Attention everybody!

Yes, I’m talking to all four of you.

I, FackGerbil, am now in control of Papal Petrol. Expect to see comments actually being moderated, regular submissions of fiction from yours truly and when I have the time a draconian spelling/grammar edit for all submitted work on the site.

You have been warned.

I’m apologizing in advance for this. Some might recognize it for what it is; others will wonder what the hell I’m talking about. It’s essentially an expression of my distaste for sitting in the admin section of Papal Petrol and clearing out over 9000 spam messages.
Ten points if you think ‘Verbose copy-pasta’ when you finish reading this. And a cookie.

The steady thump, thump, thump of boots on pristine white laminate floor of Papal Petroldyne Industries echoed through the long corridors as confused workers glanced out of their labs at the spectacle of a man being escorted from the premises.
“Jesus in a grass-woven handbasket!” Terry Stanford yelled in terror as he was dragged by a pair of burly security guards. “I’m telling the truth! I was looking for Student Home Loans and accidently came here! Don’t tase me, dude!”
“Shut the fuck up.” The guard on the left grunted. His security badge read ‘James Modstein - his mates all called him ‘Mod’ for short. “We aren’t going to tase you. What we’re going to do is take you to see the Administrator. He’ll know what to do with you.”
The other guard, Patrick  Spamnfilter, nodded in agreement. “You’re just lucky it was me that spotted you trying to sell shit to our customers and employees. We have other, less tolerant people working here who might have take more…” he paused for a moment, looking thoughtful, then said “drastic measures.”
They turned into the wide, wood panneled corridor on the top floor which lead to the massive oak double doors with the Papal Petroldyne Corporation logo emblazoned on it. Just as they were about to knock, Mod’s radio crackled into life
“This is the customer comment desk security,” it said, “We need help! Code Seven!”
Mod swore under his breath. A Code 7 was bad. “Make sure this idiot doesn’t go anywhere!” he yelled, sprinting for the elevator with his gun drawn.
His father, years ago when John was first considering a job in security, had warned him about this day. He’d always told John that he would be killed by spammers. John hadn’t believed him…until now.
He reached the lobby to see that the wave of spammers were almost breaking past the barricade that had been set up around the comment desk. He shot two spammers, who were waving weight reduction pamphlets at him, and dropped into cover behind the desk next to a dead security officer.
His radio said, “John! You must kill the spammers!”
So he grabbed  the grenade launcher from the corpse next to him and blew the nearest wall into rubble. A wave of dust from the collapsed wall spilled across the room, enveloping everyone in a cloud of dust, rendering them unable to see let alone fight eachother.
John coughed up the dust he’d accidentally inhaled and struggled to reload his grenade launcher. “I have to kill the spammers!” He yelled, trying to regain focus.
“No John,” his radio suddenly said, “You are the spammers!”

And then John was a viagra advert.

Copyright Ian Bell, 2008.

It was another June day in Urbanville, USA.  Jimmy Lee was making his daily trip around the neighborhood.  He saw himself like a door to door salesman, cept he sold the shit that people wanted.  He sold Wallace’s stuff.

Wallace was a renaissance man of reefer.  He grew it, he sold it, he smoked it.  Hydroponic, hybrid, exotic, he did it all.  He grew it all.  He smoked it all.  Wallace was the kaiser of chronic in the tri-state area.

Jimmy Lee was his apprentice.  He hoped he could one day puff the pipe that Wallace packed.  DeForest started Jimmy Lee out the way he started out, selling.  ‘Course, back then it wasn’t door to door, but times change.  In fact, most of the selling was done by Jimmy Lee.  DeForest was busy attempting to decipher the codes that Dr. Ganjenstein wrote back in ‘78.

1421 apartment B.  The last stop on this street for Jimmy Lee.  New tenants there order a dime sack of the mid-grade.   Jimmy Lee heard through the grapevine they might be looking for something more that day, though, so he brought his aluminum reefcase for their selecting pleasure.   Jimmy Lee knocked on the door.

“Hey, this is Jimmy Lee, open up.”

“Come on in bro, the door is unlocked.”

Jimmy Lee opened the door and walked in.  The apartment was kinda dark, but it would be more unusual for the place to be especially well lit.  He walked into the living room, his boots making a pronounced sound as the floor transitioned from shag carpet to wood.

“Jimmy, we’re in the bedroom, come on in, show us what you got,” a voiced said from a nearby bedroom.

Jimmy Lee opened the door to the bedroom and then and stepped inside.  The room was empty aside from a baby monitor sitting on a bed by the window.

“Police, freeze!”

 

Jimmy looked behind him just in time to see knuckles.  The force of the blow knocked him to the ground freeing the reefcase from his grasp.  Jimmy Lee looked up with the one eye that was seeing all right and saw three huge police officers towering over him.  One of the cops grabbed the reefcase and tore it open, rending the aluminum as if it were especially cheap cardboard.

