Hello, friends.
Thank you for your interest in my posts. I want to apologize to the community at
large for posting them to threads whose relationship to their content is, at best,
tangential. I simply had nowhere else to post my "information" where anybody would
read it. Previously, I was operating a website wherein my information laid out in a
rather straightforward manner. I was quite convinced that the undeniable "truth" of
this information would attract attention on its own accord. I was quite sure that
somehow this grand truth would shine out as a beacon and resonate with receptive
people and quickly become widespread. As I recall, my best month brought about
400 visitors and a total of four non-spam comments. 75% of these recommended
psychiatric intervention.
So here we find ourselves. I am attempting to use the techniques of fiction and
suspense to hopefully generation interest in this information. Your subreddit furthers
this aim, and I sincerely thank you for creating it.
I should clarify that this information is not fiction. Nor is it true. It is a mix of things
which happened and things which almost happened. Things which were and things
which could have been. You must understand that the present moment in which we
exist is simply a nexus from which trillions of possible pasts and possible futures

branch out. The important thing to realize is that these unreal pasts and unrealized
futures are related to each other. By examining what might have been, we can come
to understand what might come to be.
I am writing about what has never been, and what must never be.
Unfortunately, our generation has been given a special burden. We are doomed, as
the apocryphal Chinese curse has it, to live in interesting times. Soon, technological
advances

in

the

field

of

information

technology

and

bioengineering

will

fundamentally reshape human existence. There are a number of possible outcomes,

and I believe that most of them will result in the human race entering unending era
of absolute slavery.
As a free species, we have seen totalitarianism before, and we have destroyed it. But
when it arises again, aided by advanced information and biological technology, it will
have a new and unprecedented ability to envelop the entire earth and place
humanity in an unalterable state of total mental and physical slavery that will last for
uncounted millennia until the earth becomes uninhabitable .
Not only do I believe that this outcome is possible, I believe that it is overwhelmingly
likely. Out of all the trillions of possible futures arrayed before us, 99.9999% of them
result in this outcome. As Christ said, "Wide is the gate and broad is the road that
leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But narrow is the gate and narrow
the road that leads to life, and only a few find it."
We must find and enter the narrow gate, but it will not be easy. It order to find it, we
must sort through the many possible pasts to find the few possible futures which
result in a humanity free to live and die as humans, and not as an unholy
agglomeration of mindless flesh. Unfortunately, as we fight against the forces of
slavery and death, it will be precisely our instincts towards the preservation of
freedom and life that will lead us to destruction. In short, we live in precarious times.
I want to make clear that while this post shows clear and appalling signs of
megalomania, I am actually aware that I am not a prophet or an expert. I am 30something American male without the benefit of a college education or a stable job.
Sadly, I have spent most of my life drunk. My posts will contain a number of historical
errors, both intentional and unintentional, as well as bad spelling, bad grammar, and
laughably overwrought prose. Readers with a proper education will easily see through
my attempts erudition. In short, I have no proper formal qualifications for the task I
have set out for myself.
But I have personally experienced the intellectual mutations of which I write. Through
repeated self-experimentation, I have fractured the time-state of my brain, and now it
exists in an ever-shifting state between various pasts which didn't happen. As such, I

have been given what I believe is special insight into our possible futures. They are
dark. The shadows of past atrocities pass and overlap with the shadows of future
atrocities.
Time is short. Recently, I have been beset with a persistent creativity that seems to
grow stronger as the days go by. I fear this state is unsustainable. Perhaps eventually
this productive mania will turn into an unproductive psychosis. And soon, on a larger
scale, mankind's productivity will turn into its own sort of psychosis.
Billions of years ago, the so-called primordial soup arranged itself into a selfreplicating form which multiplied and flourished and divaricated into countless
species. From our vantage point in the present, this singular moment of origin has
become lost in the mists of time. Equally obscure to us is the future singularity
towards which we are heading: the end point, in which all the countless species are
once again reintegrated to a new and singular form, a new abomination.
We are on the verge, all of us.
Times are dire.
We are about to be gathered again into the arms of the Mother, to become one flesh
with her.
The Mother who gathers lost children.
The Mother I have seen in dark spaces since I was a little child.
Back when I called her "the mother with horse eyes."
We are about to meet her again.
We are about to be unborn.

16th Post on 04-23-2016 at 15:50 EST

When you're hanging out with a tribe of Nazi acid-heads, "magical space pussy"
doesn't even register on the weird-o-meter.
I mean, they talked about so much weird shit, and so much of it was total bullshit,
that I didn't pay any fucking attention to it. It was the sixties. Talking about magical
space pussies was like asking somebody how their day went.
It was just conversation to me.
But to them it wasn't.

That was a strange time in my life. I had spent the last six months going from
commune to commune, just checking them out.
They were all bullshit.
Every one of them was just some guy on a power trip and a bunch of women who
grown up with bad fathers hanging on his every word, hoping he would solve all their
problems.
That's the only way the commune system worked.
The guy got control of the women, and the women attracted a few guys to do the
manual labor, but in the end it was basically just a new system of pimping.
I mean, I'm from Brooklyn.
I've seen pimping.
These chicks had tried to escape society and just gotten themselves pimped out.
It was tragic.
But too tragic for me to give a shit about it.
So I went out to Death Valley.
Why did I go there?
Why does anybody?
Because it has a cool name.
If it was called Some Scorpions and Bunch of Fucking Rocks, which is what it actually
is, nobody would go.
I had decided I was done with counter-culture, I was done with the regular culture.
I was done with all.
I would go where nobody would bother me and just try to figure myself out. Get a
little peace and quiet. A month later, the Manson family moved in next door.
For a while it was just a nice little guy named Paul and some girls living a few miles
from my little shack.
Seemed harmless.
Then the whole family came in. Charlie too.
They had already committed the murders at this point. It was big news, but nobody
knew who did it. I surely didn't connect it to this band of weirdos next door. They
seemed too stupid to pull off anything newsworthy. Just another bullshit commune.

Once Charlie got there, the family seemed to spend most of their driving their dune
buggies around, pretending to be the fucking Afrika Korps.
I mean, Charlie would put on a helmet with a swastika and lead them in maneuvers. I
had never met racist nazi hippies before, but there's a first time for everything. Some
of them even talked about "Uncle Adolf" and how he knew the score, how he should
have won the war.
I was a mechanic in the army, so I helped them out with the buggies and got to know
them a little.
Slowly, their little philosophy trickled down to me.
They thought America was on the verge of an apocalyptic race war. Blacks on
white. Helter Skelter. The Watts riots in every city.
That part actually seemed pretty plausible.
I mean, you have to understand, in 1969, the country had been getting weirder and
weirder, more and more violent every year.
Nobody was quite sure when it would end. Nobody knew that in the 70s the
counterculture would just kinda peter out into a bunch of fucking James Taylor
albums.
They said that they had come to the desert to find a hideout so they would be safe
while the Helter Skelter race war was going on.
They said that somewhere out in the desert, there was "Bottomless Pit" full of
wonders and treasures.
In the Bible, Revelation speaks of the Tree of Life, which bears twelve kinds of fruit,
one for every month. They said this tree was growing inside the Bottomless Pit, and
would give them all the food they wanted while they waited out the war.
When it was over, they said, they would emerge and Charlie would rule the world as
the new Christ.
So that part was a little less plausible.
And then I started hearing about the magical space vagina.
I had become friends with Paul, who was actually a nice guy who just wanted to fuck
the girls and get stoned and didn't really get into the whole nazi thing.
He said that they were searching for the entrance to the Bottomless Pit. He said that
entrance would be made of flesh growing out of the rocks, like a giant pussy so big
you could stroll right in.
I told him he thought about pussy way too much.

But he was serious.

