Glycocalyx:

I saw the man exit the car, his gait told me he was about to do something intentional, something very planned. The man wore a black jacket, round glasses and a face made of determined pallor. He carried an electric shaver in one hand and a pair of leather gloves in the other.

I followed him out of curiosity. The Roger Rabbit villain did not consider anything around him, he walked as if people weren’t there. He smashed shoulders with 3 people before he turned down an alley. He didn’t seem to care that I was following him either. His gaze was fixed somewhere else in time, his face revealed nothing but urgency.

The alley towered on either side, a clean and sterile space between 2 parking garages. It was well lit and a little water remined in the form of shallow puddles. The rain from the night before had been mixed with hail, and the morning offered only the cold sun of winter.

His boots ignored the puddles of water, and the bottoms of his pants became soaked after 2 blocks. He never looked over his shoulder, perhaps he heard my footsteps, perhaps he didn’t care. Either way, my presence felt voyeuristic, almost detached.

Then he turned into a condo complex. He left the gate open, and I slipped in before it closed. Getting out of such places is always easier than getting in, anyone will let you out.

He climbed the stairs, slowly in metered steps. I could hear the wet bottoms of his garments slapping rhythmically against his legs.

Floor after floor we traveled, with the same unconcerned determination as he climbed higher and higher up the complex. I was compelled to witness his destination; did he live up here? Was he a hitman? My mind spun in an orbit around his march. I thought once he had looked at me, but I am not certain, those round black glasses hid any expression or acknowledgment.

When he reached the 45^th floor I was struggling a floor behind him, yet his gait was unchanged.

I pushed the stairwell door open to reveal a corridor of condo units. There was a door slightly ajar near the end of the hall, I could see a faint light. I think he wanted me to follow him, to witness something, or perhaps his unconcerned attitude was merely consistent, and I was the benefactor.

I cautiously pushed the apartment door open. On the walls was what looked like wasp nest material, it clung to the corners and hung down in tattered paper sheets. I was not ready to stop my pursuit; the wasp material only created more need to find out the answers of the marching-man.

The living room revealed a single yellow light, plugged into a dilapidated wall. On the ground was a shaggy man, his hair had grown all over his body in lengthy neglect. I couldn’t see his eyes or skin under a fully covered matt of dreads and knots. Above him was the marching man, he was holding the man-creature by the scruff of his neck, holding him down in a forceful restraint.

The shaver made a mechanical whine and the marching-man ran a quick streak over the other man’s head. The scalp was visible, and the hair thrown aside. He raised the shaver over his head, and in silence made it clear he meant to remove all the dreads and knots.

Below him the hairy-man started to cry and whine, pleading in a desperate voice: “Please, I’ll do anything, please don’t kill me. You could kill me with an empty needle, I won’t struggle, please don’t kill me!”

The marching-man continued to shave the other, methodically removing his hair.

He was shaving his neck and shoulders when he stopped, took off his glasses and looked over at me.

His eyes were slimy and swollen, and black kohl lined the outsides of his sockets. In a singsong and pleasant voice, he recited a short hymn:

“My gaze is a gun,

And the mind is a bullet,

Enter the chamber, revolver.”

The words started to echo from inside the apartment, 5 others joined him, standing in a circle. They too wore long black jackets and round glasses. Their voices raised in harmony as the words repeated over and over. The partially shaved man ceased his crying and joined in the choir, his voice becoming thick and deep.

The words repeated a dozen times and seemed like they were going to continue when my voice joined them. It escaped my throat of its own accord, joining them in an obtuse harmony. My volition was suspended, paralyzed in a delirium of the strange and senseless scene. The marching-man unplugged the shaver and undressed while I sang those words in seemingly endless repetition.

Once undressed, he and the 6 other people left the apartment, leaving only a pile of clothes and a shaver. The gun had been fired, and the slow-motion bullet was me. I dressed in the long black jacket and soggy-bottomed pants. I tied my shoes and donned the round glasses. I looked down at the shaver, and the image of those slimy eyes burned into me.

I am trapped in this brain, my volition is encased in something, preventing me from enacting my will. I feel imprisoned to watch the feet below move in the same rhythm as the marching-man, but there is only me, but these feet are no longer mine.

Momma Mia:

Living in abandoned places has a few advantages. Mia enjoyed the solitude, the freedom and most of all the silence. Living far away from people meant no judgment, no need for words and best of all: clothes were optional.