“Well well, boys, looks like we have ourselves a drug dealer here,” the largest of the cops said in a distorted voice.  “The new penalty for drug dealing is, of course. . . death!”

The cop picked up Jimmy Lee by his neck and wrapped his other arm around his torso and pulled.  Jimmy Lee’s eyes started to bulge from the pressure.  The cop tore Jimmy Lee’s head from his body, kinda like how Subzero did in Mortal Kombat.

“Fatality,” remarked one of the other cops.  The cops laughed loudly, their hideous metallic voices echoing around the neighborhood.

Back at HQ, DeForest was busy studying the glyphs that Dr. Ganjenstein wrote in his notebook back in ‘78 when he got a phone call.  It was Lonny.  He had something important to say.

“DeForest, did you hear?  Did you hear?  Jimmy Lee is dead!  These new cyber-cops killed him.  Said he was resisting arrest.  Not only that, the chief of police said on the news that these cops are gonna sweep the streets clean of all weed! Shit, I gotta get rid of this stuff, I gotta go,” Lonny said, then hung up the phone.

DeForest put the phone down.  Jimmy Lee was a good man, a gentle man, he wouldn’t ever resist the cops.  He didn’t want to hurt nobody, he just wanted to bring the greatness of ganja to the world.  DeForest knew that the only reason they killed Jimmy Lee was because they wanted to and they wouldn’t stop there.  These cyber-cops were out to kill every drug dealer in Urbanville, maybe even every drug dealer in the tri-state area.

DeForest leaned back in his chair and rested his hand on his forehead.  That’s it, he thought, that’s how this whole mess is going to end.  The cops were going to eventually find out he’s the big man in town and were going to kill him and everybody he cared about, just like they did Jimmy Lee.

Marilyn entered, her proud Nubian face frozen in horror.

“DeForest, I was just watching the news and there was a special bulletin.  And. . . the man said the cops just raided Lonny’s house.  They found Lonny.  He was dead.  They say he committed suicide. . . but. . . he couldn’t have.  He wouldn’t have. . .” Marilyn said, tears filling her eyes.

Just like they did Lonny. The cyber-cops were going to be there soon, no doubt, but with their super cybernetic muscles and bulletproof coats, what could DeForest do? Only one thing could be done: The toking of the finest pot money could find, that of the original THC technician, Dr. Ganjenstein. 

DeForest walked over to the life-sized velvet portrait of James Brown he had on his wall and slid the portrait up, revealing a safe with a keypad and an unusual indentation next to it. The numbers 0, 2, and 4 were entered on the keypad and DeForest pushed his Lion of Zion pinky ring into the slot and turned it, unlocking the safe. The door slowly opened, revealing a solid diamond pipe and an electronic static field containing one small bowlful of bud, a vintage 1978. With nothing possible to do to stop the cyber-cops and nothing else to do until they arrived, DeForest packed the bowl with the classic chronic, lit it with his monogrammed torch lighter, and then inhaled.

Day turned into night and night turned day and the rest of the world turned a unique shade of a green. Truly, this ganj was unlike anything DeForest had ever smoked.  Before he knew it, he was standing in a smoky realm standing on a cloud with a man in the robe seated before him. He knew immediately it was Dr. Ganjenstein, despite there not being any photographs of Ganjenstein left in existence. 

“Hello DeForest,” Ganjenstein said. “It is good to meet you face to face.”

“Dr. Ganjenstein?” DeForest asked.

“Indeed it is me!”

“You’re dead! You were the only known person to ever die of cannabis poisoning; I read the newspaper article on microfiche down at my local public library!”

“You are correct, I am dead, but I am now talking to you through the wonders of marijuana hallucination.”

“I didn’t think it was hallucinogenic.”

“It is all mildly hallucinogenic, but the stuff you smoked was designed to be hallucinogenic.  It was designed so you could talk to me from beyond the grave.  I have heard about your problems in the afterworld or rather, I, being a construct of your subconscious mind, know what you know about your problems. I have the solution: You must smoke my body. Publicly. Go now to my grave, dig me up, and burn me at the center of the city, on the steps to city hall.” 

Before he knew it, DeForest was back in reality, being slapped by Marilyn. 

“DeForest, wake the fuck up! The cyber-cops, they’re coming for you, they said so on the news! Or at least they’ll say who they’re coming for after a brief commercial break, but it has to be you, you’re the biggest fish left!” Marilyn said.

“Girl, I have the solution these problems, some air pollution! Get my gold-plated shovel, we’re going to the cemetery!”

  

Marilyn and DeForest grabbed the gold-plated shovel and got into his 1976 Cadillac El Dorado convertible and started off to the cemetery, the cyber-cops arriving at the home just minutes after the duo left. In the distance he could see his house burning as the cyber-cops set fire to the house in order to flush out or burn any survivors. 