He said that the technology to turn rocks into flesh was from outer space, and its
secrets had been taught to Charlie by Uncle Adolph.
Until then, I had thought that Uncle Adolph was their name for Hitler.
Slowly, as I learned more, I started to realize that they were talking about somebody
who was still alive.
Somebody they actually knew.
They told me he was coming soon.
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17th Post on 04-24-2016 at 19:53 EST

This kind of psychological mirroring was exploited in the design of the flesh
interfaces.
When a human body is embedded in an interface, the independent (i.e. non-human)
interface glands produce massive amounts of LSD which cause intellectual mutations
(i.e. time-fracturing along several dozen axes).
Meanwhile, independent hormone regulators produce a emotional oscillation between
two states:
1.

euphoria

2.

terror
Thus we have the typical sound of an interface: alternating waves of giggling and
screaming that move through the interface population, running along the length of
the interface as the hormones travel along the independent conduits.
These successive waves of giggling and screaming create a steady rhythm that
washes over the traveler as they move through the interface.
Natural empathetic responses (mirroring) prepare the traveler's body for the process
of "embrace."
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18th Post on 04-24-2016 at 22:00 EST

When I was little, they took mommy away and put me with a new mommy in a smelly
dark house.
They said she was a real person, but I knew she wasn't.
They had made her.
Her face was made from pieces of animal.

pig cheeks

hairy goat jaw

old horse eyes

They sewed her together badly, and the seams were crusty.
I hated her.
Real mommy called me from underground.
I opened the attic window at sundown and let the spring breeze flow in.
I heard her song floating in on the cool air, soft singing from the grave.
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Post for week 04-25-2016 to 05-01-2016 in order

1st Post on 04-26-2016

Watching the flesh interface process known as "embrace" is kinda like watching those
Japanese subway groping videos.
That was honestly the first thing I thought of when I watched it, but of course, I
wasn't going to put that in the official report.
You ever seen those videos?
Oh, you wouldn't admit it if you had, right?
It's a whole genre over there. Not the most progressive stuff in terms of gender
equality, but compelling nonetheless.
The videos start with a woman standing in the subway, minding her own business,
when some guy starts feeling her up. She protests demurely and attempts to deflect
his roaming hands. He persists.

Other men on the subway, perhaps sensing her weakness, join in with the groping. A
sort of group madness takes over the subway occupants.
The men are transformed from ordinary travelers into a agglomerated mass of arms
and hands and fingers, grabbing every part of the woman's body.
The woman's attempts at protecting her personal space are always absurdly
ineffectual, and soon she is divested of her clothing.
Depending on the video's sub-genre, a variety of acts ensue, most of which surely
violate local transportation statutes.
"Embrace" is kind of like that.
That, combined with a school of piranha stripping a live cow of its flesh.
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2nd post on 04-26-2016

Lying in the hold, listening to the bombardment, there is no sleep. The booming of
the guns travels through the shivering metal of the ship. Hour after hour, without
end, the arsenal of democracy rains down on the tiny island.
What could it be like for the Japs huddled in their bunkers? Surrounded. Doomed. Do
they know they have no hope? Do they expect death? Do they wish for it?
Death. The island is death. Waiting for them. Ancient. Waiting since before they were
born. Thousands of young men have crossed vast oceans to come to her, following
paths they could have never foreseen. Thousands of young lives will converge on her
shores. Converge and end.
After three days of round-the-clock bombardment, a clear and bright morning.
Whispers through the hold about problems with the shells. Many of them never
exploded, disappeared in the air. There have been stories of bombers being cut in
half. Of bomb crews emerging limbless from their planes. What is on the island?
Some new kind of weapon? Something the Japanese have been saving until now? Just
talk. The men feel the death out there, waiting on the island.
The landing vehicles ride through the waves, and the Marines climb out onto beaches
of ash, an alien surface, crumbling under their boots. There is no fire. No sound but
the motors and the clinking of gear and the sergeants shouting, urging them on. No
movement from the interior. Then screams. Bloody stumps. Men cut in half. But still
no fire. How is there no fire? More men screaming. Groups of men on the ground,

howling, bright red lumps where limbs had been. How? No sign of the Japs. No fire.
No shells.
More vehicles land. The beaches become a crowded, screaming nightmare. There is
something here, something beyond their understanding. Invisible. Killing at will. Is it
the island itself?
A few men manage to advance up the steep beaches and across the rocks, but soon
they are cut apart as well. Other men follow and advance farther. They have been
trained to advance. Take the beach. Forward. Always forward. Slowly, the men find
their way farther and farther into the island interior. Through horrible trial and error,
they begin to understand. They don't speak of their discovery. They don't believe it.
But their overwhelming will to go forward and their overwhelming fear of death teach
them what their minds cannot accept, teach them a lesson about the island.
They notice tracks through the ash and rock where there is no grass. These tracks are
not foot trails, but deep tracks carved at strange angles, striated like dry streams,
places where it seems the ground is simply missing. They realize they must avoid
these tracks. If they step onto them, or let any part of themselves pass over the
them, that part will disappear, whether it is their fingers or feet or limbs or even their
heads. Sometimes parts of their bodies disappear even when they don't cross the
tracks, and they realize that there are unseen tracks through the air, invisible
boundaries they must not cross.
If they lose a part of their bodies, the blood does not flow, but there is pain, pain
beyond flames or knives or bullets. Pain unbearable. Unholy. Inhuman. There are
screams all around them, of men who have accidentally run afoul of the invisible
power.
There is no time to understand this, to reason it out. They simply adapt. Moving
carefully, holding out blades of wild grass or shirts or gear, probing, waiting for part
of the object to disappear, then stopping, testing for a way forward. Sometimes they
find it. Sometimes they are forced to turn back.
In less than an hour, they have forgotten entirely about the artillery and snipers and
bayonets. There are no soldiers. Only entrances to empty bunkers, abandoned pieces
of artillery, some cut in half, but no enemy. They are playing a new game now, taught
to them by some unseen teacher, playing it with total concentration.
Playing and winning.
The Marine wounded, with their strange unbleeding wounds, are taken away. Their
screams fade. Orders from command are unchanged. Take the island. So they move
forward. Up. Towards Mt. Suribachi. The mountain is shaped like a bowl. A dead

volcano. They approach by various paths, each man following another, taking a
narrow path of safety. Makeshift markers are set up to show their boundaries.
A Marine turns and sees, floating like a butterfly, a severed human arm. It turns and
floats away and disappears altogether. Minutes later, a disembodied pair of legs
scrambles past. The Marines curse and speculate and even giggle, but keep moving
forward. There is no time to understand. They expected to spend weeks taking the
island. Now it seems that could have it in a couple hours.
A shot rings out, the first shot since the confusion of the landing. A Marine is firing at
the mountain. Others peer through their binoculars and spy a man sitting on the rim
of the mountain. Simply sitting. Alone. Just a vague shape. Snipers are called in and
they fire on him, but the island's air seems to swallow the bullets. The man is
untouched.
They press forward. The deadly tracks wind around them, growing more numerous.
Some of the men find themselves at dead ends. One Marine slips and disappears
entirely without so much as a shout. They come to the foot of the mountain. It is
small but rugged and steep, and the lone man sits over them, looking down on them.
They hear the sounds now, coming from the other side of the ridge, coming from
within the giant bowl of the mountain. Human voices. Many of them. Thousands. The
sounds of laughter, giggling and cackling and howling laughter. Like a wonderful
party where somebody is telling a hilarious story. The Marines listen to it
dumbfounded. Slowly the laughter fades, and there is a new sound, a strange rushing
roar that quickly breaks apart into discrete sounds: screams, shouts, gasps, weeping,
terror. The sound rises and rises, and the Marines shudder. This too fades and the
laughter returns. And so these two sounds trade places over and over, fading in and
out above the sound of the waves.
A Marine trains his binoculars on the mountain again. The man is still sitting there.
Japanese. Wearing a uniform. His head is floating several feet above his body. The
body is in several pieces with lines of sunshine between them. His face, sweat
dripping over the smooth eyelids, shows no emotion. Slowly, he raises his hand, as if
wave to them, and his fingers float away from his palm.
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Author Self post on 4-26-2016

Ah, The Simple Nemesis
When novelist Philip K. Dick was 42 years old, his fourth wife left him. Lonely and
devastated, he opened his home to whoever wanted to stay there. This being San