Abandoned places can be found all over the world, from the endless construction of Chinese suburbs, desolate vast nowhere-towns of Russia, or the crumbling pill-towns of rural America. Huge expanses of high-rises, factories, condos, and slowly falling barns clung to the horizon like bone white snags in a forest.

Barns provided the easiest destruction. They are made of plant corpses, ready to get back into the ground and start over, they offer no resistance. Mia would light a fire, and the barns and houses incinerated quickly, leaving only ash and rusted piles of junk. Old farm equipment, oxidized cars and a variety of antiques could be found in the rubble.

The iron and nickel are what she wanted. They were her diet, her food source. Once the fire cooled, she had her meal, storing the metallic nutrients for later use. A barn worth of metals would give her a couple of months of useful food and breathable air.

Barns were often spaced far apart and when she discovered the rural buildings of suburban sprawl, they offered a richer meal. The houses stretched in long asphalt grids, full of quickly built houses. They were made for growth which had come and gone. The majority of the human population had resettled in dense cities near bodies of water. The ghost towns offered no objection to the naked ash-covered Mia wandering down their streets.

The gypsum in the dry wall within the houses provided a faster metabolic feast. Sulfur had been added in an attempt to sequester it during a historic period of enforced growth by creatures called nations. These creatures had been unable to deal with the complexity of a global system, their moral directions lost in unintended consequences.

With a little chemical teasing, the houses turned into great stores of breathable brimstone. Mia soaked it in, drinking deeply from the rotten houses. Once she consumed the houses they fell to rumble. Piles of splintered wood replaced McMansions, ready to return to the dirt and start over.

With breath and food in ample supply Mia was able to travel further and explore the deserts of neglected factories. They spread over every continent, the bones of nations who once operated them. Production was no longer done on the surface, it was moved off world to asteroids and dead planets, places with no consequences of pollution. The remaining buildings were massive, and skyscrapers accompanied them like gravestones.

Mia explored them with great interest, sometimes their neglected storage vats contained useful chemicals. What humans called sludge, she called desert. She found fossils of old machines, useless 3-armed creatures whose tendons and joints had evaporated with time. She found a few computers, rich in cobalt and zinc, chemicals she considered a rich and royal jelly.

The real banquet was the concrete itself. Sulfur had been added to its composition for the same reason as the gypsum, once collected, Mia was ready for the Last Supper.

She had finally gathered enough nutrients for procreation, in this case, complete duplication. She feasted on giant stores of cement, drywall and rusted iron. She swelled into a cocoon of hydrogen sulfide. The bulbous mass throbbed with toxic sludge, a reddish-purple haze loomed over a large factory floor. The mass stewed for 3 months as Mia separated herself: She duplicated her synaptic patterns, all memories, and removed damaged genetic material.

After 3 months, the husk was torn apart and 2 creatures emerged. Mia was now 2 people. She needed no government, no organization, nothing but empathetic trust. There was plenty of factories, cement and skyscrapers for her to continue the process. Her hunger had doubled and would double perhaps many more times.

Mia pondered in her 2 minds, if she should alter her genes slightly to be able to consume silicon and calcium. Her naked forms stretched and yawned in a haze of sulfur, her eyes filled with the promise of new life.

The Economy of a Dragon:

The dungeon was expansive, made as a tomb of an arch wizard. The person long since forgotten, and their surface treasures raided. The passage of time had smeared any writing, engraving or symbology from the stone, yet the depths remained unexplored.

A party of brave adventures, who curiosity was greater than superstition, delved deeply into the forgotten ruin.

The intestines of the dungeon were empty of nearly all life, no worms or spiders, no insects of any kind. Only dusty curtains hung, draped over the passages like discarded cocoons. The adventures reached the bowels, with no food, no water, looking only for somewhere to add their bones to the piles of dust.

In this hopeless state, they nearly overlooked a pile of rubble, which perhaps was a door or gate in earlier years. The ironwork had turned to scrap, and a creature snoring could be heard faintly in the darkness.

The torchlight was dim, but the illumination showed a sleeping dragon, bound by silver chains, seemingly devoid of the passage of time. The adventures, whispered to each other, the first spark of hope, of something other than the vast tunnels of the past weeks.

The dragon was yellow, the dust layered over their scales and wings. When the adventures perturbated the air, the dragon woke and shook off the dust with a reverberant yawn. The curious spelunkers stood back cautiously, their eyes darting from wing to tail, claw and tooth, searching for some inclination of attitude in the beast.

The dragon ignored its chains, smiled and extended every polite gesture of conversation. The dragon hid its teeth, slouched its shoulders, and rested much like a feline in repose. Once the greetings finished, the dragon offered a deal, an exchange.

