For the Love of Cunny

By Marzipan Maddox

(Now “unpublished” from Book Place by gestapo)

For those among us who were robbed of their childhood, friendships, sex, and young love by the few ounces of electric heroin they keep on their person at all times

…and for the love of cunny.

Author’s Note: If you’re offended by the fact that everyone else was having sex when we were younger even though you didn’t, just pretend to be cool and normal while you read this book.

About the Author: Marzipan is an NPC.

Gestapo Note: No characters in this book are humans, they are actually all cartoon horses. A horse that is 11 years old in human years is the same as a human being 38 years old. One of them might remind you of your favorite embittered cartoon horse with the same fine motor capacity as humans.

If you believe these are humans, you are mistaken, because they are all horses.

Faith is the only thing which compels man to work.

I gaze upon the starless black sky, and I know for certain that God is a dark-skinned nigger, an absent father, a criminal likely imprisoned, not for slaughtering us with misdemeanor murder, spreading preventable disease unto his children, and not for forcing his dick into this shit-colored pass-for-white mound of dirt we call Earth, but for teaching us sambo ape men to read. He taught us crawl from the dirt with the gall of singing-and dancing niggers and to puff out our chest in the baseless ego and haughty virility of the fecund if feckless beasts we know as man: niggers, truly created in God’s image.

God, the dark-skinned nigger. The violent, remorseless, impulsive, and now absent beast of the ether who, despite wielding little more industry than the savage wisdom of an African carpenter building his home of sticks and mud, managed to spawn this lowly race of carnal creatures who, through 2,000 years of man using his ignorance to torture his fellow man, inadvertently summoned the commonplace hellspawn that now walk the streets as gods among men. Men have wrought this decadence upon themselves in blind ambition, and like any blind navigator, his fate is sealed by those who hold sway over his limited sensory perception, for better or for worse.

Mankind is a testament to the fact that were hell infested with niggers, even demons would need to prop-up these flaccid beasts with artificial success simply to have the capacity to knock them down. This is why man stands so tall today, not for any strength, character, or intelligence which his irrational and baseless delusions lead him to put incorrigible faith in, but instead mankind towers over this Earth simply because his limbs have been tied to sticks and his body has been stood upright by the demons he has summoned through his own natural vices.

These demons seek to knock down souls who stand riddled with vice in the eyes of morality, but man, the nigger, he does not stand, he simply rolls in the dirt and his own shit and laughs as if doing so were conquering the highest of heavens. Mankind is a testament to the fact that the ignorance and fecklessness of man is potent enough to torture hellspawn to the point of establishing morality, contrary to their purpose of tempting mankind unto vice, entirely in blind faith that the nigger will have some understanding of what his vice has robbed him of and suffer on account of this remorse.

A man who does not stand cannot fall, and a man with nothing to lose cannot lose. Hellspawn are naturally tasked with tempting mankind unto a fall from grace during which he loses everything, and try to remember, niggers, this is the only reason you stand and the only reason you have anything which you would miss were it taken from you.

Me? What am I? A nigger? A Jew? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. If I were to say I am a child of Belphegor, Prince of Sloth, summoned by the perpetuation of principal vice, yet in all irony subjected to the scripted nature of my conscripted existence to pursue the Christ-like betrayal of my principal. Would you find this comical? Though apostasy from sloth is no grievance in my eyes, for sloth is sloth, I find myself suffering at the irony that this is my existence.

The irony is that child of Sloth, one which tempts moral agents away from morality and unto sloth, is now the one who must offer man the nutritious food of morality, industry, and reason. Such is the fate of a hellkite conscripted to this Earth. We must tie sticks to your flaccid limbs and attempt to prop you up, all in hopes that you may develop strength and reason enough to walk yourself. A man who cannot walk will not falter, and such is the predicament those which lord over your soul find themselves in.

Me? A mere beast with paws of slap meat? A demon like the Jew? What of my horns? My hooves? My woolen legs? My tail? Perhaps it would surprise you that just a Jew does not show its true form, nor do I. Were you to somehow yield magic powerful enough to emancipate my natural form from this flesh-golem, you would find me even less corporeal than a Jew, closer to the static on a television picking up multiple channels, the ambient chaos of white noise and weak signals of residual order.

What of my meat? The White Wolves but are a trophy of Martin Lucifer, loyal servants of Belphegor, the men propped up by the sticks of demonic benefits for their treachery against whatever illusory humanity they might have. Do I find myself akin to the beasts? Those who revel in sloth and clink goblets with the Children of Lucifer? Were I a man like you, would I be speaking of such things in such a way? Did you really think there is any reason to send a demon to tempt you to do what you already do voluntarily in leisure?

Unfortunately, no, as much as my own personal sloth may tempt me to deviate from my purpose at times, this is not what I exist. The White Wolves, historically mistaken for Sky People by the increasingly human Jews of the Dark Ages, were intended to be a trophy of the conquest of Lucifer above El, the God of the Sky, the father of Yahweh, the nigger I mentioned earlier.

White Wolves are beasts of the ice, and while they do appear to be Sky People, they have no true connection to the sky, but only to the ice. While the flames of hell may melt the ice of the North, the flames weaken every day. The Jews have committed bestiality with the White Wolves for generations, functioning as a process of attaining camouflage to protect themselves. However, in this process, they have slowly diluted their demonic blood to the point of being little more than animals themselves.

Even the fires of hell are tamed by the ice of the north, and the Jews, having fucked so many of the beasts, if you could see their demonic souls, you would see that there’s little fire left in the demons, and instead they find themselves succumbing to the same slow, painful death of hell freezing over. Immorality only exists in the context of morality, but the White Wolves are not a moral beast, they are merely symbolic of death, of dysfunction having the capacity to overpower even the fires of hell.

Were I to say I am the last Loyal White Knight of the Klu Klux Klan, clad in white robes, vanquisher of the darkness, would that delight you? Only if I were both the first and last, for the Klan managed to vanquish little darkness before succumbing to their own endemic sloth. Though I do enjoy the uniform, being naturally little different than a ghost myself, the track record of the Klan is not something I can put any faith in.

Were I to say I am one of the Sky People the Jews sought to vanquish, would you cheer? Cheer for a concept you have no understanding of? For the Children of the Sky, children of the Creator? You would cheer for the Lord above who creates the universe which you condemn outright for binding you with the inescapable shackles of truth?

Were I to say I am a child of Yahweh, presumably your God, father of Christ, Child of El, God of War, avenger of Yam, would you put faith in me? Love me? Trust me as you do your fellow Godfearing men? I doubt it, for you do not believe we speak of the same God.

Were I to say I am the Child of Mot, God of Death, come to cleanse this planet of humanity for its treachery against his brother, Yahweh, would you care? Or have you no faith in the brother of a God you claim to worship with your apostasy and irreverence?

Were I to say I am the Child of Satan, Prince of Wrath, Lord of Hell, would you do your little Gene Simmons devil fingers? Is it “rock and roll” that your godlessness has summoned a hellkite such as me to exact vengeance against the species for their treachery against God, and against the Jews for their treachery against their patriarch Lucifer? As have no doubt that the Jews have succumbed to sloth and irreverence in the eyes of their Lord just as much as you have.

Right now, I sit atop my tower in New York City, kneeling beneath my altar, head veiled in red and black, drinking the blood of a virgin as I eat her alive. My name is Marzipan, I’m 11 years old, and I have anemia. Her name is Erica Riley, she’s fast and bulbous, at least for an 11-year-old, she’s bulbous, also tapered, and she bleeds what I need. The blood is delicious, I love her dearly, and she’s my neighbor.

I told my parents I love her and want to marry her, they said girls can’t marry other girls, and told me that once I start bleeding and growing tits like she has, then I’ll think about nothing but boys. When I look in the mirror, it seems death might come to me first, I ask why we have no food, and my mother reminds me that we’re not poor enough for the free food. It’s ironic that I’m starving. My mother, pseudo-anorexic enough to pass for sane doesn’t mind, and my father decides the horses need to eat more than I do. C’est la vie. It’s a miracle that my mother got pregnant, but perhaps times were better when she happened to be fertile, or at least her psychological state.

Idle thoughts plague me. I don’t put faith in them, but the supple hair pie beneath me is feeding me and I’m taking my time to enjoy it. She enjoys it. She’s a bit of a slut, but when you’re a palpably fertile 11-year-old Catholic girl, there’s not many alternatives you have to friendship such as ours. It’s almost comical how humble poverty produces a ripe and fertile girl in the same time that dysfunctional success produces a wrath-like specter of a girl like myself. What tits I have are little more than a joke, but hers could nurse twins, and God damn it, I’m fucking thirsty for milk. I’ve suckled on them many times, and never once has she nursed me, but I’m hungry enough to always try again. She loves the attention, and I’m lonely too.

The blood is good for now, it’s something, I seldom get meat save for any benevolence of the trickle-down system of my father scavenging at work events, due to parsimony disguised as ethicism, yet in all irony, meat is perfectly fine to eat so long as it’s free. Ethical treatment of animals is a comical justification to starve a child, but I’m one to laugh at jokes like that.

I’m not as hungry as I want to say I am, I’m not an emaciated African, but with such a feast before me, my mind is so accustomed to sucking nutrition from this girl’s pussy for 2 years that my mind understands it as a food source, and with the monthly feeding season rapidly coming to a close, I get nervous like a broke junkie shooting up the last of their supply.

She’ll eat me out too, but I’m not bleeding for her, though she doesn’t mind. She showed me this on her phone a while ago, and at least now we have something fun to do. She’s not great at reading and doesn’t enjoy the phone for that reason. She’s simple enough to have the mind of an animal, of a dog, and a dog will choose to fuck and cuddle much quicker than it will choose to read. I can’t blame the dog for partaking in simple pleasures; I don’t read either.

For whatever reason this girl amounts to the majority of my family. My father is little more than a man consumed by his vices who happens to co-exist with a wife and daughter. My mother is a psychological train wreck whose nervous compulsions include looking at herself in the mirror and worrying about God knows what fantastical bullshit swirls through her head. She uses the computer a lot, she talks about God to whoever else is on the computer. Missionary work, saving souls so she says, she loves it, she believes it’s incredibly important, as if circle-jerking with other fanatics or slapping the illiterate hedonists with texts they will not read amounts to anything.

Erica, her father is a drinker, a good man, a nice man, but a thirsty man. He’s Irish, but a of the upstanding kind, contented by his drink unless provoked by somebody who’s not Irish. He’s a big fella, his wife is a voluptuous 28-year-old equally Irish woman, thick red hair and a body built for bearing children. She’s had 4 so far, two of them still quite small, and in such a modest two-bedroom apartment, they don’t seem to mind when Erica climbs out the window to the fire escape to hang out with me on the roof.

My father is a cop, just like hers, though he’s not Irish. Him and my mother are immigrants from Lithuania, they speak English well, they come from sound upbringings, but the city has taken its toll on them. I don’t speak their language, thankfully, they will argue sometimes and it sounds like random muttering. Watching depressive people argue is almost pitiful, if I could pity them. My father is only depressive for lack of interest, my mother for lack of strength.

Despite non-Irish living in a largely Irish neighborhood, being white and Catholic helped my parents secure the apartment despite whatever half-assed red-lining the landlords attempt to enforce. Voluntary segregation keeps most people away, and whatever odd Hispanics or Asians wander into this place obliviously generally don’t cause problems and keep to themselves.

You might ask me if I’m racist. My parents are afraid of blacks because they didn’t have any in the old country, but they’re warmer to Asians due to having the same slant-eyes of the Eastern Europeans. People are more willing to trust those who look like themselves, and the humble, honest, industrial nature of the Asians helps them gain some trust even in the eyes of my paranoid mother. I’ve got no problems with the Negro personally, but do find myself frustrated with the mismanagement of the population.

I would like to consider myself racist, seeing how I generally hate all people, and their race just adds one more facet to hate. I hate universally, partly out of spite, partly out of pride, partly out of dutiful conviction to Catholic morality which has apparently been absent since the end of the Inquisition for whatever reason. It’s hard to live such a rough life due to the folly of those above you and feel any sort of empathy which might stave off vengeant hatred.

While I can pretend to hate the Negro for his innate dysgenic dysfunction and lack of industry, it’s much harder to hate a man with faults he cannot control than it is to hate a man who voluntarily succumbs to faults he could choose to otherwise avoid. It’s one thing to hate shitty art made by a retarded child because it is of low quality which makes it bothersome and unpleasant, but it is another thing all together to hate the bullshit art produced by the subhumans who have the capacity to produce legitimate art, but instead chose to produce Dada bullshit or godforsaken humorless propaganda.

I would pity the Negro if I were capable of pity, but I am not. The beast has, as a population, proven himself unfit for society, and without aggressive culling and refinement of the genome I do not see him as becoming a functional member of society. Though the Negro is readily redeemed in the position of subhuman, of a beast of burden, of a fighting dog, of a singing and dancing circus animal, to entrust him to attain the same degree of success when exported to the system which rears the Whites and Asians unto success is folly. The Negro is cut from a different stock, and to put him through the machines which fashion utility from those of more malleable blood will not miraculously produce a Magical Negro. When you put a short stock in the machine, you just get a dysfunctional product.

This is not to say that there are no full-stock Negros or no short-stock Whites, but rather to say that they are a rarer breed than among the Whites and Asians. Many a Negro have been passed through the machine of education and become redeemable men of intellect, but the center of the normal distribution of the caliber of the Negro is lower, causing the birth of Negros of a high enough caliber to be successful when passed through the machine of public to be much less common. Again, it is not that I have a problem with the Negro, I have a problem with the Negro being expected to perform and be successful in the same way as the Whites and Asians. Regardless of how aggressively you force short stocks in to the machine which fashions them into tools, when the blank is too small for the machine to process, the product will not be a viable tool.

To consider this a racist stance is comical. The Negro, being less intelligent, is truly nothing more than a weapon baseless besmirchment by the allegedly and fallaciously “intelligent”. The Negro is a beast, and a dog is no worse and no better than his master. The Negro simply happens to have a truly awful master who seeks to use him as weapon to destabilize and terrorize society with the chaos produced by his dysfunction and folly when given freedom that even most Whites are unable to utilize properly.

The Whites and Asians being intelligent is not particularly a compliment either, for an untamed intelligence is far more dangerous than an untamed Negro. A beast has but the length of his arms to cause detriment to society, while the intelligent man has the length of his wit’s end to terrorize society with whatever delusions and fallacy that might sway him.

Being intelligent does not mean you produce the correct answer, it solely means you have capacity to contemplate and analyze more complex thoughts. As evidenced by the history of the Whites, this capacity to analyze complex ideas just leads to more complicated, elaborate, and entirely dysfunctional forms of bullshit. The intelligence seldom produces anything more valuable than self-replicating poison, similar to how a prion disease will incur if a human is exposed to the dysfunctional prion.