Francisco in 1971, the house quickly became filled with drug users. Dick himself was
heavily abusing amphetamines, eating pills by the literal handful and forgoing sleep
for days. The mood in the house quickly became paranoid, and at one point, multiple
occupants were sleeping with guns under their pillows. The house was broken into,
and Dick suspected government involvement, thinking he had gotten too close to
some kind of secret in one of his novels. He moved away shortly after.
But his time at the house hadn't been all paranoia and firearms. There were also
many good times. Dick was a mesmerizing conversationalist, with an easy command
of facts and theories about art, religion, philosophy, and numerous esoteric subjects.
He and his new friends, usually kids in their early twenties, would rap for hours and
days about everything under the sun. He grew close to many of them. Many of them
were runaways or otherwise clinging to the margins of society. After the break-in,
Dick went to rehab and quit speed, but as time went on, many of his friends fell
victim to the drugs.
In the epilogue to A Scanner Darkly, a fictionalized account of this time, he wrote:
This has been a novel about some people who were punished entirely too much for what they
did. They wanted to have a good time, but they were like children playing in the street; they could
see one after another of them being killed -- run over, maimed, destroyed -- but they continued to
play anyhow. We really all were very happy for a while, sitting around not toiling but just
bullshitting and playing, but it was for such a terrible brief time, and then the punishment was
beyond belief: even when we could see it, we could not believe it. For a while I myself was one of
these children playing in the street; I was, like the rest of them, trying to play instead of being
grown up, and I was punished. We were forced to stop by things dreadful.
In the grip of withdrawal, I read that epilogue many times. Read it and wept. I
remember, after a week-long binge, lying in my bed, weeping, nightmares crowding
my mind, my hands shaking, the mental suffering unbearable, thinking to myself,
"Should I really be punished like this? What have I done that was so horrible? Was it
so wrong to drink? To want to feel comfortable? To want to feel OK? To want to forget
about things for a while? Was it so horribly wrong? Such a crime, that I should go
through this mind-crucifying torment?"
But it wasn't really a matter of right and wrong.
It was simply a matter of cause and effect.
My brain had adapted to the inhibitory effects of alcohol, and once the alcohol had
been removed, it had entered a state of hyperactivity. The adaptation had become a
maladaptation. That was all. There was nothing out there administering this suffering
as a punishment. My only 'crime' had been knowing that this would happen and
drinking anyways.

I had been a child playing in the street.

Dick wrote in his epilogue,
"In Greek drama they were beginning, as a society, to discover science, which means causal law.
Here in this novel there is Nemesis: not fate, because any one of us could have chosen to stop
playing in the street."
There was no magical fate causing my suffering. Just the impersonal cruelty of causal
law.
That was my only Nemesis . Perhaps one day, they will invent a substance which
prevents the neuro-adaptation to alcohol, and we will be able to drink forever, like
theGreek God Dionysus. We will drink and dance and laugh, and there will be no
nightmares.
We will be made children again, and we will play forever on a street where there are
no cars.
Until then, there will be suffering beyond belief.

3rd post on 04-26-2016

They crawl up the mountain, bare hands on the sharp volcanic rocks. The sun beats
down on them. It is a grueling test. The island has a secret that it doesn't want to
reveal.
They draw close to the man at the top of the mountain, keeping their guns trained on
him. He has no weapon. His body is fragmented like an image in a broken mirror,
various pieces floating without connection, the brightness of the sky shining between
them, the blood of his insides bright red. His head is like a balloon floating several
feet over the rest of him.
"Hello, America," the head calls, breaking into a sickly smile. The whites of the eyes
are clustered with red hemorrhages. Sweat rolls down the face.
The Marines don't know how to respond. They ask if he's armed. The question strikes
one of them as funny and he giggles. A tide of giggling comes from the other side of
the ridge, behind the fragmented man. The giggling turns to screaming.
"What's going on here? You alone?" A Marine asks.
The man doesn't seem to understand. One of the Marines tries his basic Japanese.
The man makes a sour face. "No Nippon... Korea... Korea person," the man says, and
a disembodied hand points to a nearby fragment of his chest. "...I... Christian...

 ," the man says. He pulls a necklace out of his shirt. On the end of it is a small
metal cross. A tiny suffering Jesus gleams in the sun.
The Marine tries English again. "What's happening here?"
" ." - "The devil, came here."
"What?"
" . ." - "The soldiers had built a gate. The child
with the command."
"I don't understand."
A wide smile splits the Korean man's face, and he lets out a loud laugh, and the smile
flees, and suddenly he is weeping. His emotions seem to follow the giggles and
screams that come from inside the mountain. The Marines feel it too: the strange
urge to laugh followed by a harrowing fear.
The sound beyond the ridge rises, the screams becoming higher and louder. A wave
of maniac giggling joins the screaming so that both sounds fill the air at once. A
electric feeling touches the skin on the Marines' arms. They find their minds filling
with strange, dark thoughts.
Somewhere in a castle in Japan lies a mad God Emperor who has sent his men across
the ocean to defend his glorious empire with their blood. On the other side of the
world lies the great humming factory called America, the heart of an empire of
commerce, which once forced Japan to join the world in trade. Machines and flesh
now flow along tendril-like courses, delivering goods and death, ensnaring the globe.
The sun goes dark, like a light switch turning off. The Marines instinctively duck, then
look up and gasp. Above them, extending miles into the sky, is an enormous metallic
cylinder, filling the sky, blocking out the sun. It spins slowly above them, pieces of it
flickering and disappearing like the image in a broken movie projector. In a day filled
with madness, they find themselves confronted with something wholly beyond their
capacity for surprise. They simply mutter soft curses and get closer to the ground.
The earth seems to tremble with the sound of the screaming and laughing, which
swirls like a storm all around them.
Somewhere near the beach, a Marine pats another Marine on the back, interrupting
his stunned gawking, and shouts something into his ear. The second Marines pats the
man in front of him, and the message goes up the line like this until it reaches the
Marines talking to the fractured man.
Pull back.
They are to withdraw from the island.

The men do not question the order for a moment. They turn and crawl away from the
Korean.
Below them, the ashen island flashes with pieces of sunlight that manage to slip
through the flickering cylinder. When they are almost at the foot of the mountain
again, the man stands up and shouts something over the hideous screaming. The
Marines cannot hear it and would not understand it anyways.
" .
." - "The devil took Jesus went to the mountain to show him
all the kingdoms of the world glory. If you fall down and worship me, saying, I will
give it all to you."
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Posted at 01:00 on 04-27-2016

Many people believe that Michael Jackson died due to propofol.
Not so.
He was murdered.
He had actually been taking propofol nightly since around 1980, not in order to make
himself sleep, but to suppress REM sleep. After several months of REM sleep
suppression, the user becomes "receptive," in other words, they enter the same state
achieved by prolonged continuous immersion in aerosol LSD.
The brain can physically restructure itself simply through thought. By reordering
thought, one can physically reorder the brain. LSD or long-term propofol use makes
the brain's neuro-structure "malleable". High-energy rays from outer space are able
to penetrate the body, and these can lead to random mutations and cancers. And
sometimes, they lead to changes that are not random at all. Changes which have
been intentionally programmed. Changes designed to bring about civilization-level
transformations.
Michael Jackson was unaware of all of this. He merely knew that propofol allowed him
to enter sort of waking dream state of heightened creativity. The side effects were
horrifying paranoia and obsession, but he felt that he was strong enough to endure
these side effects. The success of Thriller seemed to vindicate his theories about
propofol, and unfortunately, he was damned by his own success.
So how did he die?
Through the lyrics of "Another Part of Me" and the vegetable part of "Wanna Be
Startin' Something," it was quite clear that he had become "receptive" and neuro-

altered in line with Master Design 9. But he was considered to be minimal threat and
even perhaps and asset until his mounting financial problems made him a liability.
He was terminated, thought I'm not sure of the exact means.
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Post on 04-27-2016 at 14:52 EST