DeForest got out of the car and grabbed the gold-plated shovel and ran through the cemetery looking for looking for Ganjenstein’s grave. Everywhere he looked he was confronted with headstones or statues of angels, but time was short, he couldn’t stop to read every last one of them, the cyber-cops were bound to be tracking his car’s movements.  Suddenly, he noticed a giant statue of a pot leaf at the end of a row of statues of angels: It had to be Ganjenstein! DeForest ran down the row of the grave and read the name on the gravestone: Barry Tokewitz, Esquire. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an even larger monument of a pot leaf , this one with a lightning bolt striking it and a werewolf that slightly resembled Jimmy Carter holding it.  Surely, this must it.  DeForest ran over to the tombstone and rubbed the moss off of the nameplate revealing the name: Dr. Chaim Ganjenstein, PhD, MD, OC. DeForest plunged the gold-plated shovel through the grass into the hard dirt and began the arduous, and somewhat familiar, task of digging up a corpse. 

After half an hour of digging and Marilyn urging him on, DeForest finally reached the casket of Dr. Ganjenstein, which seemed nearly two feet shallower than it should have been. Not wanting to completely excavate the grave due to time constraints, he cracked open the half-covered casket to pull out the corpse that way. As soon as he cracked the lid, the air became filled with the smell of ganja, good stuff, too; it was almost enough for him to get a contact high (Which is impressive given his history of smoking). DeForest opened up the casket enough to reach the corpse and pull it out, which was made more difficult by the fact the casket was only partly opened due to time constraints.  

At last, the corpse of Ganjenstein was in the El Dorado. DeForest and Marilyn got into the car and started the car up. While backing out of the cramped cemetery parking lot, DeForest got a full glimpse of Ganjenstein in between the tree-filtered moonlight; for a dead guy, he really didn’t look so bad, just kinda green and dry looking.

DeForest pulled out of the cemetery and set a course for the city hall stairs.   Along the way, two cars pulled behind the El Dorado, two police cars that quickly turned on their lights and sped up. Now, a police car can be a fairly fast vehicle, especially an interceptor, which these were, but even they could not stand up to the 500 cubic inch motor of the El Dorado, which was supercharged, by the way. DeForest quickly pulled away from the cops and arrived at the city’s center with minutes to spare, which is good, as Dr. Ganjenstein was a lot harder to get out of the car than he was to get in. 

After a bit of struggling, DeForest pulled Ganjenstein out of the convertible’s backseat and started hauling him to the stairs of the city hall. Brakes screeched as two cop cars arrived, two cyber-cop cars, to be exact. Just as DeForest dropped Ganjenstein on the stairs, he heard doors closing behind him. 

“Hold it right there DeForest, give yourself up and we’ll make your death quick. . . and painful!” The first cyber-cop said.

“Quick? I thought you agreed we were going to torture him, you know, Gitmo style?” Cyber-cop two said.

“You fucking idiot, I wanted him to think we weren’t going to torture him Gitmo style.”

“Oh, sorry man, my bad.” 

During this poorly written conversation, DeForest had reached into his pocket and pulled out a book of matches and struck one.  He had almost set the lit match to the corpse of Ganjenstein when from behind him a cyber-cop came and bit his finger off, causing him to drop the match and matchbook just short of the corpse. 

“Fucking Christ! You bit my fucking finger off!” DeForest exclaimed.

“Yeah, kinda like Lord of the Rings, huh? Except without the gay hobbits.” The bitey cyber-cop remarked.

“Why the fuck would you want to do that? I mean seriously, why not just shoot me, you got guns!”

“Sir, I am an artiste, and we artistes take pride in what we do.” 

Unbeknownst to the artistes, Marilyn had gotten out of the El Dorado and had made her way over to the corpse and was hiding behind a pillar.  Taking her illegally powerful laser-pointer in hand, she set the beam on the corpse of Ganjenstein and the affected area was starting to smolder, then began to burn in earnest. 

“Hey, what the shit?  The corpse is burning.  Shit, the bitch must have started it on fire, like with an illegally powerful laser pointer or something!” The bitey cyber-cop exclaimed. 

The corpse of Ganjenstein quickly caught the rest of the way on fire and was soon engulfed in flames, acrid smoke descending on the area. It quickly became clear what the Ganjenstein’s plan was when he smoked himself to death: He was turning himself into a bomb of psychoactive chemicals.  

The smoke lay upon the city like a blanket of budsmoke, getting everyone in the city higher than they had ever been in their entire lives. Old ladies, young ladies, the councilmen, the mayor, all became beneficiaries of Dr. Ganjenstein’s last great project in marijuana research. Unfortunately for the cyber-cops, that quantity and quality of marijuana smoke was hell on circuitry; their boards got gummed up with resin and they short-circuited. Soon, the whole town gathered around the smoking corpse of Ganjenstein. 