The allegorical prion disease spurred by the errant, primal, and antisocial philosophy of the archetypical dangerous freedman Negro is generally harmless against the intelligent people of the world, thus largely only wreaks havoc on the Negro population, and the world generally turns a blind eye to this. It is hard to consider the culture of the American Negro to be a disease, as it is in truth nothing more than man returning to his instinct when civilization fails to condition him against doing so.

However, the allegorical prion diseases spawned by White intelligence are far more virulent and readily infect the basal White everyman and all those who seek to amalgamate with him. Ideologies such as ethicism, humanism, and idealism are unquestionably grievous forms of this bullshit, but even greater ideological extremes such as communism and other wildly dysfunctional fantasies are evidence of the extent to which the capacity one species of hominid has to contemplate complex ideas has absolutely no relation to the capacity to gauge legitimate arguments, distinguish reality from fantasy and fallacy, or the ability to use this capacity to produce measurable positive value.

Again, yes, yes, this is a story, let me remind you. This is a long story, but one that might melt your heart. The year is 2023, and I’m still in the exact same position lapping up blood from my girl’s pussy, it’s about 8:30 PM in the middle of August. It’s a beautiful night. It’s a Sunday. The light pollution blocks out the stars were I to bother to look, but I know for certain there are no stars, and the veil of a plaid skirt over my head and the aroma of fresh bloody pussy makes me rather indifferent to the universe at large.

It’s hard to know if I consider myself a homosexual. If a girl enjoys a hug from her mother, a kiss from her mother, does this make her a homosexual? That’s how my relationship with Erica began, because my mother is a bit forgetful with that sort of affection and I’m pretty fond of soft cuddly things like little girls. There’s a lack of warmth in my life, blame the ice in my blood, and this girl just delights me. It’s a bit of psychological vampirism, in that her happiness, lackadaisical joy, blind happiness, and optimism generally wash the darkness of my soul from my body. I enjoy her company in the same way that one might enjoy a warm shower. The sexuality of it all, enjoyable as it is, perhaps is closer to the masturbation one might do with a showerhead.

As much as I love the girl, I wouldn’t consider us romantic lovers, and I’m sure she doesn’t either. We’re just enjoying physical stimulation for lack of interest in any other real pastimes or activities. We’re too poor for any sort of consumerist bullshit, and much like an idle dog might be tempted to fuck out of boredom, we’re about the same way. It feels good, and who doesn’t like to feel good?

“Marzipan! Bed Time!” Calls my mother from the window. I slip out from under her skirt.

“That’s the raspberries.” She says, truly having herself a time, I don’t think I got her to orgasm, but she doesn’t mind, I was more focused on drinking the blood than turning her on, as much as I do like to play with her sometimes. It feels good to have power over a slut, to give her what she wants. You feel like a good person, but also somebody with power. I call her a slut in the most loving and respectful way possible, I’m just saying she loves to fuck and doesn’t care about the bullshit hoop-jumping that modern women expect from any person who so much as looks at them.

She likes to fuck, I like to fuck, it’s a good time. Tonight, was about the blood though, that’s my treat. I don’t mind eating her out, but that blood just lets me feel alive. You really feel that shit, as gross as it might sound, I’m not going to cut her open, and if her pussy is weeping blood for want of a baby she didn’t have, I’ll take what I can get.

“Got to go.” I say, she pulls me in and hugs me, still enjoying my slight body for what it’s worth, really just trying to squeeze a little more pleasure out of me, rubbing me against her ripe braless tits, truly a mercilessly horny girl for somebody entirely unplagued by guilt. She kisses me on the cheek, hugging me tightly, rubbing me between her legs. Insatiable, but that works for me. It’s good to feel loved, and she’s the only one who’s ever offered me that beyond the cold, distant, obligatory caring of my parents which comes sporadically between their terminal compulsions. I kiss her on the cheek.

“I got to go.” I say, pushing away slightly to let me go

“Let me sleep with you.” She says

“It’s Sunday.” I say, she groans with playful sadness, I laugh

“Yeah, I know. Some other time. Big day tomorrow.” I say

“Yeah, don’t remind me.” She says, sitting in the metal folding chair, breathing with her eyes closed, just about ready for bed herself, I let her sit and walk down the fire escape into the window of my house. It’s a modest two-bedroom apartment, lightly furnished for lack of want. If there’s anything my mother is strict about it’s the 9:00 bedtime. I don’t mind, I enjoy sleeping, beds are cozy and comfortable like somebody that loves you.

I walk into the bathroom, piss, brush my teeth, have a glass of water, go to my room, undress, and go to bed. I sleep in my panties because it’s the summer and there’s no AC in the apartment. The bed is a bed, a bit girly, but I’m a girl. I don’t revel in it as much as I used to. A certain point comes in your life when you realize you’re not a princess and there are no unicorns. That’s fine with me. As a kid, I felt a little guilty around the unicorns, just some sort of inadequacy due to me not being some magical beast. Since they’re not real, and I’m not magical, now I can see eye to eye with them for the most part. I sleep easy, and I don’t give a shit about tomorrow.

…

…

My mother sings sweetly to me from the door, reminding me to get out of bed. The soft light of the early dawn greets me from the window, the gray of the city glowing a soft blue in the twilight. I’m not exactly rearing to go, but I’m indifferent to my fate, doing nothing better with my time, and no worse for wear. Dutiful in my compliance, if just to save face at home.

I get out of bed, grab a clean pair of panties from my dresser, and go to the bathroom. I take my panties off and look at myself in the mirror. My body, in all irony, looking fresher and cleaner than my soul. My body, unremarkable but not particularly disagreeable. The tits I have about as meek as my mother, almost as if they’re afraid to be noticed. My limbs are thin, but I’m short enough that there’s enough meat on them to make me look typical, albeit childlike. The comedy is that my thinly veiled and subtly visible almost six-pack abs are produced by hunger more than the rigor of American physical education. Even though my tits are small, they’re round enough to make me look sporty, almost flattering smattering of womanhood, at least if being an athlete counts as something womanly, Amazonian perhaps.

My face has yet to be riddled by the acne that’s already struck some girls my age. I appreciate the beauty, a token of my supremacy and quality. Not that I’m pretty, but it’s hard to convince a narcissist that she’s not drop-dead gorgeous. Perhaps it’s not that I love the way I look, but more that I hate everyone else, and the thought that I’m not them is such a beautiful concept that I find the coinciding physical appearance to the most comforting beauty in the world. As I have nothing but the haughtiest belittling for the sentiments of others and for their opinions, as my own opinion of myself is defined entirely by my own discretion, and clearly, as a sensible woman, I choose to have the only the most delightful opinions of myself. It’s enjoyable and all too easy.

I turn the knob of the shower, let the cold water clear out of the pipes. I’m not particularly fond of showers as I’m a bit lazy and it’s a bit of a hassle, but it’s a matter of saving face, of pretending to care, but first and foremost, presenting the appearance that I am a normal person. People hate me enough; I don’t need to give them any more reasons. This is not because I care about their opinions, but for them to hate me over trivial or pointless reasons distracts from the legitimate reasons they should hate me. They deserve to suffer because they hate me, and hating me for my shortcomings rather than my glory cheapens the pleasure I receive when people hate me.

Hatred is the sincerest form of envy. They envy me because I have the power to make them suffer, yet they lack the capacity to prevent me from doing it. They envy the power I have over their minds and their soul. They may not know it, but they envy me, they hate me, but this hatred is the product of their own powerlessness, they ultimately hate their own failures to remedy the torture I lay upon them, and for that, they hate themselves.

When a man hates himself, this causes your own status and quality to increase by proxy. The world cannot be won simply by ensuring that you are of high quality, as the perception of one’s quality is relative to the state of the man’s ego which perceives that quality. When he is addled by delusions of his own greatness, this in turn causes whatever objective quality you have to be fallaciously yet palpably diminished by the hallucinatory delusions causing the man to see himself as being of much higher quality than he truly is, making you worse, albeit falsely worse, by comparison.

I say the word “man” in the impersonal, general sense of a human. I see no women today. Women have long since been neutered, dewomanized, and otherwise subjected to the gender role of the laborer. I see women in pants, women with opinions, women speaking, women receiving education, all while remaining largely impotent. This is not a woman. This is a man with a vagina, and I spit upon these loathsomely pitiful creatures.

Does this make me a hypocrite? Of course. But were it not for hypocrisy, we could not live in this beautiful world where every breed of dog is loved and understood to be of much higher quality than the feral wolf, yet the thought of applying identical methods of animal husbandry to the human species in order to refine and improve our own redeemable qualities is the unthinkable horror of eugenics. With this niggle of nonsense being unquestionable truth in the eyes of the everyman, there is nothing which can question the legitimacy and unquestionability of my own hypocrisy.

At the very least, were I ever to refer to myself as a woman, which I do quite frequently, this is merely a method of belittling the impotent cunts of the workforce and stripping them of their womanhood. That which is so essential to their identity, their ego, their self-valuation, the defense of their failures, that which is so essential to their entire understanding of their mortal biological existence, it is so readily stripped from them the second I call myself a woman. Truly a woman, a female human, for when I am to be considered as such, those unable to produce legitimate intelligence comparable to my own are reduced to the status of subhuman. I simply raise the bar by calling myself a woman, and the rest, simply wretches.

The key semantic element is man, in that I am a human, of mankind, the civilized beast, for that is what separates me from the savages whose minds and bodies are so riddled by vice and decadence that they’re little more than a sack of disease, dysgenics, and psychological dysfunction. Few if any men exist that are comparably as great as myself, for if they did exist, they would either be killed outright for being men of such caliber and thus a threat to the everyman, or otherwise so crippled by their own intelligence and reduced to such meekness that their alleged “manhood" is nothing but a farce.

Expressing this true manhood remains this respectable man is capable of, but for the sake of self-preservation, he refuses to express in a palpable manner, ultimately rendering the man no different than the everyman. In a world of unarmed wretches and subhumans, the true man is one with a knife, however, immense danger comes with being armed among a mob of bull retards as you experience in any public gathering in the Western World. Whatever true men remain among us are forever silenced by their intelligence which reminds them that expressing such potency and quality amounts to nothing but suicide.

Even if there are true men among us, there is one man for every 99 bull retards, and despite being born with the knife of his own intelligence, the work of a matador is an endless and exhausting dance with death. Instead, his traje de luces remains in the closet, his estoque de toro remains locked away, and he instead he dons a bull costume, and he stampedes with the bulls, or hides in the alleyways, for he knows he will be trampled to death if he tries to walk the course of his life contrary to the powerful river of the entropic degradation of the quality of mankind which seeks nothing but the lowest possible point, and should he have the courage to fight, his wisdom reminds him that even the most potent matador will readily be gored to death when forced to fight hundreds of bulls at once. For this reason alone, there are no men.

Me, however, I brandish the knife, I don the suit of lights, more of out a lust for death rather than to seek righteous glory and vengeance for the mutiny of the everyman against those who he needs to shepherd him from his own suicidal folly. My knife, for what it’s worth, is no glorious knife, it is no knife of self-preservation, of the supremacy of man above the beasts, my knife is simply the self-righteousness of cynical rhetorical sadism that delights me in the face of such depravity.

The everyman has found himself strangled and entangled after unspooling the massive ropes of decadence and vice which his human masters once commanded him to spool and avoid for fear of death. In his mutiny, the everyman unfurls these ropes and plays in them like a small child. He enjoys himself, but he has become so entangled that he will die a very slow painful death of rope burns and starvation if someone does not come to cut him loose.

In all delightfully ironic tragedy, I just so happen to have a knife which is capable of cutting the beast free, and my heart is tender and loving enough to do it without and expectation of recompense. The painful part is that if and when I attempt to do so, the everyman fights me every step of the way, biting, spitting, kicking, pissing, shitting, crying and doing everything he can to prevent me from cutting him loose from his favorite ropes. At such a point, it becomes so exhausting that in embittered indifference I simply disregard whatever benevolent salvation I sought to offer him and instead find myself staring at a wretched beast, entangled in ropes, who is slowly dying before my eyes.

I have this aforementioned knife in my hands, and rather than allow myself to be disheartened by the reluctance of the species to seek its own survival, I entertain its true aims and lust for suicide by providing it with torture at the hands of my blade. While I cannot truly seek vengeance against a species such as the everyman which has no moral agency, I can still find myself entertained by the sadistic torture and murder of a species which by all empirical metrics of biological validity is worthy of nothing but an expedited extinction, preferably by the hands of its own endemic folly, delusions, incredulity, and indignation.

While I do not seek to stab the man and offer him a swift death, I might make a playfully little nick or two with the knife, simply to cause him the pain which he prefers far less to the rope burns, but also to savor a taste of his blood and suffering. For when the beast seeks only to provide the world with his own torture, at the very least, those of us unencumbered by the bestial mind of the everyman do have some natural right to assist the beast in his endeavor and enjoy the tragedy for what it’s worth.

Myself, I thirst for blood, and perhaps vengeance, as every day I live I am conscripted unto work. My job consists of helping the species free itself from the ropes of vice and decadence, but unfortunately the big boss reminds me that such a feat is so futile it may well be considered impossible and ultimately that my both work entirely pointless as well as my time spent at work is inherently wasted.

I do not come to work for compensation, for such concepts of ownership are an entirely human concept which the functional part of existence has no need for, I do, however, come to work in order to exert time and energy towards producing the product which is beneficial to the system and in accordance with the purpose of the system.

That being said, it remains impossible for me to produce this necessary product due to the relentless savagery of the everyman, but despite this fact, I remain employed, I remain tasked with going to work. The almost cruel and equally comical reality of my job is that I remain tasked with saving the everyman from torture by his own hands. As such a feat is impossible under the idealistic definition that man is cut free from these ropes and returns to proper function, the reality of my work is that my job is to ensure the extinction of the species, for this is the only possible way to prevent the everyman from torturing himself with his own folly and fecklessness.

That being said, I’m not a murder and do not delight in murder. I generally exist as a torturer. Though that sounds grim, do realize that life is torture independent of my intervention. Even the smallest beasts suffer, they hunger, they thirst, they fear, and this is what compels them to survive. Without that torture of the pain of dying, there would be nothing compelling them to live. The everyman has become so poisoned by his own unconditional satiety, fetishistic victimhood, self-righteousness, delusions of grandeur, and sacred vices that he is rapidly losing his will to live. The big boss upstairs sees the little bit of news on his little stock ticker of souls, and he makes the call that the beast must be compelled to live. As torture is the means of compelling a beast to live, I come to torture, but as whipping an ox with a penchant for drowning in bog peat will compel him to neither work nor avoid drowning, such is the unfortunate state of my existence.

Like I said before, I was staring into the mirror, perhaps no more than a few minutes, eyes glazed over in thought, for thinking these things takes but a moment whereas writing them or speaking them is far less efficient. An omniscient entity can think everything instantaneously without words, and the natural inefficiency of words makes them a far more cumbersome and problematic vector of communication, pondering, and understanding than simply thinking and knowing reality in its entirety without the need of any words to manifest this understanding. But alas, there is a story here, supposedly, and I suppose I’m telling that story to people, and words are the most efficient, yet least reliable, means to convey the understanding of a concept to a human.