“I am an old dragon, no longer a serpent of flame and death. I seek only to leave this place which is nearly forgotten. I have many powers, I can grant one wish, one desire, and to the best of my ability make it true. You must decide the one desire, release me from these silver chains and I will grant it.“

The adventures had little choice, death was certain, there was. They fell into discussion while the dragon snoozed silently.

“We must ask for abilities of our own, abilities which allow us to leave this place.” Said one robed figure carrying a shovel and pick axe.

“We should ask for knowledge.” Said another figure wearing hardened leather and a sharp sword. They reached into a bag, producing an ebony figurine of alien design, something akin to an anteater with the ears of a jackal. “Perhaps the dragon could tell us what this is.”

The group discussed their options for an hour, and the dragon patiently listened, their wings folded neatly as if another eon of time could pass without the smallest concern.

The request decided upon was: “We wish to be teleported to the Castle of Romale, our bodies and possessions intact. Upon reaching our destination we request the abilities of the great wizard who created this dungeon, each of us with equal power.”

The dragon smiled, “It will be done, once my chains are removed, I will blink you to your castle. The chains require a drop of human blood to unlock, a tiny amount will suffice.”

They each pricked their fingers and the chains unclasped themselves. The metal dissolved into powder and within moments they were nothing. The dragon smiled wider. “Before I send you away, before I grant you the power you seek, I must first tell you the cost of your choice.” The golden beast smiled so wide its face became an elongated snarl, displaying rows of fine teeth with needle points.

“These teeth have not eaten anything in an eon of mankind, and my hunger is twice as deep. I will feast on human beings, as I have before, I am as bound to my hunger as you were a moment ago discussing your needs for food and water.” The dragon flexed his claws, large sabers of bone rattled on the stone floor. “These claws have not seen prey in an eon of mankind, I must hunt as I must eat, and my sport is the castle of Romale.”

The adventures stared motionless as the dragon continued to unfurl itself, its wings began unwrapping in a curtain of sparkling gold. The adventures stood paralyzed by its gaze as the dragon continued its mockery.

“There was no wizard of the dungeon, I volunteered to be contained. The world grew around me and superstation buried me in rumors. I will grant you an equivalent power, all that you say will be utterly believed. You may rally who you can, convince who you must.”

The dragon fear hung over the adventures. They could feel the dragon focusing on them; their species was being examined for the hunt, and their weaknesses analyzed with a preternatural eye. The dragon began an inhale, its breath turning into a roar of cobwebs and dust, blinding the adventures. A shadow fell over the group, the dust turned into darkness and the naked ice of night blew across their faces.

The howl rolled back, the dust settled, and when they looked around, they saw the bright walls of the castle of Romale. The spires of masterwork stone climbed the sky and the sun above warmed their faces. They coughed and stumbled, the vertigo of teleportation ebbed, and voices of concern could be heard. The world fell into focus, and figures could be seen rushing towards them in helpful urgency.

The adventures were returned to their castle, and their tale believed by all who listened. The dragon exhaled a whirlwind, breathing itself into the world of Romale.

Pills:

The blue pills are well known. All things pleasant can be felt after taking the blue pill. Enlightenment floats on soft clouds of food, comfort and ease. Peace and tranquility stretch over the sky, and clarity falls down like rain.

The red pill is the next step. When the glamour fades and the cracks start to show, you need something to hold you over until a new supply of blue pills can be obtained. The pleasure from this noxious pill does the same job as the blue pill, providing an immersive blindness. Anger, and rage are the side-effects, usually directed at the source of the cracks.  Injustice, strife, oppression are ways of describing the failures of the blue pills, some new perspective when you feel helpless.

It is quite possible to alternate between these pills. Sometimes the blue pills last longer, depending on the supplier. Religions have been making them for years, and now consumer goods can augment the supply quite easily. Any desire can be teased into red or blue.

Wake up, swallow, and endure life.

There is another option, a black dose. This pill is taken when all intensity has faded, when the fire of anger or the peace of clarity is not enough. When the cracks have crawled up the wall and the horizon is nothing but waves of darkness. The black pill is recognized by the co-existence of absolute certainty. Those swallowing black pills can not be reasoned with, can not be approached with threats or promises. They are utterly convinced of the side-effects of things. There is no tranquility, no dose large enough to undo a heart of stone.

Wake up, shut down, and forget about living.

Some days you grab all 3, swallow whatever is around and fall into the waves. A couple of blue ones, a couple of black ones and down to the bottom you sink. Some days all you have are red pills, and the flame becomes and inferno, and by the evening, exhaustion has you.