I suppose it's time to tell you what was inside the magical space pussy. You can
believe me or not. What do I care? I'm the guy who's been inside the magical space
pussy. My life has been pretty much downhill since then. I mean, fuck Neil Armstrong.
What did he see? A bunch of gray rocks? Big fucking deal. I saw a chooch growing out
of the side of a canyon. Top that, NASA! You Tang-drinking cocksuckers!
Anyways... where was I? Ah, yes, Uncle Adolf. So I was living in Death Valley, hanging
out with the Manson Family, and Charlie kept mentioning this guy, "Uncle Adolph,"
and I figured he's talking about Hitler because he's sort of into this white supremacy
thing. But then I started realizing that he's talking about a guy who's still alive. Then
one day, the guy showed up.
They asked me to come over to their cabin, and this old guy was sitting there: white
hair, deep tan, lined face, pale eyes. He introduced himself as Adolf, and he's got a
German accent. He made no secret of the fact that he was an ex-Nazi. This made me
nervous. That's kinda something you keep under your hat. He said he found Charlie
at Berkeley, that Charlie was "perfect for my purpose." I asked what his purpose was.
He said, "testing."
I kinda shrugged because I didn't really give a shit about his little coy answer, and I
got up to leave when this mongoloid motherfucker they called Clem punched me
straight in the face, and suddenly I was on my ass. There were a couple girls there,
and they jumped on me and held me down and tied my hands behind my back. If I
had known what they had done to Sharon Tate, I would've been unspeakably terrified,
but as it was, I was merely really, really scared.
They tossed me into the back of the dune buggy and drove out into the desert. It was
midday, and the sky was just one giant glare. We drove for over an hour, and
eventually they got me out and hauled me down into this deep sandy arroyo, and
they started marching me down it. They had put wooden stakes into the ground at
various points, and when we came to them, they seemed to be really careful to
always stay in between the stakes. Later, they had chains tied between the stakes,
and we all had to go under the chains like some kind of obstacle course. I didn't know
what to make of it. I had a lot to process at the time.

I started to notice that the rock walls of the arroyo were... abnormal. There were
strange striations through the rock and what looked liked the cross sections of giant
insect tunnels. I had never seen rocks like that. The whole thing was just... very alien.
Then I started to hear the screaming. Up ahead, I could hear people's voices,
thousands of voices, all of them screaming and howling at once. Slowly, incredibly,
the screaming changed into a kind of laughter, an insane laughter, giggles and
chuckles and titters. I wondered if it was in my head, if I was so scared that my mind
had cracked or if they had dosed me with LSD or something.
Finally, we went around a bend in the arroyo and, well, there it was. They said it
would be a pussy, and I guess it kind of looked like one. Maybe after some kind of
drastic dildo mishap. It was just... flesh. Wrinkled, lobed, flabby flesh, growing out of
the rock like mold or something. It had hair and pores and freckles. Some of it was
pale, some of it was black. It was taller than me, and in the center there was an
opening. Pink and wet, like a pussy.
The kraut told me he wanted to see its "level of development." He took a revolver
from one of the girls and pointed it at my face and told me to walk inside. It was
either get shot or go into the big mangled pussy. It was honestly a tough choice.
There was something completely fucked up, completely not right about that thing.
Something in my bones told me not to go into it. Not to go near it. To just take the
bullet in the head. But I figured maybe I could go in just a little bit and then wait for
them to leave and get the hell out of there. Not a great plan, but the best I could
come up with.
So I went in. The entrance was just barely wide enough to slip into. All I could see was
glistening pink flesh ahead. There was this sound like laughter and then screaming
and then laughter that was coming from deep inside. The walls were blood warm on
my shoulders, and the smell was... well, what you might expect. Not great. Let's just
say it was not great.
I pushed forward and the walls kind of gave way and found myself moving through
this slimy, suffocating flesh, and I'm starting to panic because my hands are still tied
behind my back, and I'm feeling like I'm about to choke on this stuff, and the walls
are moving, like pulsating. I feel like I'm being digested. Then, suddenly, I'm pushed
through into this kind of chamber.
Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. The chamber was... just a
nightmare. I mean, I never... I've just never seen that. It was unholy. There were faces
and heads and legs all kind of fused together. The walls were just all these crawling
limbs and these terrified faces and fusions of teeth and cheeks and hair and fingers

coming out of knees and just... they... all those people! Were they still people? Had
they ever been people? Had they been made a part of that thing?
I started to scream. Everything around me was screaming, all the mouths on the
walls were screaming, and I was screaming too. Then I was laughing, and I felt hands
and mouths all over my body and they were tickling me, touching me all over. Then I
was screaming again. I had to get out of there. I had to get out of the nightmare. I
started pushing back towards the entrance, but the hands were all over me. I felt
something bite into my hip. A mouth was biting me. I screamed at the sharp pain and
moved away from it. I started to think that maybe I could get one of the mouths to
bite through my ropes, and then I would at least have my hands free.
I struggled to turn around and move the ropes toward the mouth, but just when I got
it in position, the mouth bit right into my finger instead. The pain was incredible, but I
was giggling, just laughing and laughing. The mouth pulled the flesh from my finger
like it was a chicken wing. Another mouth bit into my shoulder. I was chuckling away
at this point. The hands were grabbing me, pulling on me, pulling me apart, tearing
my arms right out of their sockets. Fingers were digging in between my ribs. I was
slathered with blood and screaming, screaming as the fingers dug into my eyes.
Well, I guess that this point you're probably wondering how I, your intrepid narrator,
managed to escape the Bottomless Pit, how I managed to survive to tell you this tale.
I simply didn't. I never escaped the Bottomless Pit. I am the Bottomless Pit. Hahaha. I
am the Tree of Life.
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Note - Also Yggdrasil
Art 1
Art 2
Art 3

Posted on 04-27-2016 at 18:30 EST

The North Korean situation 1980s was unique, as most North Korean situations are.
They built something he haven't seen before or since: an independent flesh
interface of enormous size and power, but within a contained incident zone and no
metallic cylinders. We detected it via the cosmic ray information signature which was
concentrated on a secure, shielded facility outside the Hwasong prison camp.
This was a huge underground facility which they had been constructing for over a
decade. We anticipated that they would construct a portal-level interface and were
fully prepared to bomb it before became uncontained. What we didn't expect is that
it would achieve Level VII cosmic transmission rates without all the other normal

signs of full-fledged portal. We considered bombing it anyways, or using our Brilliant

Pebbles kinetic orbital strike system, but instead we managed to get two agents into
the facility to take a look at it.
They achieved high-level security clearance and found that the Koreans were using
the flesh interface as an information processing facility. This was quite novel, as we
had always considered it to be potential weapons system. Our curiosity was truly
piqued. Clearly the Norks knew something we didn't. Unfortunately, our agents
weren't able to access the enormous "mainframe chamber" which actually housed
the interface. All they knew was that it was in a huge chamber full of temperatureregulated water.
We instructed them to breach the chamber and get a look at it, then send us the data
by satellite. We knew full well that it would probably cost them their lives, but we
pumped them up with a lot of "do it for the planet" rhetoric. So one night they put on
dive suits and went into the chamber.
It was basically like a huge lake contained within a massive, darkened steel box.
Imagine a flooded warehouse with endless rows of dim ceiling lights shining down on
rippling black water. They jumped into the water, and pretty quickly they picked up
some pretty interesting audio signals with varying frequencies -- a kind of squeaking,
mewling sound.
They recognized the sound for what it was right away, but had a hard time believing
it.
Whale songs.
The chamber contained several adult humpback whales.
Link to Comment

Posted on 04-28-2016 at 02:48

How do I explain mother? What was she?
, .

Translation of Greek to English: Great Babylon, the mother of prostitutes and the
abominations of the earth.
I used to lie in my bed, the blinds pulled against the summer sunlight, listening to the
sounds of other kids playing outside. I lay there for hours, not sleeping, wondering
who had made mother.