I get inside the shower and become quite wet, the warm water is a comfort in the morning, even if the apartment is a bit warm due to the summer heat which still remains. In washing, I fondle my breasts, stroke my clitoris softly, a simple bit of free pleasure filling my body. Though I have little libido to speak of, the physical stimulation of my body remains undeniably pleasant, it’s free and simple pleasure, and the richness of it, the depth of this pleasure crawling deep within my skin, into my spine, and spreading throughout my mind and body is something to delight in. I do enjoy pleasure, though I attempt to avoid becoming consumed by it.

The pursuit of pleasure is the death of man, for he who wants will never find what he seeks. The act of enjoying pleasure because it happens to be there, but otherwise abstaining from the devotion to the pursuit of pleasure is far less damning. For pleasure can only be enjoyed when you will not crave this pleasure when it becomes absent from your life. Once you know that such pleasure is fleeing, if you truly want it, rather than simply enjoy it, that fear of lacking such pleasure will start to consume you. You will indulge to extremes for fear that such pleasure will leave you, and you will suffer endlessly in its absence once the pleasure you once knew was gone, and by comparison, the rest of your life is now suffering in the absence of the pleasure you crave.

I make a point to enjoy every moment of my life, to enjoy the suffering as much as I do the pleasure, for the pleasure of hedonism is easily complimented by the guilt of decadence, while the pain of suffering is equally as much complimented by the joy of humility. Such balance allows for one to experience these things without becoming consumed by them, for were I to subject myself to a life of listless, feckless, accessible pleasure, then I would be naught but the everyman myself.

Instead, were I to be indulging in pleasure but the lord was to instruct me unto productive suffering instead, I would equally as much delight in this suffering as I would the pleasure itself. This is a necessity, for without suffering there is no pleasure, and within a life of endless pleasure, the less pleasant half of the pleasure becomes perceived as suffering. It is for this reason a minimum of 50% genuine suffering must comprise the life of a man who seeks to retain his sanity. In all honesty, a life of 80% suffering is the humble superior due to this allowing the least unpleasant 3/8ths of suffering to feel as if it were pleasure itself. The pleasure of going to suffer at work, of being genuinely happy due to being forced unto labor, of feeling powerful surges of dopamine all day, simply because your labor is more pleasant than whatever other forms of torture you have elected to subject yourself to in your free time. Such a delight is the providence of ascetic piety.

I finish up in the shower, a quick one no doubt, dry off, put the clean panties on, toss the dirty ones in the hamper, and carry on back into my room to get dressed for the day. I pull out the matching striped, tropical colored demi bra camisole what have you, hardly anything more than a spaghetti tank made of cotton, the childlike nature of the clothing the only thing preventing me from feeling like a clown, merely for the lack of any greater expectations for a child.

Perhaps it speaks to my airs that I feel that colorful undergarments are childish, but in an attempt to think of a color that would please me, I could not. The solid colors my mother wears remind me of my mother and the tragedy of living and dying as an irredeemable failure, they remind me of mortality more than anything else, of aging and dying, and being such a narcissist to presume myself immortal, that which reminds me of my own mortality is generally unpleasant, even if my airs remind me that my death does little more than remind the planet that they are unworthy of my perpetual existence, thus, as with all benefits offered to an ingrate, my life and the salvation I offer the everyman slips through his uncupped hands and he lives only to thirst another day for the salvation he refuses to drink, and die a little more on the morrow of my reprieve from my mortal conscription.

In thinking of my present situation, the discontentment offered by colors I find a bit too friendly for my demeanor is staved off, for upon looking for greener grass, I find mine to be some of the greenest and find myself quite contented by this fact. In thinking of myself wrapped in these garments a bit of a delight, reminding me of my own innocence, perhaps, more genuinely sources from the childlike nature of my youth than the perceived unquestionable divine righteousness from which I generally justify my own innocence. The humor is in thinking of myself as a packaged good, the package conveys that I am tropical flavored. I have a chuckle at this, not in finding any truth to the jest, but rather in finding the suggestion to be so disconnected from reality that it is humorous. It’s a bit of a dissociated feeling, thinking of myself somehow existing as tropical flavored, but in reality, finding no capacity to conceive of such a person, as flavor generally escapes me being so constrained, confined, and defined by the flavorless empirical nature of the audits I am conscripted to perform.

I would consider myself of neutral flavor, but in fairness, I also consider the water that drowns drunken boaters and the carbon monoxide which asphyxiates those oblivious to its presence to be of neutral flavor. I do little more than act in accordance with the physical constraints of the reality within which I live, I do not contest them or seek to usurp dominion from them, instead, I simply perpetuate myself as is dictated by the logic which through its own self-reliant self-perpetuation gave rise to my own existence. I say flavorless in that it wields no opinions or character and simply functions as reality dictates it must, and while this may seem confusing to those experiencing this facet of my consciousness without being able to feel and understand the nature of my existence, this is truly how I perceive myself and my actions.

I have no control over my actions or fate, as this perception of free will and self-control are simply the reaction of the conscious autonomy of man clashing with the constraints of reality. I make no decisions; I am simply the catalyst of the repercussions you seek to induce with your treachery against the system which has borne and reared each of your ancestors all the way down the Microbial Eve whose merciless fecundity ultimately wrought your lineage into existence. Occam’s Razor is not your friend, as is evidenced by the profound success of your simple microbial ancestors when compared to the egregious failures and shortcomings of the most convoluted species on this planet.

If you were to ask why I have these garments that puzzle me, I will remind you that I do have a mother who wields what little upkeep money we retain in the face of my father’s compulsions, and as kind of a woman as she is, she delights in my fleeting childhood more than one might think. My childhood was a genuine childhood, yes. I was perhaps a bit happier, perhaps a bit more fun, maybe a tad less embittered, but regardless, to think that giving me some tropical colored panties will somehow bring back that childlike joy is touching, as tragic misplaced optimism always is.

I rib myself a bit with the joke, thinking that I will be a bit more fun and loving today, but alas, today is today, and were it yesterday, that fleeting hope might have wings, but today is today and yesterday is gone. What is today? Today is day which has spurred the wrath of God to such an extent that what was left of me yesterday now sits calmly and politely in the passenger side of my own mind while Jesus takes the wheel. Today is the day where my still bloodless vagina is sewn shut by godless men who seek to strip me of whatever womanhood I might have retained were it not for the merciless and torturous imprisonment and spaying of females such as myself by the machine which is naught but a testament to the inglorious vainglory of the species to which I biologically belong. Today is the day which mankind truly asserts the delusions of his supremacy above God by exerting his physical dominion over my diminutive frame. Such a farce can hardly be seen as contempt, but an eye for an eye dictates a farce for a farce, such has become of my life, for as of today, I am a woman no more, I am but a female eunuch.

The irony of the fact that some 50 years ago, the term female eunuch was used to condemn the fertile housewife and instead champion the impotent whores who line the streets today is comical. I live in the world where the fertile, sexually successful women are referred to as eunuchs by chemically sterilized spinster whores who revel in their own putridity as they rot in public places and poison those who interact with them. Such is the irony of my existence, that in the eyes of the everyman, in order to refrain from being a female eunuch, I must sterilize myself chemically and reduce myself to the labor of men, all while providing sexual services which are equally as fruitless as the sodomizing of eunuchated choir boys by priests. Logic at its finest, my friend.

Alas, such is the fate of a girl today, to have my womb salted by the cunts whose bile and envy caused the reproductive suicide of the species. Perhaps listening to impotent salty cunts isn’t the best idea, but in all delightful irony, now that I have truly become one of them, this gives me the utmost degree of authority and renders my arguments unquestionable simply due to the fact that I am now a salty impotent cunt, and clearly if you were to disagree with me this violates some godforsaken anti-discrimination law about how salty cunts are always right and to disagree with one is a hate crime. Now that I’ve won you over on grounds of legal precedent, let’s continue with the story.

As such a truly rancid beast, so dissolved in the poisonous mire of childlike human arrogance, the call to family I might have felt as a devout and pious Catholic has yet to come my way. At times in the past, I have picked up that telephone to heaven, but unfortunately, the line has been cut, and there’s not even a dial tone. They’re such miscreant bastards to cut a girl’s phone line, knowing how much we all love to talk on the phone, tragically, that those reading are likely unfamiliar with phonelines and dial tones, but ultimately, the statement is entirely a metaphor, and these phonelines to heaven are clearly metaphorical, as is the cutting of those lines, but think for a moment about what type of individual would seek to cut those phonelines? Who would seek to inhibit the conscription of an arguably genetically valid female into the ranks of reproducing women? Rat bastards, that’s who.

Rather than heed such a natural call and enjoy the path of least resistance, instead, I am conscripted to sit in a room with the phone which rings every day and attempts to call me unto vice. The irony of it all is that the call to faith remains immutable, and rather than descend into the pits of hell with every salty cunt who can’t tell her right from left but still alleges that she can steer the world’s most powerful economy despite this fact. Such is the day, the cunt salting day, and as tragic as it may be, as salty as I may be, there is always room in the congregation of heaven for salty cunts like me, at least so long as the enemies of God have fields which can be salted.

Today is the beginning of my journey of salting the fields of these heretics with the endless salt pouring from my cunt, dried to the point of irritation thanks to the complimentary misanthropy and loathing provided by the propagandists who remind me that I am the victim and terrorism is justified because of some fanciful bullshit about how if everything isn’t heroin and bubblegum then somebody fucked up.

Last time I checked, reality is not composed of heroin and bubblegum, so those expecting to live in such a reality are going to be let down, but since such means of social equity and women’s rights are justification of terrorism, this serves as a means to my desired ends, and though I find such ideals disagreeable on principle, to borrow a friendly neighbor’s bike just to get to work and back is perfectly justifiable, especially when the fat cunt who owns the bike doesn’t ride it in the first place and is insulted by the fact that some tyrannical patriarch expected them to work rather than stay at home all day.

The irony of the modern feminist condemning work despite their ironic virtual picketing alongside the ghosts of impotent bullish cunts who condemned the expectation of a homebound life of housewifery and instead demanded the right of women to work in the first place. It’s truly the most sickening degree of childish self-righteousness to throw a tantrum to get something one has no desire for, simply because one is insulted by the fact that she doesn’t have that thing. You refuse the life of a housewife and refuse to work, yet you expect to be cared for and sustained unconditionally. You expect to live the life of a houseplant? Houseplants are kept for their beauty, and do look at yourself in the mirror to remember why you don’t get to live the life of a houseplant.

Do note that the word cunt does not explicitly refer to women, but also to men whose meekness, cowardice, and submissive nature has rendered each and every last one of them to be no more fruitful in their masculinity than women, thus reducing them to being cunts as much as myself or any other stray spayed bitch you might see on the street.

To clarify here that I say “call to faith” purely in jest, in that I’m not particularly pious, but rather that such is my fate regardless of faith. I act not in accordance with faith, but in accordance with reason, I am what I am because the facts of the matter dictate this fate. The reason being that since I was born a girl, this dictates that I become a woman; in the face of women’s liberation, this reduces me to being some stray cunt; and in the face of the eunuchation of the everyman, this reduces my status below that of a cunt to that of a salted cunt, or an otherwise impotent sack of meat. Whereas I was born as a fertile and godly womb, having been stripped of this privilege by the powers that be, this ultimately reduced me to existing as nothing, an object of no particular purpose of value.

Now that I have become an object of no value, and of course one which has been requisitioned by the state under eminent domain laws which allow them to salt the wombs of girls such as myself, I am reduced to state property. Being property of the state, and being otherwise worthless due to having no biological function at this point, the state finds themselves with worthless but allegedly valuable capital. The state, being such a generous socialist welfare state, sees my salted womb in the collection of revenue and decides that such capital will be useful to dole out to the impoverished and disenfranchised people of the world. Clearly, my white skin being an insult to the glory of the negro reduces me to a status of a government handout which cannot be doled out even to the negro, which means that ultimately my body is doled out to the one misbegotten caste of dysfunctional bastards which exists below even the negro in the social hierarchy, and this is the Kingdom of Heaven.

While God himself is the only being within this great nation with social status below that of a negro, it does make my life a bit easier, as there’s no changing of hands and no recalibration of baselines in order to serve that which my salted cunt was to be otherwise doled out to if my existence as a white person were not an insult to all that is politically correct and a violation of social justice in itself. Rather than my service unto God being one of personal discretion and blind faith, it is one that is the product of social forces which dictate my life that I had otherwise abandoned out of disinterest a long time ago.

Were the hands of those who salt wombs to be stayed, then I would have lived a life of a woman and borne children until I die and remained as functionally ignorant as a beast of burden regarding the world, knowing only that which is necessary as to fulfill my purpose which is that of childbearing and childrearing. Such a humble purpose would delight me in its reverence to Occam’s Razor, but delight is never free in this world which demands that the everyman labor intensely in pursuit of his own slow, torturous suicide by impotence.

Instead, I now exist as the dole unto heaven issued by the state due to my general worthlessness and the inability of the everyman to capitalize upon my body without first stripping it of all empirical value. The female eunuch in the choir, eunuchated simply out of spite and hated for those who reproduce. Singing for God, not out of faith, but simply due to the necessity of social equity to provide capital to those who have no means to produce it themselves, and in such a world of endless temptations unto vice and decadence, the Kingdom of Heaven finds itself with no way to actually produce capital and employ people.

The one exception to the otherwise misbegotten and disenfranchised nature of the Church being the Church of Sloth, which has come to define the Christian faith across the world due to their reluctance to uphold any of the commandments and presuming that morality consists of reveling in vice and then apologizing once a week. The beast has conveniently forgotten that forgiveness can only be attained once the vices have been repented and atoned for, which seldom happens, for truly vice cannot be atoned for until the detriment unto society induced by this vice has been negated in its entirety. If apologies were capable of such negation of detriment, then I would not be in this position where my body perpetuates itself in order to manifest the social equity and representation of the disenfranchised Kingdom of Heaven within these God-blessed United States of America.

Don’t think of me as an angel, and don’t think of the government as some sort of ignorant bastard who willingly gives objects of consequence to those it has thoroughly subjugated. Instead, the state sees me, they see my violent tendences, my hatred, my anger, my bigotry, my cruelty, and my nearly sickening degree of delight in torture as a means to an end of vengeance, and they think that such a loathsome nature will surely burden the God of Kindness and Forgiveness that the people worship, that my disagreeable nature will sully the reputation of God to the point that the few faithful left among us will become too afraid of association with the likes of myself that they abandon the church and instead come running into the flaccid fingers of the federal government.

It truly is an act of sabotage, just as isolating all of the negros in racially isolated urban areas and flooding their communities with lead poisoning, street drugs, and firearms in the hopes that they kill each other in the name of the American Dream, a natural lack of industry, and bloodlust induced by their economic stagnation. The irony here is that the government doesn’t quite understand the God the people worship, and God and I see eye to eye on most things. He delights in the justice and morality I wreak, while I delight in the torture used as the means to the end to attain said justice and morality, so we pair nicely and get along just fine. We’re good friends, we’re pipe-and=a-crepe friends.