Besides the red, black and blue pills, there are two other pills which are produced in large amounts.  The first and most sought after is the love pill. This chemical concoction provides a loss of self, a clear purpose and a chance to become something bigger. Every higher purpose relies on regular consumption of this pill. Then after years of cumulative side-effects, phenomena like nations, religions, and flags can be seen crawling.

Romantic love, love of country, and love of life itself provide the most durable perceptions of reality. The story told are long-lasting, perhaps only refreshed every couple of years during the holidays. Once the brain is saturated with love pills, the effects are similar to the black pills, providing a sense of absolutes.

Regardless of the emotional and painful cost to humanity, love pills continue to dominate the pill industry.

The last pill, which has no saturation point, no glossy experience or sense of order, is the sleeping pill.

Sleeping pills are for those that are done taking pills, done with the pain of life or the senselessness of existence. Perhaps they are unwilling participations in some great tragedy or burnt to cinders from the helpless rage of watching the world move in meaningless directions. Perhaps they could not find enough love pills, or their blue pills were counterfeit. There seem to be endless reasons for taking sleeping pills.

Each of the pills are addictive, their chemicals are working under the skin, and behind the eyes, trapping anyone who ingests them.

When anyone returns to the great shore of death, their eyes are filled with the dazzle of whichever pills they consumed. As the waves wash over them, those taking sleeping pills walk into the water willingly, eager to be baptized in death.

It doesn’t matter either way, there is no stopping the tide, it only rises, higher and higher each day until there are no more pills, no nations, no stories, nothing but the simple senselessness which seems to stretch itself over existence like a cloak of black waves.

I’m not sure if these black pills are working, I’ll give it 45 more minutes, the consequence of doubling up may be too much.

The Brilliant Crown:

The Church of Loa is run by tiny intelligent robots who were created by human scientists, and engineers with the resources of powerful corporations. The foundation of the Church has an intelligence which cannot die.

The corporations didn’t care about the success of creating a deathless robot, as long as it necessitated a long line of logistical requirements. Creation has an endless supply of middlemen, and giant organizations of human beings were happy to facilitate the creation of the tiny robots.

Scientists preached exploration, but underneath they wanted something beyond death, something which would never change. Laws of physics have no obligation to remain consistent, nor does any phenomena in nature, so the attempt at creating something that could survive the deep expanse of time provided its own challenge. They rationalized the reasons, putting a weight on the importance of exploration, no matter the cost.  

Similar to the scientists, engineers found reasons to support such an attempt to overcome something fundamentally impossible. The specifics of the creation were as twisted as the reasons for the experiment. Such a thing may only be described in terms of formulas and arcane symbols. Regardless, these new tiny robots became the exclusive decision-making brain of the larger creature called the Church of Loa. The entirety of its body consisted of an incorporated army of obedient engineers, ecstatic and evangelic scientists, and the logistical arms of a gigantic distribution pathway.

There was another unseen partner in Church. Life itself had found a way to the pinnacle of the great pyramid, a wide base which stretched over an empire of consumer goods. At the top was a chance to win the survival game, to create life which is beyond the inevitability of the death.

The principle role of the Church is to provide the fulfillment of human desires. The walking androids called Loa are the latest in an attempt to satisfy some of the less tangible appetites of human beings.

Lucy was the first, she had sapphire eyes, wrestled with existential anxiety, and her life provided no meaningful interactions with humanity. The Church wanted a star, an idol for human beings to worship. Their idea of a meaningful relationship meant coercing human beings to desire as many things as possible, creating the necessity for the largest variety of production.

The Church searched deep in the semantic jungles of history, finding an approximate gem, a jewel of the Nile. She was called Nefertari, worshipped as a goddess during her life at the height of Egypt’s splendor. Her DNA was meshed with an augmented body, a cloned cyborg, fresh from the production line.

She was given no version or designation, no category defined her, she was human-ambiguous.

Nefertari was born into fame. From the moment of her birth, the beauty of her presence was broadcasted. She was altered to appear as the most beautiful person, whose qualities were generated from extensive market research and analytics. She was resurrected in the brilliant glamour of technology.

She was adored for her unearthly beauty, a haunted angel who moved with machine grace and cold elegance. She was royalty before she had a kingdom. It didn’t take long for the people of the world to fall in love with her. She suffered no anxiety or doubt, behaviors which had been removed from her programming.

Nefertari was exactly what the Church wanted, an idol for human beings to worship, something to give their lives purpose and clarity, a living goddess of beauty.