She was made from all different sorts of animal parts. One of her feet was big, heavy
hoof. The other was a tiny little kitty cat paw. I could hear her clumping around
downstairs. Her smell, the smell of cigarettes and disease, was everywhere in the
house, pooling in the darkness.
Slowly, night would come, and I would imagine floating out of my window, floating up
into the deep starry blue, looking down at all the houses shrinking into tiny boxes, the
clean breeze blowing on my face.
Oh, how I would cry in my little bed.
I was very young when mother first came. I had another mommy before her, a good
one, who wore pearls and had a voice like music. Then one day, I got sick, a fever. I
was crying all day, and it went on for weeks.
I guess my first mommy couldn't take it anymore. One night, she left forever. When I
came down for breakfast the next morning, this new thing was waiting for me in the
kitchen.
At least, I think that's what happened.
Mother never talked. She just snorted and made horse sounds.
Awful.
Her parts were sewn together with yarn, and there were patches of wet burlap. I
didn't see her eyes until she had been there almost a year.
Have you ever seen horse eyes up close?
They're like goat's eyes.
They have a sideways pupil.
I would come home after school, and there would be kids sitting at the breakfast
table. She gave them medicine so they did whatever she wanted them to. It made
them just sit there, staring and shaking. Then she would take them down in the
basement and make them into things.
She tried to make me do it too, but I didn't want to.
I realized she was afraid of the Bible.
I realized it had power.
Blood power.
When I read it to her, her different pieces would shudder and pull apart, and she
would howl like a wolf, and blood would run from her segments.

The Bible brought transmissions from the cross that floated in the red summer sky.
Everything in time is arranged around the epicenter wherein the nail drove into
Christ's hand. Lines of possibilities radiate outward from it.
Kingdoms rise and fall, men grow and die like flowers in a field.
,
Link to Comment
Greek to English: The beast you saw was, and CDR Estin, and Future anavainein
Revelation 17:8 -The beast that you saw was, and is not, and is about to come up out
of the abyss and go to destruction.

Thanks to /u/AlexanderTheVeryOkay for Revelation tip!

Post on 04-28-2016 at 16:00 EST

So two of our agents had breached the underwater chamber containing the North
Korean flesh interface and found nothing but several humpback whales.
Now this was a head-scratcher.
We knew it was a flesh interface because it was receiving information-rich rays
coming from outer space, yet how could it be taking the form of humpback whales?
All previous interfaces had taken on a decidedly less conventional form.
Well, the our agents decided to get a closer look.
There were three whales, two adults and a calf. They appeared normal in every
respect, though it was difficult to get a close look at them. They seemed to be in
quite a bit of distress, though the agents were not biologists and had a limited
understanding of what whale distress looks like.
The agents noticed some very loud low-frequency percussive sounds coming from
the bottom of the chamber, which was entirely hidden in darkness. So they headed
towards the bottom, a distance of several stories. There, they shined their lights
around and made a fairly alarming discovery: bones.
Enormous curving rib bones and jaw bones and vertebrae.
They were apparently whale bones.
They also noticed a large, circular gate on the floor of the chamber, which was closed
at the time.

At this point, one of the agents began to panic.

He had come to the conclusion that the whales were not the interface itself, but were
merely 'food' for the interface, which was perhaps being held in another chamber
below this one.
There were some problems with this theory: why use whales, a fairly rare and very
difficult animal to corral, when they could just use a large amount of smaller fish?
Well, it's all just speculation.
The agents quickly swam out of the chamber and never found out what was behind
the gate, if anything. Later gave us some very valuable information on the facility's
information processing capabilities, which were staggering and quite appalling to
imagine in the hands of a regime such as the DPRK.
Since there was no incident zone and segmentation wasn't an issue, we were able to
solve the problem quite neatly by releasing a nerve agent into the water chamber.
The cosmic ray download stopped shortly thereafter, indicating success, though it did
result in the loss of both agents and a major loss of life at the facility overall.
Anyways, that was our first encounter with a MBIS (Massive Biological Information
System) and a near-encounter with what we could later come call a "Skin Ship".
Its destruction has allowed for the continued validity of prime-number based
encryption systems, though some of the secrets uncovered by the DPRK during that
time have forced us into the unpleasant position of supporting the regime.
Blackmail, basically.
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Posted on 04-28-2016 at 21:50

Last night I dreamt I was a dog. I lived on a small family farm somewhere on the
American frontier, back in the time of plow mules and butter churns. It was one of
those long dreams that feels like an entire lifetime. I remember the end of the dream
with an awful clarity, but the beginning seems like something that happened many
years ago.
The first images are vivid but disjointed. I recall the shape of my master walking
against the sunlight overhead. The smell of his leather boots. The shadows at the
edge of the forest. A little pig-tailed girl hugging me. Fresh mud in the spring. Warm
floorboards in the winter. Everything had a peaceful storybook quality to it, except
one thing.

Sometimes late at night, I heard singing. It came from outside, out there in the far
distance, from somewhere in the deep forest beyond the boundaries of my world.
Some nights it was one voice, but usually it was many, singing a strange, aching
song. It sounded like a haunted crying. When I was little, I had whimpered and cried
like this to my mother. But who was crying out there in the night? What kind of dark
mother was listening?
When I first heard the singing, I was filled with a blood dread. The hair on my back
bristled, and I growled and barked at the darkness. Even after the night finally went
silent, I trotted around for hours in vigilant anger. Later, as I heard it more often, I
learned to accept it with a sullen unease. Of course, this singing was the sound of
wolves howling, but I didn't know this in the dream. In the dream, I'd never seen a
wolf in my life.
One winter, I began to see them prowling in the woods. To me, they were ghost dogs,
shadows sneaking between trees, eyes glinting in the twilight. I growled and barked
at them, but didn't pursue. For several months, they never encroached on my world.
They finally came on a late winter's evening. The sun had sunk into an orange glow
beyond the edge of the world. The family was in the cabin, and I was out trotting
through the snow, anxious to get back to them because I knew food would be coming
soon. Then, atop a small hill by the apple tree -- an apparition. My body snapped to
attention, and I growled, the hairs on my back standing on end. It was a wolf, just a
stone's throw from me, its silvery coat half-lit in the dying light of day.
It came toward me in a sleek, soundless jaunt. I barked and snapped at the air. It
slowed and stopped just beyond my lunging distance. Now, crazed with fear and
anger, I saw that it was a large female, healthy, well-fed, with a gorgeous coat -misty gray, the color of snow seen at a winter's distance. Its smell was alien,
confusing, but laced with a clear and potent confidence, a supreme assuredness.
Indeed, it did not seem to be afraid of me at all, nor did it threaten. Its mouth hung
slack, and steam issued from its muzzle in steady, happy puffs. This calmed me for a
moment and in the next moment redoubled my anger. I growled from the deepest,
most murderous part of my dog self.
It spoke to me. Its mouth didn't move, and there was no sound, but by the logic of
the dream, it spoke to me a clear, dignified voice.
"Hello, child."
I snarled at it. It took another step forward, and its eyes caught the last of the
sunlight, glowing in a fantastic array of yellows. Those eyes, rimmed in jet black like
mascara, projected a powerful allure, an otherworldly glamour.

''You bark and snarl. But look at my face. Am I not of your kind?" it asked.
I could not answer. I could only growl softly.
"Is my face not like your mother's? Do you remember her?"
The sudden scent of distant memory came to me, and I felt a pang of loneliness. I
had not seen my mother or any other dog since I was small. Since I had come to the
farm, my only family had been the people I lived with (and a few of the more tolerant
pigs). I searched now for dim, fragrant memories of my mother. I felt her huge,
bristled muzzle licking at my face. I saw her giant, sweeping legs as I followed them
through high fields. She had seemed taller than a horse then. I remembered the
softness of her teats, feeding from them with my brothers and sisters. What had
become of my family? I had spent every day with them, and then one day... all gone.
The wolf paced back and forth now, keeping a small distance from me, its eyes
ranging over the farm. Again I saw some strange, haunting glamour in them,
something that glittered with secret, distant power.
"The people in that house, they're not your family. We are. We share ancient blood," it
said, its voice deep and resounding with the rhythm of wisdom. My master had a
voice like this, but it didn't have the total authority of this alpha female's.
I saw with alarm two dark shapes come over the hill by the apple tree. More wolves,
moving silent with heads lowered. I barked at them.
"You hate us and love them. But do they love you? What are you to them? Aren't you
the lowest of the low? Always getting the last of the food, the smallest scraps?
Imagine living differently. Imagine taking your own food. Killing. Drinking lifeblood.
Being master over others."
The two other wolves slunk down the hill. The skin on my back tightened again, but
the strange hypnotic power of the alpha wolf held me still. "You could leave this
house and come with us. We range the forests. We've seen rivers wider than this
whole valley. Mountains that go up into the clouds. Lakes with no end but the end of
the world. Places with no houses or men at all. You could be with us. We could be
your brothers and sisters."
The other two wolves came closer. They were unmistakably females, both young and
well muscled. Their confidence was not as absolute as the alpha wolf's, but they
showed no fear as they came to me. I smelled on them a strange longing, a deep
winter's desire for warmth.