“My God, I never knew this stuff was that good!” Said the Mayor. “I must apologize you DeForest. You only wanted to bring this. . . this good bud to the lungs of the people, you never wanted to hurt or kill anymore. When I signed the cyber-cop legislation, I thought they would help people and save us from ourselves, but instead, I brought shame and death upon our fair Urbanville. Well everybody listen up! I’m proposing a new legislation: Proposition 420, the legalization of marijuana in Urbanville and outlying areas.  All those in favor say ‘Aye!’” 

“Aye!” said the crowd. Not only community member dissented, the only unanimous vote in fifty years. Of course, one voice wasn’t present: DeForest.  He was somewhere else at the time of the vote. 

“. . . and that’s how I made the Allies win World War 2, DeForest.” Dr. Ganjenstein remarked from his cloud-seat.

“It was all so simple all along, why didn’t I see it?” DeForest said.

“Well, the secrets of life are hidden to those who look in the wrong way, my son. Say, did you ever solve my codes?  They’re a trick, you see, the codes don’t matter, the picture they form does.  Just stare past the codes for a minute or two and the real picture will become clear.”

“Like a magic eye poster!”

“Like a magic what?”

“Oh, Dr. Ganjenstein, you so crazy!”

 And so, with the legalization of marijuana in Urbanville, crime plummeted, overall happiness increased, and Cheetos quickly ran out of supply.

The girl tied up in the chair squirmed when she recognised Conner’s shadow on the opposite wall. She’s been here for more than two days, not exactly knowing why.

 

“How are you, comfortable? Get some sleep last night?” Conner sat down across from her.

 

The girl tried her best to wiggle herself free, but she knew she was fighting a lost battle. She didn’t really know why he asked her any questions, because he perfectly well knew she was gagged.

 

“Let’s take that gag out, now, what have you got to say?” he pulled the gag out her mouth.

 

“Why am I hear?” the girl licked her dry lips.

 

“Good question,” he stared at a spot just next to her head. “I don’t really know…” He stared into her eyes.

 

“What are you going to do with me?” She was scared, shivering to her bones.

 

“I’m hungry, can I make you a sandwich?” he stood up and started to climb the stairs.

 

She looked uncertainly at him, “Are you going to poison it?”

 

He gave her a weird look, “No… that would just spoil the fun.” He checked his wrist-watch, “So do you want a sandwich or not?”

 

In answer her stomach gave a growl.

 

Conner smiled, “I take that as a yes. Cheese and tomato good for you?” he disappeared up the stairs.

 

The girl took the time to look around, as the light was always off, she was in a basement and it didn’t look like people used it much.

 

A few minutes later Conner came back down the stairs carrying two plates of sandwiches. “Here you go,” he held a sandwich in front of her mouth so she could take bite.

 

“Can I please have a glass of water?”

 

He put down the sandwich and ran up the stairs and returned shortly with a bottle of water with a straw. He put the bottle in-between her legs, with the straw in her mouth. “How would you like to die?”

 

She knew this was coming, but it shocked her nonetheless. “Any way as long as it doesn’t take to long!” she licked her lips again.

 

“How about… I electrocute you with a hairdryer? In the bath…” he looked at her expression, “okay… maybe not. How would you like to die?”

 

“Look, I do not want to die… Why do you want to kill me?”

 

He checked his watch again, “I have nothing better to do.”

 

“What did your girlfriend drop you and now you want to take your frustration out on anything female?” She gave him a shy grin.

 

“What is it with girls and thinking it’s personal? It’s not! Really, I wanna kill you because… Well, it’s not important. Now, are you ticklish?”

 

She bit her lip. “No.”

 

“Oh, well… hmm, let’s see…” he started to tickle her on her bottom of her feet.

 

She giggled, then when she couldn’t handle it anymore she laughed and pleaded.

 

“You lied,” he stopped for a moment to give her a stern look, “I don’t like liars…” he started to dig around in a camo coloured army tog bag. “What do you prefer, nail-gun, power-drill or sander?”

 

“Neither, can’t you just pull your wand and get it over with.” The girl was really scared.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of dying?”

 

She shook her head, anticipating his next move.

 

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? While I make up my mind?”

 

“You can just as well tell me about you, I will not be able to tell anyone…” she gave him a grin, “Have you done this kind of thing before?”

 

“Yes, but tell me about yourself, tell me about your childhood.”

 

“What so you could go on making fun of my screwed up childhood?” she looked at him suspiciously, “or are you on the prowl for your next victim?”

 

“It’s the next vic bit I’m interested in. And maybe I’ll make fun of you… just a little bit.”

 

“No way am I going to tell you.” The girl smiled at him, a little shy smile. ‘What do I get for entertaining you?”

 

“I might not kill you, but then again, I might.”

 

 

“I can’t live with might.” She bit her bottom lip.

 

“But, then again, you might not…” he gave a devilish grin.