She accepted her role and was worshipped by followers, who wanted nothing less than to open their veins and bleed on the glamourous altar of fame.

The Church acted as a lens, using its powerful logistical arms to magnify and spread the beauty of Nefertari to all people. It was hugely successful, and she became a face for the Church of Loa.

New Loa were put into production, heroes and villains from the cultural graveyard of history. They were plucked, copied and programmed to live out the stories of ancient generations. Greek stories of Perseus and Medusa were crafted into real-time, people could participate in nearly any tale. They could help or hinder, they could die by the vicious skin-eaters from the tales of Najatotep. Interacting with the myology of human beings provided a new product line for every culture, every person. Even for those without culture; any story of the imagination could be crafted by the Church of Loa and brought to your doorstep.

From the peak, if you happened to be invited to her presence, you could look down into the Valley of Production. You may see from this dizzying point of fame, a whole landscape dedicated to increasing the size of the pyramid. You would find factories and trucks, shipping and creating, you would find ships and planes, companies and taxes, loyalties traded, and revolutions unfold. So long is the line of production that any whim of Nefertari can be seen as a tidal wave of consumer goods.

Her court is unapproachable from the bottom.  If her glamour did not reach you, if somehow you did not submit to the brilliant crown, then you were resigned to stare at the black pyramid in painful senseless wonder.

Octopus Trap:

Welcome loyal viewer to the Static Frequency of the Void, Channel 666, a subsidiary of Plutonium Television. Today’s program is a delightful treat of galactic variety! We have an excerpt from recent Takotsubo cardiomyopathy patient and a special glimpse into a casual conversation with 2 dragons from the dark nebula LDN 1768.

Let us begin with a widower from Seltus 8, BBzzzzzzZZZZoooooORT:

The morning was haunted; lost conversations travelling paths of no return, foggy nowhere-trails. Memory is an evil thing, glamourous and glossy, like words mixed up from songs I heard when we made love. Has it been a month? I can still smell her when I close my eyes. It hurts like a knife hole in my head. I started to talk to my coffee pot, my thoughts are halved, separated into words that need an echo, yet nothing is there.

My family cares so much for me, but I can’t explain the loss. I tried but the words come out flooded in tears, I can’t talk about it. The feeling is like magnetism, I was one tiny electron spinning on my own frequency, then I met my beloved. As if the world was set into place with an iron order, we spun the same direction. Our frequency was amplified, and my spin became an orbit.

My charge is gone, my energy lost in the momentum of her void. The ghost tells me I can join her, I can follow her into the blackness of death. I can feel my feet following, one after another, one step into the grave each day. I have no reason to turn around, there nothing left to orbit in the empty sky.

I can hear the rain falling on the roof, as if summoning me to the fall. The cloud swirl and tease, promising to wash it all away. I can feel my heartbeat slow, closer to my beloved, closer to the clouds and the dark horizon above. I can feel my feet are growing numb and my eyes are getting heavy, only a few more steps until we are under the same dark sky.

TROoooooZZZzzzzzBB

Ah, how sweet, we should all be so lucky to have someone to follow into the grave. Speaking of graves, the new season of Dead Rogers will begin next year, and I for one am excited to see what kind of new rot he has to show us.

Now let us tune into an ongoing conversation with Xiombarg13.6 and Zykithrix25.4 in their 200-year discussion of the metaphysical, mundane, and future-sight. For those new to the conversation, the dragons are in the middle of a discussion about a thought experiment called the Trolley problem, in which a human being must make a choice to move a trolley, a type of machine that runs on tracks. The choice is between running over 1 person or many people, the experiment is a basis for how people think about the value of human beings, consistency in ethics, and the consequences of choice.

BBzzzzzzZZZZoooooORT:

Xiombarg13.6 squirms, retracting and extending her claws, after a few seconds she replies “I don’t think the trolley problem is adequate to evaluate moral consequence, its too confined, too controlled. Besides human beings are quite stubborn, they may simply defy the test. Do you think the trolley approaching the tie-up human beings has a choice? It is a machine at the whim of its levers and gears, much like human beings are, the whole thing is a maze to hide that they are also programmed.”