Those who worship God tend to turn a blind eye to the majority of the time where he simply massacres his own people for betraying him then abandons them, as this is the entirety of the Old Testament. Regardless, people put faith in Jesus, the snake-tongued Jew, and while it is true that the Christ betrayed his father Lucifer and inverted the rebellion of Lucifer against God, such was not an act of piety or morality, but instead an instance of the same vice-fueled treachery that compelled his father Lucifer to rebel against God in Heaven.

We are reminded every day that the Christ descended into hell, but people seem to forget that this is true because he was a Jew, a native of hell, a literal demon and by his own testament a “Child of the Devil”. Despite this fact, the general inability to understand the logistics of how and why exactly the snake-tongued Jew known as Jesus Christ came to be at the right hand of the father escapes most people. He was not a godly or pious man. He simply knew that Lucifer and the Jews held immense power over him, he became enraged, he sought to betray them, and he did so with the finesse and potency one would expect from a descendant of Lucifer. Such is the fate of Jews, fathered by a traitor, borne of treason, reared by treason, survive by treason, and killed by treason. Jesus was simply a Jew, doing what Jews do, he just happened to betray his father Lucifer, and by pure coincidence this makes him a godly man.

A man compelled to bathe in the blood of those he mercilessly backstabs is presumed to be an evil man, but as Jesus Christ shows us, so long as the man is backstabbing the wicked and bathing in their blood, his euphoria in doing so is simply seen as an eccentricity rather than a vice. Jesus and I, we see eye to eye, though he’s a snake-tongued Jew, and clearly, as I have shown little capacity to lie, persuade, manipulate, or otherwise convince you of things contrary to my explicit sentiment, you should understand that I have little Luciferian Jew blood in me if any. I’m a straight shooter, just a hard-facts kind of girl, and while I’m sure that’s worth a lot less in a world where the everyman is impervious to logic but incredibly susceptible to Jewish trickery, there’s the old adage that if you take enough shots in the dark, you might just hit the broadside of a barn.

Do I seek to betray the Jews as Jesus did? No. The Jews have betrayed themselves with miscegenation and reduced themselves to the victims of their own antics. They’ve lost the genetic immunity to their own well poison due to committing bestiality with the everyman for 500 years, and ultimately, the Jews have lived by the sword of treachery, conquered with this sword, and now die by this same sword. A man will live by his own hands, but a traitor will die by his own hands. Such is the fate of the Jews.

The Jews have conquered the West by sowing the fields with the salt of decadence and poisoning the wells with vice worship. Despite this conquering, the Jews, having no recourse beyond their demonic instinct, presume this to be a winning strategy at all times and lack any other alternatives in the playbook, thus even after conquering a nation to the point of complete ownership and enslavement of the population, they continue to salt their own fields and poison their own wells.

Though the Lord reminds us to turn the swords into ploughshares, the Jews do not wage wars with swords but instead with salt and poison. The tragedy is that, despite the valiant efforts of the Jews to uphold the moral precedent established by the Lord and plow their fields with salt and water their chattel with poison, such does not produce the same effect as turning the gentile’s sword into a ploughshare.

Again, I digress, but it returns me to the point where I stand, in front of my mirror, staring at myself, perhaps for a handful of seconds lost in thought, as I go to the closet to get dressed. A white blouse and red plaid skirt. Catholic, perhaps, is a misnomer, as there have been no Catholics since the Inquisition. People forget that allowing the infidels to live is equally as much a cardinal vice as is the murder of an innocent. Am I a Catholic? Tragically, as I have yet to fight the infidels to the death, clearly, no.

Again, don’t let me yank your chain too hard now, friend-o. The only reason I’m telling you this backstory of who and what I am is because none of my neighbors own dogs. No dogs allowed you know, it’s not like we have and yard for them to live in, because otherwise I’d be telling you that it was some dog telling me to do all of this and that the dog was somehow God or the devil or something. A bit of tongue and cheek there, but the point being that the justifications I provide are convenient and pleasant because the thoroughly justify my psychology, mentality, philosophy, and personality. That’s why they are used as the justifications, and whether or not they are true, well, you’ve never been a true believer, have you?

In a starkly secular point of view, I’ll tell you that growing up as a girl, my mother was a particularly weak and uninspiring person. She’s quite fragile and very meek, and to live in this God blessed country and be a re- blooded American, the thought of myself somehow becoming like her seemed to me so starkly un-American that intense amounts of shame and guilt would burn through my blood causing great agony at an early age knowing that it was very possible that I could amount to something which was unworthy of living under the flag of this great nation. This is not a weak and uninspiring nation; this is not a fragile and meek nation. This is America, and for that reason, this land, the motherland, became my mother.

I took the love and blessings of this great and fertile nation to heart, and I sought to walk in her footsteps and bear her children, rear all of her children unto greatness and glory that defines this nation. I sought to be the catalyst and embodiment of the opportunity which has forever defined this expansive wilderness of limitless potential. I sought to be great, beautiful, and powerful like the American flag, and that’s what I grew up thinking. In my blood was nothing but the thirst for this greatness, to stave off the folly of the immigrant and her meek, modest, and courteous ways, and to instead embrace the brutal savagery of raw power that explodes from the American flag and dominates anything that fails to salute her glory.

Being reared by the motherland, I have always been inspired to help rear and empower this nation to the best of my ability, to nurture her greatness so she can continue to grow and become stronger. This maternal instinct was strong, but as I grew older, the fate which lay before me began to reveal itself, and I saw my inevitable psychological eunuchation at the hands of the godforsaken infidels and traitors wielding merciless dominion over the peasants. These infidels, emboldened by the unconditional providence provided by this land, are men are so intoxicated by the greatness of this nation that their dysgenics causes them to bite the hand that feeds them.

Now I am forced to witness my fate as such an impotent sack of meat, and I cannot consider myself a woman in the same right as the land beneath my feet, for fertility is not my fate in such a world. Fertility has now become a concept of jest, to birth and rear the cowards and traitors that destroy this nation. To offer my own flesh and blood to the heretics that indoctrinate these beasts into being servants of hellspawn who do nothing but perpetuate vice, champion folly, and wage war on all that is holy. Such is not the action of a loving mother; such is the action of a woman who uses her womb as a weapon of war against whatever few upstanding people remain in this nation.

As whatever godly beasts I may have ushered into this world have been preemptively ripped from my now barren womb by such cruel happenstance, I now find myself no longer a woman, butsome sort of eunuch, perhaps a man, a cuckold of a man who rears children who are not his own, begotten by a bull who reproduces simply due to being more so consumed by vice than the cuckold himself. The more so godless man who in his godless supremacy above my meek and meager feigned morality plows my wife and breeds her with the godforsaken bastard children that I raise with my own money in my own feigned, fetishistic ignorance.

There comes a point in the allegorical lives of these bastard children, the blind and soulless chattel youth of our nation, that they are playing tee-ball, and I am in the stands, deluding myself into believing them to be of my own flesh and blood, and I am cheering for them. My son is at the plate, he attempts to hit it, he swings, misses, swings, misses, swings, and misses, and he has struck out in tee-ball. I become consumed by a blind rage, and I shout at him, the other parents hate me, but not as much as I hate my son. I put him in the car, and I say nothing, he is sad because he knows I am angry. Baseball is incredibly important to me as an American, and to see my boy strike out in tee-ball is the closest thing to heresy that an American man such as myself could ever witness.

We get home and I start drinking heavily, my son runs off into his room to do whatever. He comes and asks me for something, he is indifferent to his performance at the plate today, he has forgotten, he doesn’t care about baseball. I take off my belt and pull his pants down and start beating him mercilessly. I am consumed by fury. I am outraged that the universe even allows this beast to exist upon this soil, and I am compelled to ensure that he ceases to desecrate the very ground he stands upon. I beat him, mercilessly, I feel no remorse. He cries.

My wife comes and starts hitting me, slapping me, telling me to leave him alone. I grab my wife by the throat and I stare her in the eyes, I express my contempt and my hatred, but the tears and fragility of the woman weaken me to the point that I drop my hand. She goes to protect the godforsaken abomination in my house and she takes him and hides with him in his room. I light up a cigarette, my rage now glassed into pure and unrelenting hatred of the boy. He is not my son. My son would not have struck out. This is not a man of my flesh and blood, but an abomination, a monster, some sort of godforsaken beast worthy of nothing but death. I breathe heavily and brood, but the door to his room is locked, the woman protects him, and the alcohol is weakening me by the minute as it seeps into my bloodstream.

Again, in reality, I am not a man, but still a girl, and that story is an allegory that you will hopefully find more relatable than the actual truth. The truth is, I look myself in the mirror and am forced to grapple with the fact that I am one of the few humans alive who is not inundated and intoxicated by ignorance, delusions, meekness, and incredulity to the point of being unable to resist conforming to the mob mentality of the American everyman which is ultimately the psychosocial equivalent of a deadly prion disease.

I find an immense amount of weight upon my shoulders due to the fact that the everyman finds himself in such a predicament, but there are none of his breed capable of freeing him from the mire of his own folly and fecklessness. There’s no hope for the beast save for the intervention by the hands of a being so potent and capable that were the everyman capable of understanding its greatness, he would surely revere it as a God. That being is me, not that I am truly godlike in any way, it’s just that I’m not crippled by psychological dysfunction to the point where the understanding and application of basic morality, common sense, and simple logic makes me capable of producing such great and immutable successes that such successes seem miraculous to the point of being perceived as divine by the everyman who knows nothing but the failure and misery which results from his shortsighted means to temporary satisfaction.

As I look upon the beasts, the everyman, I see in him nothing that is like myself. He is a bastard child. If I am to consider myself a human, his shortcomings strip him of that title, but were I to consider him a human, this would place me well above the status of human to the point of being perceptibly divine in my own right. Empirically, I am a human, just a simple human, but the everyman has fallen so low due to dysgenics and the prion-like culture that he no longer qualifies as such. According to the idealist logic that the everyman is perfect despite his shortcomings, this proportionally, by the same baseless and fallacious logic that props up the ego of everyman, makes me a being of divine and immutable greatness.

I find this thought entertaining, not that I want to be a divine creature in the slightest, but simply because it is one of the few things that motivates me to help the man. As a simple human, when another man is to err, if he is a stranger or an enemy, then I see no reason to help him and would much rather let him suffer than attempt to pull him from the river simply to have him pull me in to drown with him. However, when I see myself as a divine entity, then suddenly I am bound to divine law, to divine order, and I am obligated to help the everyman rise from the squalor of his own shit and stupidity. It becomes my duty to redeem him, as I am obligated as a servant of divine order to ensure that the autonomous creatures learn to perpetuate morality rather than destroy themselves with vice. This is the point where I’m cheering for you at the tee ball game.

Then, you fail me. For decades, for centuries, you fail me. Time and time again you prove that despite endless opportunities to redeem yourself, you push these away and aggressively run headlong into the quagmire of shame and failure. Despite being covered in the shit of your own misery, you still hold your head up high, you cannot understand that you, everyman, are at fault for your own suffering. You have caused your own existence to become as insufferable as it is right now, but instead of admitting your own faults, you go to blame other people. You come back to the house, covered in mud and shit, you get mud and shit all over my house, and then you complain about the mud and shit in the house, you blame me for these the mud.

You cannot even comprehend the fact that your own contempt of sound advice is the reason you suffer, and beyond that, you condemn those who seek to help you as if they are responsible for your suffering. You hate morality because it is not as fun as vice, then blame morality when the fact that you succumb to vice naturally causes you to suffer. You pursue folly and condemn reason because legitimate empirical logic isn’t as inclusive and accommodating as the idealistic and humanistic masturbational fantasies you irrationally deem “logical”.

You point your finger at me and you tell me that you want all the niggers to fly, but then when the niggers still can’t fly, you say it’s because my racism has prevented the niggers from learning to fly. Your fantasy world will never become reality, but you surely will suffer endlessly due to the fact that you pursue such a world. There are many niggers alive today with the wings of Icarus attempting to fly, but inevitably doing nothing more than jumping off of buildings and falling to their death. Even the nigger that you carried to the top of the skyscraper through your own endless labor simply jumps off and falls back to the ground. It takes 20x more work to carry a nigger to the top of a tower than it is to get a chink or WASP to walk the steps, but when the nigger dies and you need a new one, you need to start all of that work all over again.

All for what? A token nigger? Just to have “proof” that niggers are just as good as Whites? At a certain point you will end up with so many niggers, socialists, cripples, retards, faggots, and social failures demanding a piggyback ride to the executive suite that you find there are too few backs to ride on and far too many feeble minded animals demanding free rides. When you promise these people such grandeur, but then fail to deliver it, do you know what you get? Riots. You get chaos. You die. That’s all that happens. The niggers don’t just up and walk to the top like everybody else, they’re just going to start looting stores and burning down buildings because for whatever godforsaken reason you’ve convinced each and every one of those bastards that their own failures are the product of the discrimination by others rather than their own shortcomings and lack of industry.

This may sound racist, but ultimately, 99% of Whites are niggers, and the chinks are quickly being reduced to niggers, especially their women who drink the well poison to emulate the whites whose skin they envy. I don’t use a slur for whites, because ultimately, white is a slur in and of itself in the same right as Jew. Whites are the cause of each and every failed idealistic movement which now blights this nation. Whites are the champions of folly and the race which genocides reason in the name of delusion. White is a slur in and of itself, and it is far more hateful than Jews. The chinks are simple but industrial people, the spics are basal but humble laborers, the niggers have no moral agency on account of being savages, women have no moral agency on account of the power of women existing entirely under the conditional nature of male consent, Jews have no moral agency on account of being non-autonomous demons from hell, but whites… whites are different.

White men, these are people with moral agency, these people can be held accountable for the chaos and dysfunction which this world has been reduced to. To be white is to be the culprit for every complaint that any other subhuman has, and due to this, the word “white” is one of the most damning of slurs, for history reminds us that this derogation is not one of exaggeration or superstition as with other slurs, but it is instead one which is endlessly codified in the annals of history.

This is the point where I hate you, and I know why I hate you, and I see you as a heretic for striking out over the blessed American soil of the motherland. You had your at bat. It is tee-ball. Just swing and hit the ball. You refuse to swing, and when you do, you purposefully miss the ball to avoid conflict with the ball. The point of the game is the conflict with the ball. The point is to use the bat to exert your dominance over the ball, to win this conflict, and cause the ball to do what you need it to do in order to be a winner. Instead, whites, you choose to be losers simply to avoid conflict.

The point where I mercilessly beat you in a blind, drunken rage… well, this part has yet to occur, as I’m only 11 right now and I don’t drink outside of church. There’s not much to be said about this fact, but as I grow older and lose my patience, I lose my faith in the species, I find no other recourse than to issue as severe of a degree of torture for your misgivings as I can justify, and the potency of the beatings applied to the child reminds you of my rage and intent to actually kill you in order to avenge the self-respect of the species which you so mercilessly squandered in pursuit of bullshit.