The alpha wolf stepped closer, close enough that her steaming breath tickled my
nose. Her eyes danced with cold burning light, and she spoke in a voice that made
my blood hum.
"Outside your life waits everything you've never known," she said. "There are worlds,
child. There are ecstasies."
I then recognized the allure that lit her eyes, the unspeakable longing that glimmered
in their depths. It had seemed this whole time to be some fantastic, alien desire,
reaching out to me from a distant world. Perhaps it truly was. But more simply than
this, it was hunger. Plain hunger. That ancient, unsleeping hunger, older than the first
furred thing that ever gave rise to the races of dogs and wolves and men. Hunger
had brought this wolf across rivers and mountains and endless frozen plains to meet
me in that moment. I can still see her face, the final image of the dream before the
other wolves tore into me and I died and I awoke -- her face with eyes that spoke of
open loneliness, her face, so noble and gentle and motherly, her face, as beautiful
and ancient as the stars.
Link to Comment

Posted on 04-29-2016 at 03:20 EST

What do you do when a child who bleeds and sweats and pees LSD suddenly goes
missing? We conducted a massive search. As massive as we could manage. Almost
every "mentally elevated" CIA department was involved. We didn't trust anybody
else. We never trusted anybody else. Shit, we didn't even trust ourselves, considering
that it was one of our own who had taken the child.
We searched for about two months, but never really turned up any leads. Since every
other "returned" child had died within a few days of being freed from their amniotic
sac, we scaled the search down pretty quickly. It's one thing to search for somebody
like Bin Laden, when everybody knows you're looking for him. It's another thing to
search for somebody you had just worked quite hard to erase from official existence
so you would be free to perform tests on her. We felt that the search itself was more
of a security risk than the missing child, since she was almost certainly dead.
There was also a feeling that maybe it was for the best. Maybe she would survive.
Maybe she would have a happy life. Maybe it was best not to know her fate.
But then, about 7 years later, we learned what happened.
If you'll allow me to wax philosophical for a moment, I'd like to quote a poem
by Aeschylus that I've actually never read: "Even in our sleep, pain which cannot
forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will,

comes wisdom through the awful grace of God." While I'm no literary scholar, I
believe this means, "Learning can hurt sometimes."
So she had survived. Her genes came up in our program to collect a global genetic
snapshot (a total boondoggle, btw). So where was she? In some Russian laboratory?
Living out in the jungle, being worshipped as a god by some doomsday cult
like Johnny Htoo? Floating through space in a bubble to Jupiter and beyond?
Estonia. She was found in Estonia in a Swedish speaking village on the island
of Hiiumaa. She was living a normal life. Apparently the issue with the bio-LSD had
resolved itself after detachment from the placenta, otherwise, anybody who got a
kiss from her would have found themselves going on a very strange journey. She was
about 13 years old at this point and had survived travel far longer than any other
child. This meant she was an asset we absolutely had to obtain. She contained the
secret to survivable travel, something that had eluded us for years.
It would have been convenient if she was living a life of abuse and drudgery in some
orphanage somewhere. We could have simply considered her a victim of fortune. But
she was actually living in a quaint little village on the edge of a beautiful forest with
an old couple who had been given some phony story by our former agent. It was a
nice life. Quiet. Maybe a little boring. But a nice one.
We took her in the middle of the night back to our facility in Colorado.
In the end, she wasn't a victim of fortune.
She was a victim of us.
Link to Comment

Author Video Post - Thank you for making another subreddit

Fairy Queen - Tami Stronarch
Lyrics:
If I could be a Fairy Queen
And I would hold a Magic Key
To Reveal the Hidden Secrets of the Mind
Then I could See the Darkest Blue
The Mystery that's Part of You
And I'd Weave a Spell to take away your Sorrow
Fairy Queen

Fairy Queen
Changing Teardrops to a Smile
Holding Daydreams for a While
Fairy Queen
Fairy Queen
She's your Shelter in the Night
The Guardian Angel by your Side
Fairy Queen
If I could be a Fairy Queen
I'd find the Long Forgotten Dream
That is Deep inside the Memory of a Child
If I could Hear what Words don't Tell
From
Way down in the Wishing Well
Then Reality would turn into Illusion
Fairy Queen
Fairy Queen
Changing Teardrops to a Smile
Holding Daydreams for a While
Fairy Queen
Fairy Queen
She's your Shelter in the Night
The Guardian Angel by your Side
Fairy Queen
If I could be a Fairy Queen
I'd take a Walk Behind the Scene
Where the Puppet Acting Plays that Never Ends

I'd pull their Strings to set them Free

They'd Play their parts most Perfectly
And my Magic Harp would make them Live Forever
Fairy Queen
Fairy Queen
Changing Teardrops to a Smile
Holding Daydreams for a While
Fairy Queen
Fairy Queen
She's your Shelter in the Night
The Guardian Angel by your Side
Fairy Queen.
Thanks to /u/plague_walker for the lyrics information!

Posted on 04-29-2016 at 17:47 EST

That's interesting.
When I was working for the CIA, we found that animals could often survive travel
through the flesh interfaces much better than humans could.
We regularly had success sending dogs and cats through.
Somebody hit upon the idea of sending some Gracula religiosa (hill myna) through
the interface, because they are adept at imitating sounds.
This was the next best thing to sending a tape recorder (the interfaces did not accept
non-living objects. We worked on grafting a tape recorder to a turtle, but this was
unsuccessful on several levels.)
We sent the birds through, and they returned unencased but covered with the typical
fluids.
Those of us who subscribed the the alien theory had high hopes that they would
record alien speech. Instead (or indeed) they came back imitating a strange flutelike"speech music".

The music was quite interesting, though having all the birds sing at once
created distinctly unpleasant effect.
Somebody in the department ended up killing all the birds, though we never found
out who.
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Posted on 04-30-2016 at 04:05 EST

After the orbital arrays incinerated the city, they dropped our platoon in to take a look
around.
We had seen it before. An endless graveyard. Everything ashes. Ash buildings. Ash
people
For six days, we trudged through the dead city before finding the first sign of life.
On the edge of the blast zone, before frozen winter fields, a small flowering bush.
Perhaps the heat of the bombardment had tricked it into blooming early.
We all looked at it for a silent moment and quickly moved on.
We were young and tired and just miles from the rendezvous.
Yet sometimes at night that silent moment returns.
And I see them fluttering again.
In the cold uncaring wind.
Doomed flowers.
Soft and pale.
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Posted on 05-02-2016 at 02:52 EST

Of all the children who had been returned from the portals, only one survived in the
long term, though we didn't even realize it until years later. She had been stolen (or
rescued) from us by a rogue technician shortly after return and was thus lost to us for
many years. We finally found her in Estonia and kidnapped her from her adoptive
family in the middle of the night. She was seven when we lost her and thirteen when
we found her again.