 

She panicked. “Kill me and get it over with.”

 

“Alrighty then, let’s get this over with then. Any last words?” he took out a pair of knives.

 

“Yes,”

 

“Out with it then.”

 

“May I please have a McDonald’s Meal? I just have to have some fries…” she looked apologetic.

 

He smiled, “Okay,” he thought about it for a moment, “You know I’d love to, but that’s kinda tricky.”

 

“Ah, please! It would be the last thing I’d ever ask, next to this other last thing, please?!”

 

“What’s the other thing?” Conner was starting to get bored.

 

“Tell my parents personally I’m dead. You don’t have to tell them you did it, you just have to be the bearer of the bad news.”

 

“You know what, I don’t think that I wanna do either of those things. I’m really sorry, but I’m in a hurry.”

 

“You’re not going to let a dead girl have her last wish?” She was outraged.

 

“Um, yea, I think so.”

 

“You’re going to regret it!”

 

“Gee, I’m scared.”

 

“I wouldn’t say scared, but; annoyed would work…” She licked her lips.

 

“Yea I am. Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom, I promise when I get back I’ll kill you.” He quickly ran up the stairs.

 

“OJAJOY!” The girl gave a huge yawn.  What’s the chance of a murderer getting a way with his crime in this civilization?

 

“I have it!!” he came bouncing down the stairs a minute later. “Target practice!”

 

She stared at him, “What? What kinda target practise?!”

 

He grabbed a crossbow, “My kind,” he said as he loaded a bolt into the slot.

 

She was scared, she was very scared. “Bet you can’t use that thing properly…”

 

“What do you mean?” he asked as he taped a red target to her chest.

 

“You’re blazing mad!!!” She glared up at him. “I bet the girl see rite trough you!”

 

“You didn’t…” he started winding the crossbow.

 

“Yeah, but I didn’t see you head on remember? At least tell me about her…”

 

“Who?”  He walked toward the nearest wall.

 

“The girl who you clearly have a thing for, but so kicks your butt, so your ego suffers, and you kill girls.” She bit her bottom lip.

 

“IT’S NOT PERSONAL!” he took aim, “You should know though, I’m a horrible shot, so there is a good chance you won’t die quickly.” He looked at her grief stricken face, “Fine! But she’s not the reason why I wanna kill you.”

 

“Yippy, tell me what she’s like? Wouldn’t she be a bit unhappy…SHIT…do not kill me in the middle of my sentence! I was saying; knowing the guy that liked her is a homicidal maniac?”

 

“Well, she’s a bit of a psychotic maniac herself,” he reloaded the cross bow, “I’m not sure if I like her or hate her.”

 

“Like and hate is very close, BASTARD… that was close…!” she took a deep breath before resuming, “Sounds like you are a perfect match…”

 

“Check this,” he turned around and showed her the back of his head where there was a patch of short hair between the longer hairs. “She is a total sadist.” He reloaded the cross bow.

 

“I wish it was me that had done that, IF YOU KEEP DOING THAT, YOUR GOING TO HIT ME! …Who gave you that scar on your face?” She gave some shallow breaths.

 

“Hitting you is the whole point of this exercise!” he reloaded. “She gave me the scar though. Hurt quite a bit.”

 

“The more I hear of her the more I like her… Well that one was way off… Who is she, do I know her?”

 

“I don’t know…” he reloaded at aimed for her head.

 

She sneezed and the bolt hit the wall rite where her head had been previously.

 

“Damn!” he reloaded. “Her name is Trinnidy, do you know her?”

 

The girl snorted, “That cow? You deserve better than that conniving two timing bitch…”

 

“Just hold still,” he took aim and pulled the trigger.

 компютри втора употреба

He hit her in the chest. “You hit me?!”

 

“Already? This conversation was starting to get interesting…”

 

“At… least… tell me… what you …are going …to do …. With that…. Cow?” The girl started to vomit blood.

 

“Ew… Hmm, I don’t know, I mean, I can’t kill her… Or should I? What do you think, um… I never asked your name…?”

 

The girl was on her last leg, “He… HELL YEAH!” she coughed up a lot more blood. “C… Chri…sti…ne. With a C.”

 

“Well Christine with a C, you think I should kill her… How?’

The girl wasn’t able to answer as she was in a state of DEATH.

 

“Hmm, that was quicker than I thought it would be…” he put away the cross bow, and removed the bolts from the walls. “Well, a job well done always makes me hungry. Better clean up this mess first.” He climbed up the stairs and grabbed a mop from the kitchen and started to fill a bucket with warm water when he got a strong craving for horse meat, so he locked up the house and went to buy McDonald’s.

——–

Dont sue me McDonnalds… please…

Credit goes to Jolindi De Kock who wrote all of the girls dialog…

Whisper 

He watched the first red drop of blood appear, slowly snaking down to his palm and twisting around his forefinger.The blade glinted in the harsh artificial light from the halogen bulb in the overhead lighting.He caught his reflection in its efficient curve. 