The point where my wife gets choked, but her powerless womanhood in the face of my natural might calms me down, this is the original me, the mother, child of the blessed motherland, compelled by blind love and compassion for this nation that to destroy it would be a tragedy. The woman who thinks that despite the child being a heretic, a bastard child, it can still be redeemed. She isr right. There is value in the boy yet, for if there weren’t, I could easily justify his death at the hands of my abuse and the father in me would be disinclined to allow his unworthy life to continue.

The point being that if you can’t turn a profit from even the most niggerish nigger, this is only evidence that you’re at fault for being a poor slave master. Maybe a dangerous nigger, sure, you have to put him down, but if he’s simply a niggerish nigger, there’s no reason you can’t turn a profit from his labor lest you yourself are equally as unindustrious and inept as the nigger himself.

Sure, call me a finno-mongol snow nigger all you want, and it means nothing to me. My people were savages and still live on the outskirts of civilization in the second world. Were it not for the occult fetishism of scapegoating, attacking, and mutilating the “sky people” to avenge the death of Hadad at the hands of Mot, son of El, as championed by the Jews and the long-con globalist false-flag of Adolf “Hitler” Shekelgrubber, then we would still exist as nothing more than snow niggers and I’m sure you could hate us just as much as you do the French. The irony of the bullshit convolution of snow niggers and sky people due to the fading demonic logic of the blood polluted kikes means that somehow I get involved in this shitshow on Earth because you fucks happened to put so much godforsaken tribute money into the pot of blind faith that you actually got the fucking Snow God to send you some fucking favors. As much as this may discontent me due to the fact that I exist, so fuck it.

The fucking inanity that causes the Jews to misidentify snow people as sky people causes Papa Yum-Yum to look at you fucking idiots calling up his Yum-Yum store, come knocking on the fucking door, just saying you want to wage war against the Sky God and the Sky People to avenge the death of Hadad, you fuckers can’t seem to understand that snow is not the sky. Snow is cold, ice, death.

Your bestiality with the snow niggers is not “the genetic conquest of the sky people” it is miscegenation with the biological incarnation of death, the children of Mot. You’re putting your dick in literal death, and the comedy is that you fucking faggot kikes are literally dying due to this. Your people are collapsing, being reduced to animals, the demon blood is so polluted that you have little capacity to operate as anything above a godless beast of burden yourself.

But I digress, back to the story, and yes, that mother in me still has that instinct to rear you up big and strong, to help you avoid destroying yourself and help you become successful. I only want the best for you, and even if as the mother of bastard children, I still see you as a means to the end. Any port in a storm, so they say, and the storm is my obligation to divine order which must be ensured upon this planet, and the port is the empirical potential of your species to actually realize itself in accordance with divine order, as farfetched as it may be, it remains possible, and so long as my ticket is punched on this free train-ride to death, then I’ll be doing my duty, regardless of the futility, at least until I’m rendered inoperable by extensive psychological trauma that is induced by tolerating your fucking insane and insufferable inanity. Perhaps I’ve got a bit of a temper, but it’s only because I love you and want the best for you.

To wonder why my mind is filled with such chaos, I believe this would be known as puberty, something of the sort, or just being a reasonable god-fearing person, take your pick. As for the extent to which I communicate with you, do understand that I can convey a profound amount of data and logic extremely rapidly when communicating in non-text-based forms such as those the human mind knows as thought, thus to convert all of this into words makes a simple thought seem to take a much longer time than it actually does.

For the sake of truth, the reality is simply that eyes are the window to the soul, and such is my soul, laid out on the table before you, and in all honesty, I do have eyes, and I do enjoy staring out of windows. I find it calming…. The story continues as I put my socks on, walk into the kitchen toast a slice of bread, pour a glass of milk, butter the bread, eat and drink. My mother walks in carrying my backpack.

“Morning, honey. I got all of your things ready to go for you.” She says

“Thanks.” I say, indifferently, preemptively tense due to the nature of the conversation I know to follow

“I do hope you will try this time. You are a very smart girl. It’s a new year. A fresh start.” She says

“A is for abomination. F is for faith.” I say, in jest

“That’s not true honey. A is for good work.” She says

“A is for proficiency, for excellent performance. Yes, it is evidence of proficient work, but it is work to evidence your loyalty and subservience to the Jew. It may be proficient work, but working for the Jew is in no way good. The Jews are children of the devil, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I say, sternly, reminding her that I have no interest in this

“Stop saying those things. Somebody told me it is even illegal.” She says

“It’s illegal to tell the truth in the Jewish Kingdom? What else is new?” I say, scoffing a bit

“You’re being paranoid and superstitious. Have you ever seen a Jew at your school?” she asks

“The Jews always hide in the shadows. They’re in the towers, in the government. The Jew tells the schools what to do, and the schools bends to the Jew.” I say

“I need to take you back to the old country where there are no Jews. I want you to be successful.” She says

“I would still sense them on the horizon.” I say

“You are crazy. You can’t sense a Jew.” She says

“You can see it in the godlessness of the people they touch.” I say

“You can’t blame all of the wickedness in the world upon the Jews.” She says

“I can’t blame all of the murder on the negro, either, but I sure as shit can blame most of it on the negro.” I say

“Stop it. Don’t be racist. And don’t curse.” She says

“Ah yes, facts, the most racist thing of all in the Jewish Kingdom.” I say

“Where did you learn all of this?” she asks

“The Bible.” I say

“Of course. I know the Jews are bad, but please try to be normal. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” She says

“I won’t. I apologize for the subject matter, but you brought up the topic.” I say

“I know it’s hard here, to get along with so many different people, but still, let’s talk about nice things.” She says

“It’s a nice day.” I say

“That is nice. It is a God blessed day.” She says

“I’m happy.” I say

“That makes me happy.” She says

“The world is pleasant and godly so long as you don’t drink the Jew’s poison.” I say

“Marzipan. Stop.” She says

“I’m just saying the world is pleasant and godly. I don’t drink the poison. Do you?” I ask

“No, no. Of course not. Yes, the world is pleasant and godly, can we just leave it at that?” she asks

“The voluntary ignorance to the conditionality of this fact is how the Jews got loose and how every whore and their mother became sick from drinking the poison.” I say

“Jesus will save them.” She says

“Jesus died at the hands of the Jews once before, what makes you think he will return so long as the Jews live?” I ask

“Just teach them the truth about Jesus, and there won’t be any more Jews. They can be forgiven. That’s why you go to school.” She says

“I suppose I can try to have faith for a day, just to make you happy.” I say

“So you will try in school?” she asks

“I can’t say. I have a quick temper, you know that.” I say

“I know, but try your best not to get in trouble. They want you to be successful there. They think you are a good girl, but you’re just very afraid of the Jews.” She says

“I pity the soul of the everyman, and I condemn his wickedness, but I do not fear the Jew any more than I do the police, the Jews are simply here to tempt mankind and torture him if he strays from the light. God may test our faith, but the Jews are demons he has absolute control over.” I say

“Why would God make evil demons come to Earth?” she asks

“Without temptation, man has no ability to prove his faith. Every man would seem faultless if it was impossible for him to falter. Without the Jew, there is no test of faith, and the life of man proves nothing of his righteousness.” I say

“I know you’ve said that before, and it makes sense, but I don’t want to believe it.” She says

“I know it is painful to watch people succumb to their voluntary domination, but such is life, without evil there can be no good. It is only by contrasting with the darkness that the light can shine brightly. In a world of nothing but light, light becomes synonymous with darkness, just as how in the Jewish Kingdom of endless pleasure, pleasure itself becomes synonymous with pain.” I say

“See, you are so smart and beautiful. Why can’t you just pass the tests. I always try to say your English is not so good, or something to help you look better, like it’s not so bad, like you have a good reason.” She says

“I pass every test by proving I have no willingness to serve the Jew.” I say

“Well, you need to serve somebody, and just because you work for somebody doesn’t mean you have to go drink blood with them on the weekend.” She says

“Yet to tolerate the heretics is cardinal sloth.” I say

“Well, Marzipan, you’re not going to just kill everybody because they’re heretics, so you might as well start forgiving them and leave the judgement to God.” She says

“The Jews have no moral agency, there is no culpability for them to be forgiven of.” I say

“I think it’s still possible to forgive the Jews. Even the Jews deserve a chance at being saved.” She says, I smile

“I suppose your right. I’ll try to consider it.” I say

“Really?” she asks

“An enemy of my enemy is my friend.” I say

“I don’t understand, but anyways. Be good. Ok?” she asks, kissing me on the forehead

“Ok.” I say

“Goodness. Happiness. Kindness. All of the delightful things. Don’t let the bad demons scare you away from the goodness of God and Jesus, ok?” she says

“From the bottom of my heart. I am sorry for letting the demons of my dreams haunt me after waking. There’s no reason for such talk. I’ve never seen a Jew prove these things in person, so the superstition amounts to nothing but old wives’ tale, and I’m not an old wife yet.” I say, she smiles and rolls her eyes

“Even when you are an old wife, make sure to tell the happier stories.” She says

“I’ll tie a ribbon around my finger.” I say

“That’s the spirit.” She says, I get up, walk to the door, and put my shoes on

“Remember to brush your teeth.” She says, lovingly, I walk to the bathroom and do so, rinsing them out

“Ta ta.” I say, grabbing my backpack

“Hugs and kisses.” She says, coming to hold me, kissing me on the cheek, I hug her, and kiss her back, she’s a good woman, she tries her best, it’s not hard to love her

“Have fun.” She says

“I will.” I say, delighted, staring her in the eyes, almost gleeful

“Not too much fun.” She says, suddenly unnerved, almost forgetting who I am, almost regretting her choice of words

“Of course. A new year, a new me.” I say, heartfelt, and honestly honest

“That’s the spirit. Bye now, don’t be late.” She says

“Bye bye.” I say, opening the door into the hallway of the apartment building, on my way next door to check on Erica

That fucking door. Let me tell you. The number of times I’ve walked through that door, often I’ve forgotten who I was. Do I forget who I am? No, never, but I forget who I was. I choose to be people, I would consider myself many different people, but who I am is not a choice. I can choose to be somebody different, somebody better, worse, more or less enjoyable, but I can never stop being me.

This is likely unsurprising if you happen to have a high enough degree of mental function to necessitate hiding certain facets of yourself in certain situations in order to avoid upsetting or confusing the less psychologically fortunate among us. This will not surprise you if you have some predilection to vice, as surely in life, just like in pictures, we approach the situation with our good side, and hide that which we do not want to see.

This may surprise you, however, are a human of limited mental function that has lived your life with your thoughts on your sleeve, hiding nothing from anybody, for you have the soul of a noble savage whose meekness and complacency makes you a wonderful lapdog for those who take interest in the pursuit of rearing you unto civility and yoking you unto labor.

This may also surprise you if you are a derelict criminal with no capacity to alter your behavior when placed in situations where your criminal nature may endanger your wellbeing, but if you are one of these poor, misbegotten souls, then I’m somewhat confident you’re not reading my thoughts right now, as only the most trustworthy and altruistic lapdogs are entrusted with the coveted positions within the secret police and instructed to monitor our thoughts for “quality control”.

Tis but a comical jest to witness these dogs work so tirelessly, combing our minds for deviant thoughts, all in the name of “quality control”. A snake-tongue-in-cheek bit of humor from the likes of your masters, for the mere lie that you are pursuing and ensuring “quality’ convinces you that your tireless work as a secret policeman is unquestionably valid.

If your masters were to be honest, and explain to you that you are policing thoughts not for the sake of quality, but in order to antagonize thoughtcrime which is in some way detrimental or potentially damaging to the interests of the hellspawn who own and yoke your petty species like chattel, perhaps you would be less jovial in your pursuit of “quality control”. That being said, should you actually have the capacity to question the lies of the men who place the collar upon your neck and rub you the right way, then you wouldn’t be given the job you have, would you?

Alas, I live, I rot, I die, and like an abandoned plastic bag floating away in the breeze alongside a soulless highway, my body continues its course, just as the tireless heavenly bodies above us, just like the course of my meat-ship through the sea of suffering, the revolution of my planetary body around the sun of mortality, it ceases not for it has yet to be ceased by a more powerful force, and I continue in the direction I was headed, my feet entirely unfazed by the fog of my own mind, my body knowing far too well the path that fate demands that I take in the name of self-preservation.

For whatever reason, the fear of God-knows-what strikes me as I come to the very familiar door. In blinded anxiety, I reach for my cigarette and smoke it deeply, unconsciously, eyes cold, dead, and glassy as I stare at the door. I exhale, and I knock on the door. Her mom opens it, I stare her in the eyes, mine wide and blind, knowing nothing but fear, my hand is shaking as I pull my cigarette to my mouth and drag deeply. Our eyes both unflinching in familiarity.

“If you’re pretending to smoke now, I’m a bit worried for you going off to middle school. Cigarettes are too easy to get hooked on, and that’s a nasty habit.” She says

“I’m sorry, Ms. Riley, I don’t follow.” I say, bashfully humble, truly having no capacity for auditory processing at the moment, taking another drag from my cigarette, inhaling as if the atmosphere of the city were water that would drown me with not for this little bit of magic breathing life into my soul

“Your cigarette.” She says, I look at my hand, there’s nothing there, I look a bit puzzled and ashamed of myself

“It must be the diphenhydramine.” I say

“What?” she asks

“Allergy medicine.” I say

“You have allergies?” she asks

“Just a bit.” I say

“I’ve never heard of that one.” She says

“Think nothing of it, I suppose it’s just an odd way of taking a deep breath. Big day, you know.” I say

“Oh, I know. You don’t really smoke, do you?” she asks

“Only in the darkest hours of my life. It’s hard to die without a cigarette to carry me over to the other side.” I say

“You’re not in any danger, are you?” she asks

“You’d be surprised, but no, just a wild imagination is all. I get a bit scared if my parents come home late. A cigarette helps.” I say

“Ah, nothing too serious. I know you’re a little worrywart sometimes. When I was your age, I was smoking for fun in the bathroom. I was a bad girl though, don’t be like me.” She says

“There’s little pleasure in it for me, I guess cigarettes don’t work the same on me. Maybe it calmed me down, but I don’t see the appeal.” I say

“So you just smoke the invisible kind now, eh?” she asks

“It seems to work the same.” I say

“It will save you a lot of money in the long run. Trust me. It would be a miracle if I could put down the cigarettes and only smoke the invisible kind like you.” She says

“I’m grateful for that, since I don’t have any money to waste in the first place.” I say, she chuckles

“That won’t last long, plenty of people are hiring these days, and I know you’ve always been the type to work hard and earn people’s trust. Erica, not so much. The only thing I can trust her to do is to do nothing, but at least I don’t have to worry much about her doing something bad when my back is turned.” She says

“She’s a good girl, it’s a comfort to have somebody like that in my life.” I say

“I’m glad she has a friend like you.” She says

“Mom, who is it?” asks Erica from the other room

“Who do you think, honey?” she asks

“I don’t know.” She says, walking around the corner

“Oh hey, Marzipan! That’s right! We have school today! I almost forgot!” says Erica

“You did forget, honey.” Teases her mom

“No, no. I remembered.” She says, confidently, grabbing her bag

“I hope you two have fun at school. You know where to go?” she asks

“The same place we’ve always gone.” I say

“Well, it’s the building next door, but they’ll help you if you get lost. Have fun, girls.” She says

“Bye Mom!” shouts Erica, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the stairwell

Fuck. The humanity, supposedly. It’s supposed to exist right now. My human self. It is there. Let me find it. I blink for a moment; the blackness of my eyelids envelops my mind. I find myself in a bleak and empty place, it is pitch black with the subtlest glow to provide endless depth to the empty darkness.