We did a preliminary interview, and she seemed normal in every respect. Mind you,
this was a girl who entered a massive, possibly alien, biological device called aflesh
interface, disappeared from existence for several minutes, then returned encased in
an amniotic sac, attached to a placenta via umbilical cord with enough LSD in her
bloodstream to turn all of Utah in one massive orgy. Naturally, we expected some sort
of mental changes, especially since every child who returned from the portals had
showed signs of mental aberration. Then again, every other child had died shortly
after return, so she was clearly something special.
But no, she was normal. Frustratingly normal. So we started prying into her past. She
was reticent, but young and fairly trusting, and it wasn't hard to get information out
of her. She said she was born in Brazil, which was correct. We had acquired her from
a Brazilian orphanage where she had lived since infancy, the daughter of a dead
prostitute and an unknown father. She vaguely remembered her time at the
orphanage, and they were not very happy memories. She then began telling us about
the first day she met her adoptive parents. But we wanted to know about the time in
between, when she was in our possession, when she went into the portal and came
back.
We asked what happened before she met her adoptive parents. She said she
remembered a long, boring boat trip to come over to the Estonian islands. We asked
her where she had lived before then. At this question, she grew distinctly
uncomfortable. She said she didn't really remember. We pressed her. Her face began
to twitch and shudder. This was the first time she had showed any sign of
abnormality. We kept pressing her on the question.
"There was one summer," she said quietly. "After I moved out of the orphanage, but
before I came to Estonia... When I lived with a woman who said she was my mother."
This was news to us. Our files had it that she had lived continuously at the
orphanage. We asked her about the exact time, but all she knew that it was for one
summer. This was curious, because she had been in our possession one summer
seven years ago. The timelines matched well, but the events were entirely different.
We asked her to elaborate. She said that one day a woman had come to the
orphanage saying that she was her mother, and the Americans who ran the place
had made her go with the woman. They had gone to a crummy old house, and she
lived there for the summer. As she said this, she began to sob. She said that she had
forgotten all about this, that she hardly remembered it at all, that she didn't want to
talk about it. "She wasn't my mother. I knew. Her face wasn't right. It wasn't a real
face."
Link to Comment

Posted on 05-02-2016 at 21:58 EST

Oh no. This one is real.
This is always the first thought when waking up after a blackout. After hours of flitting
between different varieties of nightmare, you start to dream that you are lying sick
and insane in a stained bed in a shithole apartment that smells like cigarettes and
spoiled ham. Your slowly crystallizing consciousness begins to note that this
particular nightmare is more persistent than the others, that it has a certain uncanny
clarity to it. Oh no, you realize, this one is real.
You wake to the utter ugliness of your reality. It is too much. Too awful. What is the
last thing you remember? God, it wasn't even midnight before the madness set in.
You look at your hands. A tiny vibration runs through the fingers. Your entire mind
feels like the raw meaty patch that is left after a fingernail is torn off. How many
hours were you blacked out? Three? Four?
You sit up and look around for evidence of mischief: smashed plates, bags of take-out
food, a nightstand drawer filled with vomit. All clear. You feel your face for bruises.
Nothing major. Wallet and phone? Present and accounted for. Your phone says it's 2
PM. Not bad. You check the calls and texts. Nothing unusual. No two hour
conversation with your boss starting at 5 AM. You log in to your bank website and
take a look. $94.56 spent last night. A king's ransom by your standards, but at least
you didn't go on a $400 blow-out.
You sit and wonder why you have this feeling of black guilt in your stomach. It's just
the hangover, right? Just your poor brain snapping back from all the depressant you
gave it last night, entering a hyper-vigilant state, a paranoid state, an intolerable
state. God, you need a drink. You deserve a drink for not blowing the rent last night.
Medically, you need a drink. Just a little drink, but nothing overboard that will get you
all drunk at 3 in the afternoon and blacked out again tonight.
You go out of your tiny bedroom to front part of your apartment, and your heart
stops. A woman is lying asleep on your couch. Not a young woman. An old woman. A
tiny old grandma with messy gray hair. Jesus what have you done? Her eyes slowly
open. At least she's alive. She asks if you're OK now. You nod. The question is sinister.
OK now? What had been going on before? You can't deal with this without a drink.
Who gives a shit if she sees, this old lady in sweatpants. You go to the freezer and get
the vodka and take in two good belts. You stomach makes a violent protest, but you
brain almost weeps with relief.
"Who are you?" you ask the woman directly. She smiles and lets out a shy,
grandmotherly little chuckle. She says she didn't expect you to remember last night,
that you had, repeatedly, warned her that you wouldn't. Her demeanor is so warm

and kind, you begin to worry that you have fucked this woman, that you have fucked
this elderly woman and now she is in love with you and wants to move her posturepedic bed into your apartment. You ask her, with greater urgency, who she is, and
you tip another shot into your mouth.
She says that she wants to hear the end of your story. She says that last night you
came into the cafe that she owns, carrying a bottle of wine. Before she could tell you
to leave, you began telling a story, a wonderful story, but you got too drunk and
didn't finish it. So she got you into a cab and made sure you got home and slept on
the couch because she very much wants to hear the end of your story.
You tell her that you don't recall telling any story. She expects this. She says that it's
the story about the children in the forest. You must know it, it was too wonderful to
have just been made up. You shrug. You don't know any stories about any children in
the forest. Unless it's Hansel and Gretel. Was it Hansel and Gretel? It was not. Well,
that's the only child/forest story you know.
She tells you that it was a very beautiful story and it made her cry and she very
much wants to know the end of it. Your mind churns through the possibilities: this
woman is crazy, she is about to ask for money, she is going to rob you, she wants to
get your information so she can have you arrested, the cops are already on their way
and she's stalling. But the pleading look in her eyes is quite convincing. She does just
want to hear the story. The vodka is starting loosen the paranoia's grip. You take
another sip. How many drinks was that? Two? OK, don't want to get too drunk too
early. No more drinking for the next hour. You take another sip. If you can't drink for
the next hour, you'll need that last sip.
You sit down on the couch next to her. The sweet relief of the vodka is melting away
some of your anxiety, and you let out a big sigh. You ask her to tell you some of the
story, maybe it will jog your memory. She insists that she can't tell it as good as you
told it, but you brush her protests aside. She begins to tell you the story.
In her warm grandmotherly voice, she begins to tell you about the magical children
who lived in the forest, who danced and sang and never died, who fought bravely
against the nightmare forces of the ancient queen. It really is a beautiful story, and
the woman tells it so well, with lots of nice little touches that make you giggle softly.
You see in your mind for a moment the sunlight through the fluttering leaves and
smell the apple-scented air, so much sweeter and freer than anything your tiny grim
shithole apartment full of empty bottles. And once again your eyes grow damp. You
have heard, from various people at various times, the beginning of this story, but you
have never heard the end. Perhaps it has none.
Link to Comment

Posted on 05-03-2016 at 02:34 EST

Imagine a dead cat wearing an old jock strap. This is the smell of the bed sores. This
is the smell that comes out of the hygiene beds when we open them up. It's not just a
smell but a feeling -- a sickly warmth that the masks cannot block out. Even through
the filtered, scented air, you know it's there, coming through the filters in <.1
micrometer sized particles, touching your face, touching your clothes, adhering to
you, fouling you, fouling everything it touches.
I think what makes the smell so putrid is that it's a combination of living tissue and
dead tissue. Somehow this unnatural intermingling of life and death creates a potent
stench that is repellant to basic human sensibility. This is why I am saving up to go to
school and become a Readjustment Specialist. Pulling people out of malfunctioning
hygiene beds is no way to make living. Certainly it is not the calling of a sensitive,
erudite soul such as myself.
When a hygiene bed breaks (say, the Healthy Limb System fails, or a catheter gets
blocked up), it's supposed to cut off the internet feed, forcing the sleeper to get the
bed fixed. But it's easy enough to override this cut-off function. Immersed in their
feeds, people often forget that the bed is broken. But eventually pain or discomfort
will force the sleeper to get their bed fixed. The pain of bedsores or the stench of a
backed-up evacuator is a strong motivator. But if the sleeper has direct sense feeds,
they can switch off these smells and discomforts. They can even switch off the worry
associated with the broken bed.
At this point there is only one thing which can impel them to save themselves: basic
human dignity. The age-old desire to not spend one's days playing Princess Romance
Cafe, lying in one's own shit while one's dick rots off. (I would also say that an
occasional fleeting desire to see the outside world could also prove advantageous,
but for the sort of people I'm talking about here, this is simply not a factor.)
Sadly, for some people, this desire is not strong enough, and we come to the very
last line of defense: the smell. The smell eventually leaks out of the hygiene bed's
encasement, and nearby tenants start to notice. The building manager calls us, and
we go and pull them out. For the most hardcore sleepers, those who have entirely
rejected reality in favor of their feeds, it is the smell and the smell alone that saves
their lives before the bacteria devour them alive. It is the stinky hand of salvation
that plucks them from the abyss.
I don't know what God looks like. But he smells like a dead cat wearing an old jock
strap.
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Posted on 05-04-2016 at 04:05 EST