No more nightmares, no more nothing. 

He willed his mind to empty as he ran the blade across his wrist again. He felt the satisfying stinging as he cut through the skin.He put the blade back into the medicine cabinet.He sat down on the edge of the bath, staring at the blood flowing into his palms.One day he knew that cutting the skin wouldn’t be enough, but he couldn’t stop, not anymore. 

He had been doing it for years. 

He watched, mesmerized by the velvet red blood, outlining the creases on his palm, deepening every line, the dark red staining the milky white. With a sigh, he stood up and put his bleeding wrist under the cool running water from the tap. The red made ribbons in the clear, sparkling water, slowly tainting it darker and darker. 

He put a black bandana over the fresh cut among the older scars, hiding it from view. 

Nothing more than an innocent fashion accessory.

Bleeding red beauty
silken velvet blooms
crimson romance in the night
does not fade as dark consumes
resilient of the reaper
holding just one stem of life
wilting age does not taint thee
which was born into the light
you hold upon your body
spurs sharp as thorn
dare I come any closer
for my flesh you may adorn
wicked sweet scent
does draw me near
faint words I do hear whisper
from petal’d lips
but still I fear
Silent message it does reach me
as you sing your tragic song
and my heart does fill with sadness
for with one breath
you may be gone
bleeding red beauty
silken velvet blooms
crimson romance in the night
will not fade for love consumes.

Waiting for some inspiration
Motivation for my mind
Blank pages move under my hand
Visions of empty fill my brain
Incessant ramblings of deaf ink
What is this shit…?
Blind eyes see all
If ever there is anything
yet nothing is everything
But overrated concepts of shit
A four letter word defines existence
Techno zombies rule the world
With a box and cords
And buttons to destroy us all…

I sit on the edge of paranoia,

Swimming against the tide of reality;

Eventually I’ll fall or drown,

Time is running short.

We’ve all heard about the conspiracy theories of 9/11. How the government tried to cover it all up, but there are some parts you didn’t know…

3 companies helped the government silence as much as they could but as we all know there’s a limit of information you can conceal from the public.

After the first crash at 8:46:40 AM on the morning of 11/9 Jack Thompson was weaseling poker caribenaipes para pokercaribbean poker portal internethigh stakes pokeraprende a jugar pokerpoker brokercard gamepoker portales webstrip pokerbonus de poker en lineastrip poker downloadplay poker onlinejugar poquer onlinejuego poker online gratisjuego omaha poker en lineajugadas pokertexas holdem rulesjuego de poker online gratispoker pc gamespoker caribe pagina webcaribbean poker portalespoker caribe portales internetpoker play moneypoker caribe portalespai gow poker portales,pai gow,pai gow poker portales internetpoker texas holdem online,poker texas holdem,poker texas holdem gratisjuego poker texasjugar poker lineajuegos flash pokerpai gow poker portales webpai gow poker internetpoker caribe portal webreglas de poquerstrip poker gamestrucos pokerpoker torneos gratispoker portal internetpoker caribe portales webjugar poker texasfull tilt pokereuropean pokereuro pokerpoker tournamenttop poker promocionesstreap poker gratispoker librejugar omaha pokerjuego poker omaha en lineatexas holdem gratiscartas linea his way onto Fox. While Fox was still broadcasting live footage of the Twin Towers, Jack Thompson was recording his session of “How Terrorists trained on Video Games”.

Here was a small portion of the show that we could find.

Presenter: “Now Mr.Thompson, you say that these attacks are in connections with Video games? Do you have any manner to prove this?”
Jack Thompson: “Well what more proof do I need than Flight Simulator? That game was clearly designed to train terrorists!”
Presenter: “Correct me if i’m wrong Mr.Thompson, but isn’t Flight Simulator a Simulation? It’s not really a game and can’t be classified as…”
Jack Thompson: “Now that’s where you’re wrong!”
Presenter: “I’m sorry,can you let me finish my…”
Jack Thompson: “This is what Rockstar wants you to think! They’re just making these games and it’s turning our children into monsters!”
Presenter: “Hold on, it seems like we’ll have to end it here Mr.Thompson. Our Director is canceling this session.”

You would imagine Jack Thompson ranting on at this point but the order came directly from the President.We all know what power he has at fox, but what promoted him to cancel the clear proof the 9/11 is linked to Video games?
To understand this more clearly, we need to go to the White house days ago…

1 Black limo and 1 White limo pulled into the White house.

Out of the black limo stepped Sir Howard Stringer and Satoru Iwata, they’ve been friends for a long time but never revealed it to the public.
Out of the white limo stepped Bill Gates that didn’t want to be seen with anyone else.

We’re still not 100% sure what transpired that day but we do know that it involved some serious cash and powerful cover ups.
Some proof to what happened that day can be found here

We will leave more information as soon as we get past the CIA snooping around.