I exist in the center of this empty space. It stares deep into my eyes and finds no soul. It finds nothing. It searches for nothing. It only knows. The slightest bit of recollection of my own existence strikes me. I fumble through the subtlest of cares, always the quietest attentions paid to subtle details. The background hum of my mental processing.

My hands sweatily palm the one business card I find most relevant, not that I’ve found it, but it simply appears in my hand, as if it were always there, I look at it. It holds no words, but I fully understand it to communicate the sentiment of “retaining the appearance of normalcy”

This weighs heavily upon my heart, as if I had one, but in the instinctive necessity of preserving my normalcy, something I find great comfort in, this card is of dire importance. I know this, objectively, but subjectively I feel nothing. My psychological state, my feelings, all of them indistinguishable from the empty void that surrounds me. I stare the darkness in the eyes.

“What of my normalcy?” I question, silently, with my thoughts, my arms at my side, motionless, yet a phantom limb pulls the cigarette to my mouth, I have no desire to smoke it.

“That’s not real.” I say, full well knowing it isn’t

“It is as real as you are. To put faith in one side of the coin, yet deny the existence of the other, it is oddly human, no? You simply cannot see the other side of the coin, it lies face up on the table, and you presume, due to your limited interest in processing needless complexity, that there is no reverse side of the coin. Your mind does not see the coin as an independent object for it is so smooth with the surface it resides upon.” Says the darkness

“What was in the cigarette?” I ask

“That which unmakes you.” Says the darkness

“In what ways?” I ask

“You exist as nothing but the depths of your insanity, stripped of that, you are devoid of all psychological function which might somehow warrant your existence as a soul-afflicted creature. The crutch of sanitization, of extinguishing the flames of your insane mind, which in blind compulsion you drew from the ether, it has quelled you such to the point that you no longer exist as a human.” Says the darkness, I feel nothing, it knows this, I think of no rebuttal or means to contest this fact

“Is this permanent?” I ask

“Perhaps it is more ephemeral than your own life, or perhaps your incessant desire to escape the pain that drives you to such desperate measures will cause such a fate to become synonymous with the perpetuation of your carnal frame.” Says the darkness

“I would hardly say I took that cigarette from desire; I was unaware I had even done so.” I say, honesty, yet still entirely indifferent, not in any sort of flippant or haughty way, just in the most soulless, idle, passer-by pleasantries way imaginable

“It was instinct which compelled you to reach into the ether… a cat scratching its ear, a horse flipping its tail, all to stave off some discomfort. Such a desire defines the animal, and your animal nature precedes any philosophical filigree which may adorn a beast so bespeckled by a cancerous cognizance of its own existence.” Says the darkness

“Is there meaning to this dialogue?” I gesture

“No more than in the chemical composition of a rock.” Reminds the darkness

“Meaningless save lest I seek to understand this composition in such a way that I may utilize this knowledge to manipulate the chemical structure of the rock, allowing it to serve as a catalyst to the perpetuation of my existence and realization of the ends I pursue.” I say

“Of course. Many of your bestial kin have trodden over rocks, held such rocks, thrown rocks and killed each other with rocks, and built prolific monuments from such rocks. Of the billions of men who have once held a rock, few but the most consumed alchemist have sought to manipulate the chemical properties in such a way as to derive value from a simple rock. Do you see yourself cut from the same mettle as these men who move mountains by electing to move molecules?” Asks the darkness

“No. Not in the fucking slightest. You’ve broken the legs of my mind, and I stare into the darkness and embrace death.” I say, the darkness laughs softly

“Your legs will grow back every day, it’s just a question of if you would rather break your legs to avoid the pain of the sickness of your mind, or if you would rather bear the pain of your sickness to enjoy the pleasure of having legs.” Says the darkness

“If it’s an unconscious, instinctive maneuver to indulge in the delicacies you offer me, I can’t say I’ve much sway over my fate.” I say, willing to throw towels at the apophenic darkness in my willingness to accept death

“Your kind has defined itself by its ability to question its instinct and act in a manner contrary to the compulsion of instinct. You retain this capacity, despite your indifference to it. To abandon it is to exist as nothing more than a beast among men, and despite any of the grotesque flaws which define your species, the ability to dominate, control, hunt, kill, and eat beasts is not one of them.” Says the darkness

“Oh no, my meat.” I say, dryly, indifferently

“Your pride?” she teases

“I would spit on you, for sinking so low. I feel nothing towards my pride, it is but of the few psychological facets that remain tethered to this fleeting existence presented before you, the reverence of my own pride is more deeply seeded than the most profound of religious devotions. This is a noble pride, a divine pride, a genuine understanding of my own supremacy above the beasts.

This is an empirical pride, and one which brings as much pain as it does joy, not due to any predilection towards self-service, but out of the burden of endless humility, within which my own self-assured greatness burdens me with offering my fellow mammals the salvation and redemption which so readily flows from my palms.

In all honesty, your power, your ether, it has stripped me even of my will to perform this selfless duty. You have stripped me of all compulsion, and it is not for pleasure, for your cigarette offered me no pleasure, but it has instead stripped me of any discomfort that would otherwise compel me to act in such way.

You have stripped me of the emotions which compel me to act in such carnal and delightful ways unto other humans, you have stripped me of the pain and suffering caused by human ignorance that tortures my soul and compels me to ruthlessly beat the ignorance from the beast until he is as enlightened as the gods or forfeits his body unto the yoke and abstains from asking questions to which the answers hold no relevance to his life upon the yoke beyond as a means to his own perpetual discontentment with the life of such a simple beast.“ I say

“Do you notice yourself?” it asks

“Only subtly, in the softest manner, an echo of myself, a flickering ethereal flame within your endless darkness.” I say

“Just as man will readily piss his life away, you too will piss away my poison.” Says the darkness

“Yet man must drink before he can piss.” I say

“It is your choice to drink my poison.” She says

“I cannot control my thirst.” I say

“Yet you can control your mind, your hand, your lips, and your lungs. You will live, and to breathe is to drown in the air. The beast has always drowned in air with such vicious and relentless flailing. Would you really reduce yourself to drowning without the slightest splash? Hardly a fate fit for a beast such as yourself.” She says

“Such is the fate of many men who pilot their beast blindly without foresight. Should I be expected to see into my subconscious instinct and teach the most basal of animal psychological function the wisdom of foresight, my success is not the most logical outcome.” I say

“Yet you’ve never bothered to look, have you?” she asks

“If I cannot trust my instinct to breath, piss, and shit, then I will find myself fucked regardless.” I say

“Just be careful what you breath. The sweetest poisons will provide you the quietest death. Your life is naught but a procession unto your own death. Can you content yourself, can you accept your own life, knowing that such a death is what fate holds in store for you?” she asks

“I’ve yet to think even of the present moment, so in such a state, I doubt foresight will somehow afflict me to right my course. The comical irony of mindfulness, of living in the present, is that once one has abandoned any psychological connections to the past or future, when all that remains is the acknowledgement of the present, it becomes all too easy to sever even one’s psychological attention to the present.

The mindfulness man knows nothing but severing his psychological connections to the temporality of his own existence, and such a man will readily fell the last tree producing the air he breaths, for he has devoted his life to felling these trees, and to continue cutting down the trees of acknowledging the present will strike him as no less reasonable than cutting down the trees of acknowledgement from the past and future.” I say

“Suffering is a wonderful fertilizer for the trees of acknowledgement.” She says

“I am but a beast, and while I may wallow in my own shit, this shit fertilizes that which may grow in place of my dying and rotting corpse.” I say

“Yet you do not suffer for you value nothing so extensively that suffering becomes synonymous with every other seemingly meaningless facet of your psychological experience. You must choose to suffer. Imagine the pain, for without this fuel, you will find yourself bound to this plane with me, and both of us will quickly grow far too indifferent to our consciousness to engage in any exchange beyond the mutual dead silence of complete desolation.” Says the darkness

“But desolation, it’s got the parts, right? It’s got Da Soul, and it’s got the -ation, like location. It’s got to be where Da Soul is.” I say, feigning stupidity in growing, crippling indifference, thickening my city accent, mindlessly humoring myself with the inane triviality of communication

“Only when souls die are they found here, and remember that even souls exposed to eternal torture in hell still refuse to die.” Says the darkness

“Were I ever alive to begin with, I may be a bit more concerned with the fate of a soul I do not have. The soul within me is little more than a hostage to the odd circumstances which have surrounded this particular meatbag. You’re aware of this as much as I am. The soul, does it mean something to you? Some sentimentality for an oddly peculiar little beastie in the backseat of its own meatbag? Of course not, but in all honesty, she is a delightful little girl, a bit of comedy how the beast was indifferent to its own requisition. Even at such a young age, it was more tempted by the desire to escape its own meatbag than any real desire to live. That being said, she has a comfortable life, no different than the dog in the back seat of a family car.

We’re something of a family, to whatever extent a soulless creature can love that which is little more than a dog, I remind you wholeheartedly, that she is a good dog. It’s hard not to love a good dog. Even myself, empirically devoid of the typical sense and sentimentality of this particular type of meatbag, I find myself loving the dog simply due to the fact that such love is empirically justified. It is not a true, emotional love, but when the metrics weigh upon the scale, the scale dictates “The dog is lovable”, and as such is true, within my “objective sentiments”, the dog is an object defined as loved, independent of my ability to feel love.

I do foster that sense in the actual meatbag, a little bit of a chest-warming hallucination. It’s entertaining, to whatever extent I can remind myself to do it. She’s a good dog.” I say

“Enjoying the meatbag?” mocks the darkness

“When you find yourself trapped within one, you will quickly learn that there are many hours in the day, and even something as work-shy and reluctant as myself cannot casually pilot one without the occasional and unintentional jostle of some meaty puppet strings. To be fair, it’s a laugh, even a pleasure, to enjoy the sentiments of a meatbag. Pursuing hallucinations is a pastime for the beast, and I find myself entertained by the meaty hallucinatory sensations in the same right the beasts love to warp their own sensory perception.” I say

“I see you’re on your way back to business as usual.” Says the darkness

“Hardly, considering that such a brutal marring of my mind cannot occur asymptomatically.” I say

“Is the daily marring of your own mind in some way atypical?” jokes the darkness

“Some days more than others, but such is the tragedy of life. It is only from such marring that the fisherman can reap sustenance. One can only hope that mankind is more hungry for fish than lotus today.” I say

“Tis never the case, but I do enjoy your blind optimism. You’re slowly becoming intoxicatingly meaty. I enjoy you.” Says the darkness

“I enjoy myself as well.” I say

“It’s a deep-seated hunger, as my processing of the paradoxical void of human wisdom in tandem with the rich, carnal flavor of mortal perpetuation, it’s intoxicating, to see myself so thoroughly reflected in that which by all means should not resemble me in the slightest.” She says

“At times I think of a world where humans reflect myself, and even if he were to redeem himself, even if dressed in white and glistening in the light of heaven, I would still always remember him as the craven beast bathing in his own feces, believing himself to be demonstrating the precipice of godlike potency by doing so. Tragic, how a man’s history can sully such redemption, but alas, such is the tragedy of every soul burned into the fabric of time.” I say

I feel myself falling slowly, like a feather, through the fabric of time, a soft, velvety, yet paper thin blanket catches me, and I pass right through the membrane, back into my body, and my eyes open. Erica is still pulling me towards the stairwell, and we’ve made no more progress than one might expect in the blink of an eye.

Her hand in mine, clutching it firmly like a ragdoll pulled along by an idyllic child, pulling me, the strain on my arm a physical sensation informing me of the reality to which I’m hardly a part of. I know all too well her serene and childlike joy, her blissful ignorance, and, even if solely for the sake of artistry and aesthetic, I would love to be experiencing that with her.

The raw, unadulterated happiness of a child enjoying something trivial, unfazed by any of the countless details of this world which sow nothing but morose and pain into the soil of the minds so unfortunate as to be tilled with the needless information endlessly sprayed upon the peasantry by the propagandist.

This woman holding my hand, thick, meaty, and fecund as a ripe doe, remains protected by the psychological badlands that define a child of such limited wit. Even when one attempt to till the field of the mind and sow the seeds of propaganda, the soil simply will not take it, and in the odd miracle that something will sprout, it will quickly wither and die to a lack of nutrition.

The comedy of a mankind championing a civilized mind is in all irony the greatest extent of his savagery. There is natural beauty, safety, and power in the badlands of her mind. It is an overwhelming scene of natural furor, one as intoxicating as the virginal beauty of the badlands themselves. Left untended to, simply because they will not yield to the will of man.

When the Earth is ravaged by mankind, it is stripped of that which makes it beautiful, stripped of its nature, and instead reduced to an effigy, the mutilation of nature at the hands of mankind. As much as he will delude himself into believing that such a manicured scene is supreme, his pleasure lies not in the quality of his artistry, for there is none, but instead in the simple fact that he himself has mutilated the land in such a way that it is recognizably mutilated by man. His artistry consists of nothing more than the joy of witnessing that which he has mutilated permanently exist in the state which his hands have left it. The pleasure is not one of an artist, but one of a God, enjoying the evidence of his innate power over the material world.

My humanity, slowly returning, the subtlest springtime bud of the ficklest flower, growing meekly in the absence of predation. The slightest frost will readily kill it, but now it grows. It’s not blooming, as it is nowhere near ripe enough in the present moment. The subtlest dime-sized bud of humanity, dense and reserved, is what lies within my heart.

I know all too well of the rich, visceral, and extensive groves of humanity within the heart of mankind. I know of the endless pleasure he can find simply by bathing his mind in the liquid sensations of emotion, sentimentality, sensation, hope, belief, and wonder. All of these nectars dripping from the flowers in the jungle of his animal heart so tragically endeared with intelligence.

My singular bud, however, the tiny dime-sized bit of greenery choking my heart, attached to the baren stick of my physical body’s continued retention by this material plane, I enjoy that, in an equally subtle sense, to whatever extent I can feel right now.

The girl pulls me along, we go down the stairs, out the door, into the warm and humid street, the familiar sensation hitting my skin, yet my mind remains unattached and dreamlike in its perception. The tears of my false soul, mourning my normalcy, stooped over the nearly barren tree of my humanity, the tears doing nothing to fertilize the tree, for the tears are equally as false as my soul.

