5/31/08

At first, it's just Mario Kart. I am dead last, eternally 12th place, despite whatever astral help there is to give me the speed and power of invincibility on my motorcycle. Eventually, it becomes less of Mario Kart - more of an arcade game. Then even that becomes real life, burning down the streets at obscene angles just because I can.

It becomes clear that I am a hitman.

I ride through several loops of the city, including bad parts of the neighborhood, scattering dozens of Crips, each with their long blue-numbered white jerseys and azure bandanas flying in the wind behind them.

On the 3rd such loop, I move slightly onto an incomplete bridge, perhaps for some kind of monorail - flying up at the grossest of angles, and then released into the air. I barely crash through the corner window of an office building, after first throwing my helmet at the glass and then myself. The cycle seems to come in with me.

Inside, I am dazed, perhaps even cut, but not bleeding terribly. A man stops to help me, more out of his own confusion than any altruism of his own - it seems to be the Moroccan villain from Casino Royale. In moments, an insane bearded man, raving about pain and laughing maniacally, bursts through another window, splintered with guns. We wrestle over his arsenal, individually seizing upon guns, machineguns inside boxes the size of cameras, knives, and ultimately, flamethrowers, which I turn upon him. He falls screaming from the window engulfed in his own flames.

Moments later, he returns again, cover in ash and unrecognizable. A kick delivers him from the windowsill. I stand on the ledge looking down at him, as the view pulls back to see some kind of pixie-like assassin standing on the roof.

Taking the cycle back, I fly across the divide between buildings on the bike, crashing through to see Ted Kennedy*, my main contact for the delivery of hits. We have a brief conversation that is interrupted by the sounds of lovemaking behind us, where we can see the man I just left fucking a beautiful exotic girl as loudly as he can.


There are more hits - eventually I turn on the man as he is abusing my righteous ways of only killing the evil. In his abuse, he, too, has become a target.

5/4/08

Walking from the Lot to the Home, I am accompanied by three persons. One is* Jesper Stromblad, though he has brown hair. Another is an ogre of a man - a hulking mass covered in slabs of muscle flowing down from close-cropped hair over his bowed shoulders. The third I do not identify.

"Jesper, what's it like being the main creative element for In Flames? I also wanted to thank you for your work in building Hammerfall."
"That wasn't me. I never wrote a damn thing."
"*stunned*"

Arriving at the Home, the Home is actually just a small house with all of the Home's hundreds of residents living in it. I recognize Captain and Crimson among the people, it would seem that Fred reigns here as well. There is quite the party going on - all the house's rooms and lawns are covered in the paraphenalia of lost clothes, red Solo cups, and unconscious fool.

The man wants to kill me.

He has stalked me all through the night at this party, waiting his chance, and I only just now realized it. I must remove him and get out.

I go to the lawn, and start whipping the partiers into a frenzy. Shortly afterward, I go inside to call the police on the riots outside, hiding upstairs to ensure my own safety. Sirens come.

Sirens go.

Dead silence, all lights save the streets' outside are extinguished, leaving only pale amber beams drifting through the windows.

He is here.

I must get out.

I open the front door to find the horror. The house's dog has been mutilated. Blood stains everything, still dripping freshly from the small picketed banister lining the porch and all the walls surrounding the front door. The dog's decapitated body is crucified on the porch's wall.

I must get my keys.

I dash inside, grab the keys, and hurtle through a small door. Cowering in a corner of the house's outer walls. Shaking in the dark with my own impending mortality.

I dropped the keys. I have to go back into the house to get them. And then he will murder me.

The fear is incredible.

This can't be real - this is a dream - I will this dream to end.

It does not.



"Dreaming. I must be Dreaming. I can't remember dying..."

5/19/08

Kitten meets Mother, though Kitten looks like Corset. They converse fluently while I fumble over a cup of water.


End of line.

It's only a dream, it's only a dream, it's only a dream, it's only a dream...

What the fuck...


What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is that I have murdered half the people I know - women I've slept with, people I've lived with, my own family, even myself more than a dozen times? Why do buildings crumble, cities burn, and plains run deep with the blood that flows through their own new visceral appearance of flesh?

Walls come alive, great yawning mouths consume me, girls step from corridors steeped in their own gore, and officials gladly gnaw their limbs from their own bodies while great sweeping grins crawl over their lips and spread their teeth shining towards the glistening red suns above them. My best laid plans for staying alive are dashed to the ground by hunting wildmen who have crucified the dog and removed its head in the time it took the police to drive away.

Murder is a standard... Hell is open... And no one seems to care...



The human brain, this impressive machine that for all we know is the universe's only source of creativity, ingenuity, and love, is more readily the only source of evil as well. The mind IS Pandora's Box. Each night when we sleep, we give a peak inside, and all the horrors we know, and worse still, those we don't, spill out, over our subconscious, over our souls. They leave their dark stain. Though we live through it all, safe in our beds, it stains us, and for the rest of our days, we know what lurks in our minds. You let nothing out, you went in for a visit.

So what the fuck...

Every night is an exercise in self-destruction, watching your life get picked apart by the random pieces of lurking doubt, anger, and fear that you have so lovingly nurtured through your years.

This is my Pandora's Box - my fears, my horrors, my tragedies relived and recorded here, where a pen was not fast enough to record them by paper.


"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown..."