(So this was going to be a 800 word five minute story (hah!). Enjoy.)

With a sharp, flat crack of directed explosives, the ancient seal of the Incan tomb ripped asunder, separated into two flat slabs which slumped over crush the shambling jungle undergrowth that had threatened to complete overcome the hidden entrance.
As if to provide some sort of juxtaposition to the explosion, the little digital watch on Gunnery-Sergeant Hank Rico gave out a little beep.
“Fucking thing.” He growled, glancing down at it to see what it’s latest problem was.
The green number glowed eerily in the half-light of the jungle, displaying the less-than-ominous message of ‘742’. Hank blinked in surprise however; the number did in fact have somewhat of a significant meaning to him and his men.
“Hey boys,” he said, looking back up from the watch. “Seven hundred and forty two years AWOL.” The platoon, spread out in loose formation through the jungle, variously swore or cheered, depending on what their opinion currently was in regards to the immortality of the American Marine Corp platoon.
“Well, if that isn’t a portent, I don’t know what is.” Corporal Timmock remarked, his crossed arms resting lazily on the top of his Thompson, slung around his neck by it’s strap.
“Shut the fuck up, Timmock.” Hank remarked, peering into the entrance to the tomb as the dust settled. “You want God-like powers? Then you’ll fucking follow orders and stop scaring the troops with crap about portents or signs. You get me?”
“I get you, sir.” Timmock said lazily, switching his cheroot from one corner of his mouth to the other with a practise movement. Hank gave him one last glare, then glanced over to the nearest two Marines out of his remaining seventeen.
“Harper, Cassidy. You’re on point with me, on the bounce.”
The two men nodded in affirmation, slamming the bolts of their modified Thompson submachine guns back and forth as they moved up to join him at the entrance. Like every other man, they had eschewed the use of modern weaponry as they’d travelled back and forth across the ages, but had readily modified the weapons breach to accept a thirty round clip from an Heckler & Koch MP5, as well as attaching a red dot sight to the top.
Hank checked the load on his underslung 40mm grenade launcher; scatter pellets, perfect for the close terrain they were moving into. He then gave his two companions a nod and ducked through the hole, look down the barrel of his gun with the stock hard against his shoulder. The scuff of feet through the dust, undisturbed for millennia, assured him that his two other point men were right behind. The general clatter of equipment and the soft curses of soldiers doing their best to be completely silent whilst moving in a large group informed him of the rest of the platoons progress, ten metres behind them.
Now, as his heart started to race and his anticipation of an ascension to Godhood rose, his found himself simply going through the motions of clearing out the dark, musty rooms of the Incan tomb. Ancient statues held no interest for him; piles of golden jewels attracted little of his attention. His thoughts were elsewhere, focused firmly on the events of a day that was just over sixty years ago for the rest of the world, but now seven hundred and forty two years subjectively for his platoon.
They’d been on a regular patrol through the French country side during the closing stages of the D-Day landings in 1941, and had found a German anti-aircraft battery set up amongst some distinctly out of place standing stones forming a Henge.
During the ensuing gun fight several Germans had retreated down into a barrow at the centre of the Henge. Hank and his men had followed, clearing out the Germans in a bloody last stand that had claimed three American lives.
Shortly afterwards they had discovered the writing on the wall of the crypt beneath the barrow, which promised eternal life and prosperity for anyone willing to undertake a series of tests in the form of tomb raiding across the world. After seeing the skeleton of a long dead French Crusader come to life and beseech them to complete the task, thus allowing him to rest as the Marines ascended to form a new Pantheon of Gods and rule the world.
They’d readily accepted and abruptly been transmuted, their skin greying and eyes sinking. Hair had fallen out as they transformed into ghastly ghouls, their uniforms hanging from their sparse frames. But they felt stronger, faster and much later found out that they were now effectively immortal; only physical death could claim them, for time was no longer an option.
And so they had spent the last seven and a half centuries travelling across the earth and through time itself, visiting each testing site and losing men as they endeavoured to reach this, the final test.
Now, though, the end was in sight. The final test was upon them.
“What do you reckon we have to do this time?” Cassidy whispered as they crept up to an archway.
Hank didn’t deign to answer, concentrating on the opening ahead; Harper was too busy spitting out tendrils of a cobweb that had gotten into his mouth somehow.
“Hope it’s not another speed-trap.” Cassidy continued. “Like, with the death-pits and boiling oil spraying out of the wall if you step on the wrong tile whilst being chased by falling spikes…”
Hank snapped a hand up to silence the idiot as he spotted movement. “Contact.” He stated, fixing the rd dot firmly on the target ahead.
The shape in the gloom resolved into a man-shaped creature as it moved forwards; seconds later it was revealed as a skeleton of a man, wearing intricate gold armour and carrying a vicious looking bone spear from some huge mammal. “Fire!” Hank snapped, suiting actions to words and letting out a five round burst that smashed the skeleton to pieces.