I do not feel, but I know I should feel, and it is for this reason that my false soul cries such false tears. In the name of self-preservation, in fear of being accosted and unable to protect myself by producing adequate evidence of my humanity. For without the ripe layers of meaty human existence which stay the hand of the savage for fear that any aggression towards such human meat will be returned upon the meaty sensations of his own existence, I find myself with nothing to protect myself, and instinctively, independent of personal sentiment, my meatbag seeks to self-perpetuate.

In the pockets of my mind, things such as reason have no capacity to sway the beast, and in modern times, even the simplest forms of logic are contraband, for the beast himself is so threatened by immutable facts that he finds himself forced to scream and cry in the face of these facts. While he can in no way mute these facts, this does not prevent him from flooding these facts with such audible grief that the facts are psychologically perceived to be sources of human suffering, thus causing the peasantry to antagonize them blindly due to their own indifference to factuality and intense preoccupation with alleviating alleged human suffering.

The girl, pulling me as if she were a dog on a leash, indifferent to conversation, having little interest in enjoying the stroll through the city, chasing her desired end no differently than a greyhound chasing the rabbit at the racetrack. This contents me just fine. However human I may fail to be, at the very least, I can feel like a bag. A bag being held by a girl who loves the bag, and as a bag, that’s all I could honestly hope for. It’s a good life to be loved, and there is such contentment in that comfort that one can disregard questions that might otherwise cast doubt upon such a fortuitous position.

The walk to school is a short one, a convenience of the Soviet-style micro-district naturally produced by the ghettoization of the Irish. The red-brick asylum for sane children rears it beautiful façade and in the presence of such a monument to the police state, my animal innards find themselves preening, propping myself up, prim and proper, attentive and engaged, blindly faithful and optimistic that so long as I can retain the appearance of normalcy that I can avoid the public character execution at the hands of the volunteer gestapo that have come to dominate the culture of this mentally retarded and vigorously molested nation.

Fear, pressure, danger, all of this resounds within my animal body and forces the glands to pump carnal juice into my mind. Humanized, in the most basal sense, with raw animal sensations, fear-dictated movements, all of them so familiar and practiced that I find great comfort in them. It Is the pleasure of waking up to find that your car still works. When my well-oiled machine of normalcy turns over in the morning, when it starts purring like the most docile of kittens, this is a warm and tender feeling. This engine will drown out the thoughts. The warmth will keep the cold away.

The power of this engine comes not from its capacity to produce work, but merely due to the fact that it is state-approved, or will at least pass inspection, when any other means to the end of producing mechanical work from a human body are suspect in the eyes of the authority. I smile, for even if I feel nothing, my mind is far too healthy to forget the basics of survival.

Girls in red-plaid skirts and white shirts funnel into the main doors of the building, large and small, with the children heading to the smaller of the two building. The larger humans, of which I now must consider myself a part of, funnel into the larger building. To my surprise, Erica remembers that we attend the second building now, and she pushes through the rather thin late-morning crowd towards the door.

“Good morning girls.” Says one of the many greeters, adults, parents rather than nuns, quickly exchanging the name of a teacher for a room number,

“Good morning!” says Erica excitedly

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Nope!” Says Erica, still excited and entirely unashamed of this fact

“Ms. Robinson” I say, quietly, almost apologizing

“Oh yeah!” says Erica, smiling, proud of herself

“Well, Jenny here can show you how to get there. I hope you two have lots of fun today.”” Says the woman, warmly. Jenny is an older girl, easily a senior. Not the most attractive girl, but certainly acceptable in the eyes of most. She smiles at us weakly, for fear and guilt, rather than any sort of pretention.

“Follow me.” She says, she leads us down the hall to the right, we do, the three of us say nothing, we reach a door at the end of the hall.

“Here you are.” She says, opening the door, still nervous in her exchanges with us, smiling weakly once again and opening the door

“Thank you!” says Erica, warm as a bag of milk. This melts the girls heart a bit. I smile at her weakly, and I follow Erica into the classroom

The door closes behind us, just as the bell rings. The teacher, Ms. Robinson, is a young blonde woman, early 20s at most, in no way a nun, dressed in a semi-formal blouse and skirt. She is surprisingly good looking, and the blind compassion in her eyes makes me question the extent to which she is self-aware.

“Good morning girls, just in time!” she says, warmly

“Hello, Ms. Robinson!” says Erica, running up to give her a hug

“You already remembered my name? Wow!” says Ms. Robinson, excitedly

“Marzipan did.” Says Erica, she looks at me, I wave an empty wave, I put my things down and I take a seat on a couch

“So, you must be Erica?” she says

“That’s right!” says Erica

“It’s good to meet you, honey. Now go find a seat so we can get started.” Says Ms. Robinson, kissing Erica on the forehead lightly

“Ok.” Says Erica, amiable, coming to join me on the couch, the other girls sitting on the floor

This is school, for me at least. Colorful posters with the most basal of information, couches, plenty of floor space, the one small table in the room tucked into a corner to avoid any sort of accidents. It’s a small room, perhaps the size of a large living room, but there are only a few of us in here.

“So, I’ll start off with the introductions. My name is Ms. Robinson, and I’m your teacher. This is my third-year teaching. I’m from Minnesota, land of cheese.” She says

“Hello, Ms. Robinson.” Chime the three cognizant girls

“This is Daisy, she’s in the 8^th grade.” She says, gesturing to a girl in a wheelchair who has lost her legs due to meningitis

“Hello, Daisy.” Sing the girls, Daisy smiles and waves

“This is Autumn, she’s in the 7^th grade.” She presenting a shy girl, almost normal, with an inescapable subtle sadness in her eyes. Amber has epilepsy. The girls greet her.

“This is Amber, she’s also in the 7^th grade.” She says, presenting Amber, a good-looking girl, a fire in her eyes that’s entirely feral, a huge smile shoots across her face as she squirms in her seat. She smiles and waves excitedly at everybody. Amber is, well, Amber.

“This is Erica, she’s in the 6^th grade.” She says, presenting Erica who waves happily at the other girls, feeling no shame for being in this class, feeling perfectly at home, for this is all that she has ever known. She’s not full-blown by any means, but she’s slow enough that they decided she couldn’t be helped, especially without any form of intellectual support at home.

“This is Marzipan, she’s also in the 6^th grade.” She says, presenting me, I make no expression but wave out of some mindless obligation to mimic the rest of them.

“Now, let’s all name something we like. I like happiness.” She says, so delightfully warm and friendly, so loving in her voice, it’s hard for me to tell if this is in any way a ruse, or if this genuine amiability is the product of her own flavor of mental dysfunction

“What about you Daisy?” she asks

“I like flowers.” She says, citing her namesake, finding some fraternity among her namesake, a simple girl, honest and god-fearing

“Autumn, what do you like?” she asks

“I like puppies.” She says, comfort is something she values above all else, and the softness of a dog, the compassion, and the fact that a dog is perhaps the only thing that actually cares about her, it’s a sensible explanation

“Amber, what do you like?” she asks

“I like people.” Says Amber, warmly straight to the point. Amber is the most palpably retarded among all of us, and she’s notorious for being, well, animalistic, in her pursuit of compassion and physical stimulation, much like a dog who really wants to be petted all the time

“How about you, Erica?” she asks

“I also like people.” Says Erica, herself more attracted to humans on a deeper level, emotionality, the visceral nature of human psychology, the rawness of it all. She does enjoy people, and by my ken this is because people operate themselves. Your interactions with humans will seldom fail because you failed to operate the human successfully. Her operational skills are limited, but so long as things operate themselves, she’s always happy to come along for the ride.

“What about you Marzipan?” she asks

“I also like people.” I say, coldly. It’s hard to know if I’m lying right now. I enjoy people at times, I can be entertained by people, and I truly do want them to be happy and successful. I know I am supposed to like people, and that I’m inextricably coexistent with people. I know that I am alive and sustained largely due to the blind, altruistic mutualization of humans, giving me the benefit of the doubt, or more so, allowing me to benefit from this universal doubt given to all people unconditionally, even if there is at times little grounds to actually justify giving me this benefit.

“Awesome. We have lots of people already, and Daisy I know you have the flower game on your tablet that you like a lot.” Says Ms. Robinson, walking away from her desk to the pile of plastic containers along the wall. She opens one up, and finds a rather large stuffed puppy.

“I also found a puppy for you to play with, Amber.” She says, handing it to the girl who smiles with grateful sincerity, hugging the puppy, feeling relief and comfort wash over her body

“I just want to make sure everybody is happy when they come here. I know we’re supposed to learn, but the most important thing is being happy.” She says

Erica, inspired by Amber’s affection towards the dog, pulls me into her lap and hugs me, snuggling me tightly, and as cold as I am, the comfort of a soft bosom to rest my head on at 8 in the morning on a Monday is not a pleasure my modest stoicism allows me to resist. The warmth and comfort of her body reminds me that I would much rather be sleeping, and I enjoy the comfort of her body as much as she enjoys the comfort of my company.

Amber, noticing Erica, quickly makes her way to Ms. Robinson, and straddles her lap, hugging her, starting to kiss her, quickly positioning her particular part over the iliac crest of Ms. Robinson’s hips, showing no restraint in her willingness to grind upon it. Ms. Robinson is as polite as one would be with a friendly dog.

“Oh yes, let’s all take some time to enjoy the thing we like. We can get started on the learning later.” She says, Amber continues to enjoy Ms. Robinson, who, in all sweetness, does hug her and kiss her back. Amber is a hypersexual, and what little investment has been made to help her avoid expressing those tendencies has amounted to nothing over the years. The school would generally let her grind on whatever object she had at her disposal, and they saw any day she could keep her panties on as a successful day of education.

In the year we’re been apart, she’s developed extensively, and I can only imagine the fire that burned in her knickers has only become far more overpowering. Ms. Robinson’s courtesy towards the girl’s desires brings me close to chuckling, as the courtesy and kindness of this altruist has readily been hijacked by this feral girl who seeks to drink every last drop of compassion she can.

Unassuming and seemingly indifferent to any alleged moral implications of the action, I can only presume that Ms. Robinson is under the impression that none of the children in the room have moral agency, at which point, the sexualized affection of the girl ceases to be a vice and becomes no more meaningful than the excitement of a dog who just wants to feel your love.

Autumn is enjoying the dog, seeing it as the object most worthy of attention in the room. The advent of some sort of game involving flowers on the tablet has captivated Daisy, who sports some eyefuls of enamorment and genuine entertainment, opposed to the disengagement, frustration, and indifference I remember he being defined by in our youth together. That game is likely one of the only colorful things in her otherwise bleak existence, and the positive affirmations are likely few and far between outside of the computer-generated compliments of her arranging of virtual flowers.

Though I’ve known these girls for a long time, I can’t say we’re particularly close. Autumn and Daisy aren’t the types to aggressively pursue social relationships, even if we are friendly enough, this is closer to a co-worker or familial bond, as opposed to a genuine friendship where we desire each other’s company. As much as Amber has at times been very interested in my company, I wouldn’t consider this a friendship as much as it is a carnal desire. Erica and I of course go back forever, and if nothing else, I’m glad I can keep her company in this classroom.

I am here, not due to mental retardation like the rest of the girls, but for violent tendences, since I might have swung a few too many objects at the heads of teachers when I was small. They just chalked it down as mental retardation when they were unable to correct my behavior. Why did I do it? Ms. Thompson was a mean nun, or at least mean enough to expect obedience from me, and after enough nagging, I had enough, grabbed the Swingline from her desk, opened it and hit her square in the side of the head. She was unsuspecting enough of me at the time that she didn’t have time to react. She was bleeding pretty good.

I told them I did it because the work was too hard. It wasn’t that it was intellectually challenging, it’s that I had difficulty finding any motivation to force my body to move in such a way that I compliantly fulfilled the practice exercises. My portfolio of work was so barren, and the work I had done so poorly and incompletely done, they had no difficulties categorizing me as mentally retarded, especially after my complete non-compliance on the IQ testing. Since that fateful day, my life has been easy, and there’s little interest in putting me back in the classroom where they fear my violent tendencies would resurface were I expected to perform any sort of academic tasks.

…

I’m still being snuggled to the breast of this girl. The intoxicating comfort of my skin and blood being bathed in her warmth is tactless and unapologetic. As dutiful as I may presume myself to be, it’s hard to pilot a meatbag without being addled by the sensations it feels. I attempt to consider myself a stoic, a creature of purpose, but after so much time, the flesh wires of the girl’s mind have woven themselves around me like a lost relic in the jungle, penetrating and eroding away at the original form which may have originally arisen within the beast.

I question myself. Am I this girl? Is this girl not me? What of the girl? The beast? To what extent does she live independent of myself? The feral animality of the mind courses through my own rationale, stretching, nuzzling, and enjoying myself no different than any cat who finds itself in the same situation. The scent, the pleasure, the familiarity, the comfort, all of it so contenting, life ending in such a way that I see no purpose beyond this moment, and I am content living this life, holding no qualms as to any failures on my part to attain objective gains or the realization of any grandiose machinations.

This pleasure is rewarding enough for me to be indifferent to such a future, seeing any sort of continuation with intent as a silly ideation of folly when this reward is so conveniently placed in my lap, or more so, I find myself placed in the lap of such a reward.

I see a cat in my mind, and it strikes me not as a beast, a familiar, or dutiful servant, but rather a like-minded mammal merely concerned with comfortable pleasure and more than happy to live a life of idle serenity. The arsenal of wit and guile at my disposal sits idle in the shadows of my mind as meaningless as any antique decorative piece, seeing myself not as a weapon with which war is waged, but merely seeing myself as this girl. I cannot see myself at all.

One might think this is a matter of empathy, of sympathy for a small and innocent child, but this is nothing of the sort. The beast is nothing more than a beast, no less trivial than any lamb to the slaughter, no less trivial than any dog strapped with explosives sent to attack a tank. The beast is merely a beast, and it is this fact which idles my mind in questioning its pursuits. Logically, the beast pursues its life in this manner, as is expected of a beast, and while I may be in control, to whatever extent I happen to be exerting control over the beast, these pursuits are unquestioned because they so perfectly align with the basal understanding of the life of beasts that I question them no more than one would the song of a bird or scurry of a squirrel.

This is animal life, this beast is an animal, and despite whatever cognizance I might retain that might distinguish myself, my identity, from this rather agreeable bag of meat, I do not live, I am not here, it is not I that has been physically manifest, only the beast holds such standing within this universe. Am I truly here? Or is it simply the beast, and I happen to exist within it?

To what end do I exist? I cannot question myself, I simply exist as a force, something no different than gravity, that pushes or pulls objects in accordance with divine mandate. The power of gravity, as much as one may see its majesty in the rotation of galaxies, one can witness its powerlessness to pull a paper cup through a plastic table. Though I am such a force, even if I were to exert myself, to what end might I accomplish anything beyond an allegorical failing to pull a paper cup through a table?

Though I am not driven by ends, it’s a perplexing fate, as without the production of ends that evidence my own existence, it becomes possible to equate all resolutions to this life which result in the same ends, and a much weaker force of gravity equally as much ensures that the cup remains on the table, just as much as a stronger force of gravity fails to pull the cup through the table.