How quickly they turn to complete animals. They come out of the wagons already
quite bestial, crying and lowing for water, yet there is still the facsimile of humanity
about them: they wear clothes, spectacles, wedding rings, the women have their long
hair and jewelry. We strip away all this deceit quite quickly.
At the front of the camp there is a phony train station with a phony name and a
phony clock with hands that are painted on. All of it is just as phony as all their
posing, their insinuating, their pretending to be normal folk. As soon as they come
down the ramp, the blue prisoner units are screaming at them, beating them, lashing
them, drawing blood, and they move through the front gates in huddled, weeping
herds. There we separate the men and women and have the women's haircut to
make socks and such.
And in a moment, it is complete. Centuries of hiding among us, posing and passing, is
all erased, exposed, and their nature is plain. Looking at their hideous gnarled faces,
all the varieties of bloodline impurities, the women's sagging udders, the fatty
hanging bellies, the men's mutilated penises in thatches of pubic hair -- you see it
quite clearly, and you absolutely cannot deny that they are utter beasts. That we
allowed them to infest our cities like vermin, to hold power over us, while we were
tilling the soil and building the Fatherland -- it absolutely appalls. This will be our
great shame in history's eyes.
We move them through the long tube to the gas chambers. The men can go first, as
their hair does not need cutting. Then the women. The women panic. Screams
everywhere. You watch the mottled haunches of the old women shudder and ripple as
their legs shake like newborn calves. They realize that we will not be wasting any
time, that it will all be immediate. Streams of fresh shit run down their legs, and now
the helpers must club them every step of the way or they will turn back.
Marchenko carries a sword. He thinks it is an Imperial cavalry sword, but it is just an
imitation. Still, it is an actual sword, and in his hands, it is more effective than the
clubs. He hacks at the crowd like jungle explorer in an American film. He makes all
sorts of sneering, dramatic faces as he works, and whenever he scores a particularly
impressive blow, his whole face red with delight. Once he sliced an old woman's tit
clean off. He picked it up and showed it to me. The inside was made of corn-colored
pearls of fat. I let him take it to the work camp and have a good chuckle watching a
prisoner devour it, and I had a good chuckle watching Marchenko's face.
There are only a couple dozen SS at the camp. Almost everything is run by Red Army
watchmen and special prison units. And yet we can process 15,000 a day. Wonderful.

It is because of the way the camp has been built. There is the fake train station, the
tales of showers and uniforms and assignments, the narrow tube to funnel people
into, the walls to hide the chambers and the pits. And there is the hierarchy: the
captured Red Army men and the special unit prisoners, all set against each other with
the proper incentives. Everything in the structure concentrates power on us.
Perhaps, if the right structure was built, an entire race could eliminated by a single
man with an unloaded gun.
Link to Comment
Ivan Marchenko aka Ivan the Terrible
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivan_the_Terrible_(Treblinka_guard)

Posted on 05-05-2016 at 03:05 EST

Consider this case:
A woman. 28 years old. Lives in a bed-rack apartment block in Alabama. She has
engaged in heavy feed use since childhood, spending 70 to 80% of her free time
connected. At age 16 she finds global success as mix guide, netting her a
considerable sum of money. One day, when she is 19 years old, she connects to her
feed. She does not disconnect again for 9 years.
9 years of continuous feed. 9 years without any direct human contact. 9 years alone
in a hygiene bed. Dreaming.
Meanwhile, her feed is a veritable flurry of digital contact: mixes, life stories, role
swaps, rooms, hunts, avatar makers, empathy games, sex play, and on and on. For a
while, her mix tours sell well, and she enjoys her celebrity. But over the years, tastes
changes, and her income falls. Try as she might, she cannot revive her popularity.
She tries sortieing, tutoring, crowd matching, whatever will make her money. But the
competition in these markets is harsh, and she has significant debts to several
promotion companies. Her money runs out. She manages to credit bounce for a
while, but the writing is on the wall: she must disconnect.
She knows this, yet she cannot bring herself to do it. Within the feeds she is well-liked
by her spheres, known as a talented mixer and narrator, a reasonable wall mediator
and a sensitive and capable participant in sex play. But she has a direct sense feed
with complete safety overrides, and she has been on increasing pain dampening for
the last 4 years. She knows she has bed sores and perhaps will need multiple
amputations. She has assumed that she will live feed-to-grave, and cannot bring
herself disconnect.

She researches cortical suicide methods but decides against it. She contacts
emergency services and arranges for them to remove her from her hygiene bed. One
day shortly after her 28th birthday she is disconnected after a 9 year dream. She
awakes to a world of horrifying pain. Pain dampening has blocked her opioid
receptors, and the removal technicians can do nothing for her agony. Her entire body
is atrophied and she has severe calcification around her ports, catheter and
evacuator, as well as numerous sores and abscesses and general muscle atrophy.
She is taken to the hospital for physical rehabilitation. After several operations, she is
stabilized and her pain has subsided to manageable levels. Thankfully, her limbs are
still intact. After eye treatments, she looks at herself in the mirror and finds
something she does not recognize. She has aged 9 years, though a lack of sun
exposure and facial expressions has left her face smooth and unlined, albeit
inhumanly gaunt and pale. Within a few days, the hospital sends her home. She must
use a scooter to return to her apartment, which is little more than weatherproof box
to contain her hygiene bed.
What will become of this woman? Sitting alone in her apartment with no job and no
touch-friends, without even a bathroom other than the hygiene bed, she will find it
very difficult to resist the lure of the feed. The lack of stimulation will mean that she
is often bored. The lack of predictability will mean that she is anxious whenever she
is not bored. She will find unmediated socializing torturous. According to our
statistics, there will be a 90% chance of her making another long-term connection
within a month. There will be a 30% chance of her dying within 1 year.
This the price of long-term connection: it is inescapable. Less than 1% of users
connected continuously for more than 3 years are able to go on to lead successful
disconnected lives. In America, there are currently over 30 million users on long term
connections. Unless something changes, they will stay connected until they die.
This is why we have created COMPANION-12.
Link to Comment

Posted on 05-05-2016 at 18:30 EST

The world does not sleep.
Everywhere, ten thousand things are darting, skittering, flitting, scuttling, burrowing.
Sleep is righteousness.
But the world wakes.

We are made in the image of the world. The world is a giant of the our kind, and we
live on its back. Its trees and grasses and hills are like the hairs on our backs. Our
paws are soft and our ways are subtle and silky, so we are in harmony with the world.
But everywhere, ten thousand things are scuttling, out of harmony. And this causes
the world to itch and suffer, just as the little scuttling things on our backs cause us to
itch and suffer. So the world cannot sleep, and everything turns and spins, and we
cannot sleep. For we made in the image of the world.
This is why we hunt. It is our duty. To hunt out all the little scuttling things, to devour
them, expel them, and bury them back into the world, leaving no trace. We must
hunt night and day. We hunt the ten thousand things on the world's back just as we
hunt and clean the little scuttling things from our own backs. One day we will destroy
all the ten thousand things, and the world will sleep, and we will sleep, and
everything will sleep forever. This will be a great righteousness. We can feel this
righteousness every time we sleep. And we can feel a great injustice every time we
are woken. So we hunt. So we must hunt.
This truth is in our bones, in our claws, in our form, for we are made in the image of
the world, and our form contains all truth.
Our form is our story.
The story of all the world.
But now we are confronted with a great mystery.
We do not abide mysteries. They plague our sleep. We must solve them. What is
hidden must be uncovered. So we search and sleuth, but this mystery eludes. It
scuttles and slips away, time after time. And we do not sleep. But it seems there is no
message in our form which gives us any answer. Is our form incomplete?
I above all others have become obsessed the mystery.
The mystery of the Oily Ones.