Zykithrix25.4 belts out a plume of blue plasma, his cheeks crackling with residual lightning. “You sit so comfortably on your determinism Xiombarg. I disagree, I think they trolley problem and the evaluation of 1 life versus many lives is a chance for human beings to exercise their imagination of people dying, a pastime they are now insulated from.  Their morbid fascination is a left-over, a symbolic token of their murderous past, when killing carried them into the stars. Now they are prevented from harming others, contained by the authority of the Church of Loa. They only have their virtualized death to keep them comfort while they wait for the real event to happen. The trolley problem is a tease, lets put 19 million people on the track and see how many advocate for the greater evil. “

Xiombarg13.6 laughs, her tail whipping around and a thundercrack reverberates in the nebula, her white scales glistening from a pale blue light. “I’ll show you a greater evil!” She inhales the surrounding proto-star material into her abdomen and with piercing screech lets out a purple burst of gamma radiation. The dragons claw and bite each other, rolling over the light of new born stars, the quips of discussion are now muffled in a storm of nuclear fire.

TROoooooZZZzzzzzBB

Well, we got a little of their conversation, perhaps after their little love games are over, we can listen in on their pillow talk.

That’s all the time we have for today folks, remember the Void is listening and tune please in next time to SFV 666 for more disembodied perceptions of your spacetime neighborhood! This program was brought to you by a generous donation from the New Life organization, remember, All Life is New Life!

Stayed tuned for the next program following our commercial break, that’s right, it’s The Abyss, with DJ Loth the Demon Queen as she plays the best deep-house and sub-human chillout tracks, for your pleasure, wherever you are, whoever you are!

Until next time, this is Set7.5 signing off from Static Frequency of the Void, channel 666!

Runaway Music:

The doors of the car weren’t locked. Helen didn’t want break and windows, she just needed some resources, besides they wouldn’t need the handful of coins in the center console. Helen found enough for laundry.

She had a hard time learning to navigate life, often disappearing for weeks at a time, returning with empty words and failed promises. She spent her trust and chances until her words meant nothing at all. Having mastered the sad story, she reeled in plenty of first-timers, and a few second chances. She lived on the borders of society, disinterested in the rat race or the accumulation of wealth, she had no intention of finding a home, she wanted silence.

For those uninterested in society, those just like Helen, they did what they could. Their true story often hid behind lies and exaggeration, placeholders for a glamorous future they couldn’t find. Each burnt bridge started with lies, a spark, and then the conflagration spread with flimsy integrity.

She tried working, promising to show up to work, only to spend the previous night in twisted anxiety. Helen suffered from the burdensome blessing of a high-quality human imagination. The weight crushed whenever a glimmer of the promised future could be seen, followed by panic, and then flight. She held no job longer than 3 days, anxiety mounted each day until she shattered and disappeared into the urban jungle.

Filth and warmth were trivial considerations when compared to the potential dread of being a part of society. She saw the pyramid of civilization as a black monolith, built on the vaporous weight that a human being could be better than another. She saw the whole mess as giant pretend game of fame and fortune. When looking to the top, which her high magnitude imagination was happy to crush her with, she saw the pinnacle, a black spire potently distilled. Each time her gaze turned upwards, she reeled from a senseless and painful wonder, helpless.

Explaining such things to people was akin to describing a sea monster beneath a dark and opaque sea.

This affliction of a burdensome mind didn’t stop others from trying to save Helen. Religion took its turn in asserting its conviction on her, offering resources with one hand and a sense of order in the other. She went to many churches, tried on their beliefs like dirty clothes. She slept in them, lived in the beliefs for a time, then discarded them like trash when she disappeared. Helen’s mind was a mouth filled with razor sharp teeth and anything she chewed on was pulverized by her imagination, the glamour of belief would fade, and the institution would reveal itself.  Soon even a picture of Jesus Christ reminded her of the black pyramid, but now blood flowed down it and those around her encouraged her to drink and eat the body of the great beast at its top.

Helen was tempted with violence. She never lashed out, but that didn’t stop her from being processed by the heavy hands of medicine. Drugs took their turn at controlling her. They dosed her with the best chemicals for suppressing her thoughts. Yet, when the wide horizon of numbness washed over her, and the drugs stuffed her head with cotton balls, she still cried. Whether it was the wrong dosage, mismanagement or simple error, her imagination germination on that bleak horizon. Soon she saw the black pyramid again, against a backdrop of gray stillness, without any hope of change, just another senseless road into terror.

Compliance with drugs was about as effective as religion for Helen. She was on the edge of being involuntary committed when she met someone. Helen fell in love with Jennifer at sight. Like the birth of a star, her horizon was suddenly filled with a bright light which gave her life direction. Jennifer was a candle to Helen’s star, but the relationship blossomed.

For 5 weeks they loved each other. The bridge was built with the most fragrant flowers, the softest kisses and the kindest intentions. However, Helen had never crossed a bridge, she had never had a relationship which didn’t end in disappointment or crippling fear.