A second later, as the platoon flooded through the archway into the large chamber beyond, a veritable horde of skeletons came running from the row of archways at the top of the stairs dominating the opposite side of the chamber whilst still more of the undead came crawling down the walls all around them.
The platoon quickly formed a rough semi-circle, blasting away on full automatic with their Thompsons, sending bone shards flying through the air like confetti. A couple of grenade launchers let out solid whumps, and a half second later explosions mushroomed amongst the charging horde of long-dead Incan warriors, destroying yet more of them.
There were far more Incans then bullets, however, and the numbers quickly began to tell. Isolated groups of them broke through and silently hacked at the Marines, who fended them off with bayonets where they could. A few fell, black blood spraying through the air as they screamed their last breaths. Some of the screams were those of release, centuries of horror and fatigue washed away in their own blood.
Hank saw Timmock with his two pilfered Japanese Kodachi’s, fending off a group of skeletons with desperation in every move. He must of hacked apart six of the bastards in less then ten seconds, but they swiftly mobbed him and stabbed him to death.
Hank let out a wordless roar and blasted the scatter rounds from his 40mm at the cluster of skeletons bearing down on him, emptying the last of his clip into the survivors.
“Kill the leader!” he roared, pointing his spent Thompson at the tall figure in it’s gold trimmed black robe, standing at the top of the stairs leaning on a huge scythe.
The men who could comply with the order did so, letting rip at the distant figure. A mob of bats swooped down from the ceiling at took the bullets, however. Hank gritted his teeth - obviously this was going to have to be done the hard way.
He dropped his gun and ripped his two tomahawks free of the holsters at his sides, whirling through the skeletons in his way in a deadly dance of destruction which sent a blizzard of bone shards spinning through the air around him. Very quickly he reached the top of the stairs, tossing a grenade behind him to deal with the remaining enemies as the last of his squad expired messily at the bottom of the stairs.
The leader of the Incan skeletons hefted it’s scythe and took a step towards him.
“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds. Your doom is nigh!” it rattled wheezily from it’s dry mouth.
Hank snorted derisively and blocked a swing of the scythe. “Like I haven’t heard that before.” he remarked, quick drawing his .50 calibre Magnum revolver and blasting the beasts head apart, causing it to topple backwards with arms flailing.
It was far from dead though; Hank knew that all too well, and rammed a grenade down it’s neck before running heedlessly through the crowd of slightly stunned Skeletons, ducking through the archways ahead as the grenade exploded, amplified to devastating levels by the arcane power of the dying Incan priest. The archway behind him collapsed in a shower of debris as he dived away from it.
Hank exhaled slowly and picked himself up, carefully putting his tomahawks away and exchanging the clips on his Thompson. “Well shit.” he said quietly, seeing that beyond the row of arches the room narrowed down to a small opening, beyond which pristine white tiling and smooth concrete walls replaced the crumbling Incan architecture. In all the other tombs he’d raided, there was simply a room dominated by gold, silver, iron or some other metal that the dead occupant had favoured, according to the time period and culture. But this had the clinical, clean look of a laboratory or hospital.
Hank walked slowly down the corridor, following it as it zigzagged deeper and deeper into the mountain that the tomb had been at the bottom of. There were alcoves dotted along the corridors housing ancient cadavers, mostly Templars from Bible times or ancient Greek warriors who had been servants of the previous Pantheons. Each held a parchment, evincing the virtues of gaining the promised Godhood and assuring the passer-by that the reward was up ahead somewhere.
Finally, the corridor opened up into a small room which had a lowered space in the floor, surrounded by a red silk curtain. The room was utterly featureless, but Hank could see the outline of an altar in the middle of the room.
As he walked in cautiously, he made note of the large piles of a grainy substance in each corner. He recognised it immediately - bone meal, worn down by the ages. Graffiti from millions of ancient languages, completely unreadable, was scratched into the walls in an insane pattern of madness.
With a boom, a slab of concrete smoothly slid down and locked into place over the only entrance. Hank spun, grabbing his weapon, and stared at the blocked door. An uneasy feeling spread through him. Turning from the entrance, he walked up to the recess in the floor and brushed the curtain aside.
More bone meal, with scraps of armour and weapons mingled with it, almost completely filled the recess. A single skeleton was slumped down against the altar, bedecked in the uniform of a British sailor from the 18th century. Hank kicked it aside and eagerly took the gold cover off of the stone altar, ready to find the artefact that would deliver his promised ascension to Godhood.
The altar was completely bare, though, apart from a single inscription scrawled in ancient Aramaic. Hank frowned, trawling his memory to translate it. He was sure that he was losing something in the translation, but it was a very clear message;

“The Cake is a lie!”

© Ian Bell, yo. (get the fuck off my intellectual property.)