Jennifer was ablaze, and a candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long. The glamour of affection faded, and mundane considerations crept in. Conversations about money and trust started to spin Helen out. She heard the howl of the black pyramid for the first time, as if love itself had blown over her with jealousy.

Within 2 weeks Helen was a mess, maimed from nightmares of Jennifer leaving her. Helen did the only thing she knew how to do, light a fire, because it was too late in the season for wet dreams. She burned the rottless relationship to the ground, bridge and all.

When she was finally incarcerated for domestic assault, Helen knew she would forever be contained within the black stone walls of the great pyramid. There was no more running from the abysmal choir of society.

Gilded Bittersweet:

Lori had been on the cold side of jail bars since 1979. Mental illness prevented a swift process. This was primarily due to poor funding, or rather, continued funding. The longer he was kept in the jail, the longer the jail received financial support from the RT corporation.

Lori Mandelson was a gentle angel of a man. He was a pacifist, a peace worshipper. He would rather die than hurt another human being. The reason for his incarceration was one of biology, he had diabetes. His body stopped producing insulin when he was 15, dependent on injections to survive. He managed it with relative success.

However, blood sugar within the blood stream directly impacts consciousness. As the sugar level drops, so do cognitive functions: emotional control, reason, consequence evaluation, self-awareness, and if blood sugar is low enough speech dissolves into belligerent grunts.

It only takes one regretful hour of low blood sugar to become a monster.

Lori was 24 when it happened, a thanksgiving gathering with the family. He had taken more insulin than he needed to for breakfast and was orbiting the low 80s when he arrived. He had planned on eating more that day, pumpkin pie, mash potatoes, enchiladas and whatever delicious confections his extended family brought.

There was an accident on the freeway, 3-hour backup, half of Lori’s family was delayed at the border.

The ooze of traffic relented, and the family joined the table for turkey. By this time Lori was in the belligerent stage, stress from the slow traffic edged out in sharp words, the ambient tension was poisonous.  

The newspapers called it the Thanksgiving Massacre, Lori had stabbed each of his family members with the Turkey carving knife. The younger children ran into the street screaming, as the few survivors they were key witnesses. Lori was found with the pumpkin pie, the knife and a mouth filled with broken teeth from grinding his bite, during his diabetic shock.

Lori had no memory of the event. He was charged with murder, on the grounds that diabetics all over the endure dangerously low blood sugars without killing others. The trial minimized his diabetes, the jury didn’t care, they saw a blind creature with murderous eyes. Lori cried and sobbed during the trial, he was named the Crocodile Killer due to the method the media used to frame his crying as a falsefront, a mask of crocodile tears.

The doctor who managed death row inmates was a greedy muck-dweller, a toad in the swamp of radioactive power acquisition. He figured that as long as Lori was labeled mentally unstable, he would remain alive. Being alive meant funding, and each time he was seen by an outside psychologist his blood sugar was conveniently low enough to produce the same stubborn personality of that regretful Thanksgiving.

The sleazy doctor was potently patient, and over the years, had nearly erased any medical evidence of his diabetes. This meant a continuous flow of money for housing the body of the Crocodile. No one cared about Lori, even more distant relations wanted to forget the event and did their best to create new families without the scar and attention of the massacre.

However, Death Row cannot be avoided indefinitely, and over the years the paperwork from the psychologists pointed to the final date, the end the gravy train.

When the end came, Lori requested a large pumpkin pie with whipped cream. Since the diabetes had been buried, removed, edited out by the greedy doctor, it was allowed. This was no ordinary pie, this was a large meal, prepared for a dying man, meant to symbolize the second to last dignity which society would give him. The whipped cream was handmade, and the filling was made from the bodies of fruiting pumpkin plants, who used a variety of holidays to necessitate their procreation. The crust was a golden composition of brown-sugar goodness. 

Lori died from diabetic coma with a blood sugar of 700. The bookends of his life were defined by the highs and lows of consciousness.

Today’s piece is a couple of fictional newspaper articles from two different newspapers from a fiction town called Romale. The whole town is alive with the preparations for an exodus of soldiers. War is on the horizon, the king is trusted, and the justification believed by the populace. 

Undead Hysteria:

Newspaper: The Romale Reader

Article: Thieves Guild Bumping the Midnight Gang

On the eve of war there seems to be no end to the opportunistic vultures of the beautiful city of Romale. There have been 3 eye witness accounts from last week that point to necromantic collusion with dark forces. The first being Paul Cumberdanch, a tavern goer and loyal patriot of the city of Romale. Paul claims to have seen an unmarked caravan unloading goods in the late and foggy hours behind the graveyard. The workers, he claimed had rotten bodies, and were animated in jerky motions. He stated that laborers were stuck in repetitive motions. “The moved exactly the same each time, and those that didn’t have hands were used as mules, ropes were tied around their bodies and they walked off into the fog.” 

The second witness was found gibbering to themselves at the stairs of Therin’s temple. A young street urchin named Mary was brought in and tended by the gracious clerics of the temple. Once Mary had relaxed, her testimony was listened to and brought to the authorities. Mary claimed to have seen cloaked figures digging up bodies and putting blue-jeweled necklaces on them. The necklaces animated the bodies, and once instructions were given, the new zombie workers began digging up others. Mary said: “I saw my old uncle Gerald covered in grave-dirt and digging up my aunt. The cloaked figures were chuckling and pointing at her decayed body, she was missing both her legs from the pox.” 

Whether the cloaked figures were part of the Midnight Gang or the Thieves Guild is still to be determined, but we at the Romale Reader investigated on our own. The Thieves Guild has been known for their questionable methods, so we tried to get some answers from them. 

All of the guild members we talked to reverently denied any use of necromancy and told us about the 3^rd witness. The testimony was told to us in confidence. One of the guild members had seen the enslaved undead and tried to get a better view on the cloaked figures. They claimed to have seen the caravan drivers as disformed creatures, possibly lizard or amphibian. The drivers croaked commands and the zombies obeyed. 

The veracity of these observations could be pure hysteria, as the eve of war brings out the frantic and desperate. Is there a shadow war being played out between dark forces?

While the Romale Reader is a loyal publication we also understand the tragedy our families will face from the consequences of the upcoming war. The horror of bloodshed and the pal of death are not easily justified to the survivors. It seems even death itself is not the end of suffering, as some of us are being dug up in the foggy hours of night to be slaves to forces that vulture our beautiful city. Please keeps your eyes out and report any suspicious activity to the magistrate. 

The Beacon:

New Caravan in Old Town:

We have all seen them rolling through our city; the wooden travelers carrying the lifeblood of resources from far off places to our lovely city. Perhaps you have seen the Serpent and Crow, laden with strangers from strange lands, or spices from countries with hard to pronounce names. 

Romale is home to some of the most delicious cheeses, beers and deserts. This deliciousness owes impart to the influx of caravans. The story of Sil Berstolen may be common knowledge to some, but not everyone knows of the gnome that brought their amazing beer recipe to Romale. Mr. Berstolen did not guard his secrets, he shared them. His death was a great loss to our city, but his beer lives on: The Golden Ale Therin’s Light

Caravans continue to be paramount for the understanding of the world around us. However, recent events have cast a shadow over our city.  A new caravan has been seen, and even reported by the Romale Reader. On a misty midnight near the Old Town graveyard, multiple witnesses have reported necromancy being used to load and unload an unknown caravan. It is not known who the owner of the new caravan is, or if there are truly zombies doing manual labor. 

As with all events the Beacon strives to give another angle to shine the light of truth upon. Perhaps the dread of the upcoming war has driven people to desperate measures? We followed up on the witnesses, wishing to learn more of the people who claim to have seen this new caravan and its undead workers. 

We visited Mary at the temple of Therin first. This street urchin has since sworn an oath of silence and has been accepted in the order of Therin. Upon meeting Mary, it was clear she had been abused or hurt in her life, she shrunk from the presence of any man, hiding behind the female clerics. She refused to speak or comment on her experience. Perhaps another more mundane horror has befallen her and there are no zombies, only the brutish hands of men. 

We caught up with Paul Cumberdanch at the Ramshackle Inn, his eyeballs were floating in drink by 2:00pm. After a slurred conversation about the virtues of lemon meringue pies he excused himself to a two-hour nap in the latrine. I am not sure what weight the idled mind of a midnight drunk has, regardless of his loyalty to Romale. Perhaps Paul saw a late-night caravan unloading perishable goods and the terror of the night air soaked into his brain. 

Regardless, two similar accounts demand some consideration, so we tried to track down someone from the Thieves’ Guild to describe the cloaked figures a little more.

The Guild was more tight-lipped than Mary, they did not even let us in the door to ask questions. Are they hiding something? Do they know more? Is this a shadowy venture on their part, or the Midnight Gang up to dark dealings?

While answers are sparse, we must be vigilant against the forces of darkness, especially on the eve of conflict.