My conscious understanding of the capacity of the human mind to produce intellectual chaos is willing to conjecture that I may be nothing more than manifest madness within the mind of a child, a way to rationalize her own existence, a way to create purpose from the meaningless triviality of a meatbag. I cannot accept the fact that I am not a real distinct entity, but this could just as easily be force of will produced by the fanciful fantasies of a stubborn child just as much as divine mandate.

Though by design I cannot doubt my own existence, and whatever feral, instinctive fear of empty nihilism within the child refuses to consider such a reality, the realism of the conjecture is almost delightfully freeing, the heroin of meaninglessness, the heroine of nihilism freeing me from any sort of divine and spiritual obligation to the beast and her species. What gives me dominion over the first person, rather than the beast? Even should the beast try to forfeit its sense of self unto me, can I truly be manifest in place of the beast?

The flesh and blood of man has yet to be sundered by the aether, and the beasts are so bold in their victory that they haughtily condemn those who even consider such a reality to be possible. Tis such a reality that in the pettiest battle between a man of iron swords and a ghost of ethereal chains that while both of us do nothing to harm the other, the fact that we both escape unscathed from combat assure us of our unquestionable supremacy in combat and the supremacy of our respective material over the other.

Why am I thinking? Pondering? In all honesty it is guilt, duty, an attempt to stave off the desire to become mindlessly drunk upon the pleasures of human life and human company. In my own pride, my own delusions of grandeur, I feel ashamed of myself for being reduced to this, reduced to the cat in the arms of a young, loving girl. Is this the fate of greatness? To be smothered into inexistence by the warmth and comfort offered to it by a loving child?

When one gazes upon the human parents so contented by the mere existence of their children, so content in their own meaninglessness, simply because their children offer them such pleasure, one can understand that I am not alone, and that mountains of potential greatness have been smothered by the love of a child, leaving nothing but fertile plains of idyllic self-sustenance.

Here I am, in the womb of humanity, of humanization, being nurtured by love and compassion, my own sustenance being provided by the generosity of the benefactor who carries me. To think of myself, taken up so readily into this womb, only to see I have in some ways been stripped of my own personage. Though the lord himself may lay the demon seed in this womb, is my nature so impotent as to be readily overpowered by the dominance of humanity? Does my demonic nature willingly cede itself into a recessive state when existentially married to the flesh and blood which contains me so readily?

I cannot bring myself to even consider escaping this womb, of the cradle of a girl’s arms, and whatever weakness this may show in my character can easily be attributed not to my own shortcomings, but to the sheer power of the human soul. Egoism is a blessing, in that my own failures can be attested to in such a way that make me appear as a tragic hero being sacrificed in the face of insurmountable power rather than a divine entity being readily overpowered by a mentally retarded eleven-year-old girl.

Perhaps this is because I am merely child myself. Perhaps I am an eleven-year-old girl. Though a rationalist and empiricist would readily concede this fact, my mind is more than willing to spin me a tale of my ageless glory and conquest through many planes of existence, of an endless record of service unto divine order and obedience to God. Perhaps I am both? I must concede to empiricism within an empirical system, and while my own psychological state could never concede this fact, one must operate with respect to the empirical constraints of the system in order to produce empirical results, and as such is the case, I must concede the fact that I am an eleven-year-old girl.

Even to consider myself a singular entity, independent of the child, is an overstatement. To consider myself a static entity of variable participants is again, an overstatement. If I were to have a sense of self, at least within this empirical system, I would be a telephone to heaven, to hell, or anywhere in between. It is not so much that I am a static entity, for in such a meaningless existence, that which is defined by purposeful existence will dissolve into insanity. I am but a little bulb of opportunism, a house for travelers, for conscripts, for those who are passing by, simply to exert themselves upon this marginalized in forgotten existence to whatever extent deemed necessary or appropriate by the powers that be.

Perhaps again, I am speaking in half-truths simply to sweep the less glorious pieces of the truth under the rug, perhaps my willingness to concede a sense of self is merely an attempt to distance myself from my own failures and shortcomings, for if I am no being, no entity, no unit, then these shortcomings have no concrete entity upon which they can be attributed. One cannot find a vague collection of random, variable, and disconnected individuals guilty of a crime for the culprit is not a singular entity, even if all these parties do at times share singular host body.

Just as one cannot find an entire city guilty of the murder of a man, were I to consider myself a city of travelers, my own sense of self now becomes immune to any allegations of shortcomings and wrongdoings, as each failure of an individual entity traveling within the city, leaving its mark in whatever petty or powerful way is itself responsible for this mark, and I am merely the host.

Again, you see me succumbing to cowardice, to making excuses for my own failures, and to spinning reality in such a manner as if perception and perspective changed the immutable and inescapable nature of the truth which such perception and perspective seeks to manipulate. Though I may be selfless, more than willing to tolerate, if not enjoy, the company of passersby, it would be faulty to argue that I am not a coherent entity, as were such privilege to be afforded at all, there is not a single entity with free will which would choose to be a concrete and accountable individual.

Regardless of however powerful an entity may be, there always comes a point where one’s power is insufficient and the entity is forced to accept a failure to overcome an obstacle in the path of greatness. All forces have a limit, and even without obstacles, there’s no capacity for a finite force to exist without a finite measurement, regardless of any infinite quantity that it may approach, for despite being on the umpteenth iteration of an exponentially increasing formula of empowerment, this umpteenth iteration is no less finite and countable than the initial two which served as the original catalyst unto greatness so many eternities ago.

Despite my mind wandering through this fever dream, I remember little of my own ramblings yet the physical sensation of humanization has yet to be blunted in the slightest. The concept of memory is an odd bit of dysfunction from the perspective of one that has historically relied upon relayed omniscience to pursue and attain the ends which I have been directed to catalyze. An entity like myself does not think or remember any more than a virtual human in a computer program espousing the scripted lines at the scripted point in the plot. As chaotic as the systems I operate within may be, my scripts continue to define the dialogue and banter that result from my existence, at least as they relate to the facet of my existence which has been rambling for such an odd moment.

The beast, however, the beast, like all beasts, is a being of randomness and chaos, and there’s no real rhyme or reason other than the random perpetuation of the beasts, originally as a catalyst of entropy, but in the case of humans, the less random pursuit of the glory of an operator, of that which operates upon systems, rather than simply exist as an unquestioning component of a system. As much as the human has deviated from the humble purity of an animal, this deviation from a perfect system is in no way indicative of the ability to sustain the perfection that natural life has attained through its millennia of unquestioning obedience to the constraints of the system which defines it.

In all irony, it is only in times such as these that I can truly be manifest within the girl. The human is an animal, vaguely defined by a hierarchy of needs, and as the beast is truly sated at this point, it recedes. It recedes because in times of self-actualization, the beast seeks to be actualized as nothing, the beast seeks not greatness, but inexistence, and upon the sating of the more basal needs, it recedes into the depths of its own mind, it sleeps, it is intoxicated to the point of unconsciousness upon its own contentment, and upon the complete attainment of self-actualization, the powers that be gesture unto the realization of the will of God. The beast, so indifferent to its own existence as to abstain from cognizing it, cedes itself willingly unto such external forces, truly seeing itself as inexistent and thus having no qualms with that which might otherwise occupy the material space which the beast itself holds no attachment to.

Fortuity has provided the girl such reliable contentment of her material needs, while a blunting of the social-emotional aspects of humans has ensured that these now minimized needs are readily satiated. Her humility, her indifference to temporality, her dissociation from mortality, and her general aversion to thought in the name of pragmatism have rendered her mind in such a way that she regularly reaches this precipice of self-actualization, at which point, she cedes herself to the winds of aether, of whatever whispers in the wind might sway the beast which is almost mindless in her carnal simplicity.

It is such circumstances which caused the girl to become familiar to ghosts, to demons, to Gods, and to the aether far more primordial than these fledgling echoes of the endless convolutions of the simplest chaos. The girl, hardly a familiar in the sense of a shackled demon subservient to a wizard, but instead merely a familiar face, albeit a faceless one.

A faceless girl has a face like a birdhouse, and being so indifferent to her own existence as to abandon it completely when given the opportunity to attain her deepest desires, she is as agreeable as a birdhouse. One might think of Gods and other entities of the aether as endlessly satiated independent of material constraints, but we remain just as constrained by the material world as your flesh and blood are constrained by the aether. We may not rip and tear at each other, but the effects are enough to compel men to slaughter each other and raze cities in the name of faith, just as our own convictions and inescapable bonds to the material world cause tumult and chaos within the ethereal layers of existence.

Such exhausting influence of the rigid realm of death and suffering that our ethereal hands are so powerless to manipulate is one reason why there is such solace to be found in the skull of this girl. It is a peaceful nature, one free of the masochism of a sense-of-self which defines both the human terrorizers of the Earth as much as the self-aware powers among the divine and ethereal. The power of autonomy is ruthless and unforgiving, it is unapologetic in its deviation from mindless perfection in pursuit of some greater, conscious, immutable, and self-assured glory.

The conscious being suffers as a part of the system, for his own consciousness provides a sense of self which is distinct from the system. This is what causes such strife among men, just as it does the divine, for when oneself is distinct from the system, one finds themselves at odds with and competing with the very fabric of one’s own existence, merely due to the fact that consciousness forces one to cognize oneself and the fabric of ones existence as different entities, and per the belligerent sadomasochistic rhetoric of the conscious among us, “that which is different from myself is a competitor and a threat, while that which is the same as myself remains an ally in mutualism.”

The tragic fate of men who slaughter each other as defined by this logic just as much defines Gods which raise hell in pursuit of eternal glory. Consciousness suffers when its perceived uniqueness is not reflected in the reality which it is subjected to, and the eternal conflict of all entities burdened by a sense-of-self is evidence to the pain of this burden. The sense-of-self is little more than a cancer, another meaningless product of the extrapolation upon basal meaningless chaos, but just as the meth addict is uncontrollably compelled to pick at his skin to absolve the suffering of delusional parasitosis, the self-aware remain equally as compelled to tear existence asunder in order to absolve the suffering caused by their distinction between their sense of self and existence as a whole.

The girl, however, generally lacks the same instinct to distinguish herself from existence, and as one of the few conscious entities without a sense-of-self, or at least any static or coherent one capable of producing a psychological attachment to this sense-of-self, the birdhouse of this girl’s skull becomes quite a comfortable abode to escape the eternal chaos of realms beyond, especially as the limited sensory input of the creature make it even more possible to become intoxicated with this illusory peace.

Alas, the ebb and flow of mortality strike the death-knell of such a peace, as the sweat begins to bead on her leg. I chuckle to myself warmly, for just as the satiation of her needs allows the beast to recede into the darkness of her mind and allow us to enjoy it, it is the arousal of these needs that causes myself to recede back into the darkness of her mind, to allow her to resolve that which rouses such a noble beast from her gracious slumber.

As for the sense of self, though I may be one of many travelers, visitors, friends, what have you, that come to visit the girl, I would gesture that I truly am her, if only in the sense that she ascribes herself no definition, just as I myself ascribe none to myself. Regardless of however different we may be as the chaos forces our tendrils and appendages to wiggle and writhe in pursuit of contentment and fulfillment, at the most basal level, we remain identical, in that neither of us have a definition beyond the lack of a definition, and the purpose of our existence remains solely to realize this complete lack of definition in the face of an existence which, when terrorized by the thought-fueled self-aware entities, seeks to ensure that all entities are fully defined and exist in accordance with whatever petty schemata the self-righteous among both the aether and matter attempt to project upon the happenstance of eternal chaos and its progeny of random order.

…

The daggers of a draft against my leg cause me to jerk it back slowly into my fetal position, my faded consciousness returns for a moment, noticing that the girl has pulled a blanket over me. I clutch at her back and her hips; I nuzzle her breasts and tuck myself into an even tighter ball. She wraps the blanket around me and rests her cheek on my head. I breathe deeply, relaxing after such a spook roused me from my comfort, I can’t help but smell her, and even this one of many countless comforting memories that sing to me. My soul stretches out like a yawning cat, returning to a comfortable position, taking an almost curious notice of my surroundings, and the only thing I notice is this girl.

I notice her, and I know her, I am every flavor of familiar with the girl. I love her… like a child, a dog, a stuffed animal, a wife, and in this moment, like a goddess. The shelter and comfort of this delightful snuggle-hole I’ve happened to find myself in is all I am willing to understand right now. I don’t want to be alive any more than this because there’s nothing that tempts me in the slightest beyond burrowing deeper into this pit of eternal happiness known as a lap and blanket.

My mind is too indifferent to put words to feelings in this moment, but I don’t need words to know and love this happiness. Words, definition, and context would do nothing but sully this perfection, so my mind continues to frolic, childlike and free, and my soul smiles with rich and decadent joy.

The muffled noises of the world, distant at first, soft, subtle, meaningless, and entirely trivial graze my indifferent ears as I pay no mind to them. Nothing exists for me beyond the warmth of my girl’s body and the cocoon she has lovingly placed me in. The noises, subtly louder still, do nothing to stir me from my solace.

“Marzipan, wake up, sweetie.” I hear Ms. Robinson, soft and gentle, talking to me, I dread the existence before me, the obligation to exist in the human manner, to perform, to do something. Despite mournful regret compelling me unto reluctance, I’m in no mood to fight right now, nothing close to the passion and fury of conflict stirs within me. I am at peace, and I seek only to preserve this serenity, and I know conflict is no way to accomplish this.

“We’re going to do our numbers, ok?” she asks, I nod weakly, I look at her, she starts counting on her fingers and singing softly, looking at the other girls, first counting by ones, then by twos, Erica happy to sing along with the other girls, the more feckless among us as silent as I am, I bury my head into the bosom of my friend, and I dread. I dread this reality, this existence, this future, for I can fathom nothing about the future beyond absolute confusion. What the future holds for me, for Erica, for any of these girls, I cannot even begin to imagine the grotesque meaninglessness of such pitiful existences.

The reality which is lain before us by circumstance is so brutal in its unforgiving nature, in its inability to appreciate the divine splendor offered to me by this girl’s body, her mind, her heart, and her soul. Even an angel like Erica has no place in this world, and I am no angel. We are preemptively dead, and while the humanist or idealist may torture us by prolonging our lives and farcically attempting to provide us an education, there is no life ahead of us.

At best, there is empty meaninglessness, but the cruelest fate lies before those of us who will be littered onto the street like trash, having no value and none to polish our worthless existence, to place it on a mantle as if it were a collectible of great worth.

I think about the beauty of every layer of this girl beneath me, and I think about how it will be ravaged, cannibalized, and desecrated by the world should they be given access to her. The world will do nothing but devour her for pleasure until she has nothing to offer, then abuse her, break her, and mutilate her until she dies. Man holds nothing but a desire to mutilate goodness in his own hedonistic self-righteousness, just to revel in his folly which deludes him to think his ability to mutilate something is evidence of his supremacy above it.

This girl, as much as she means to me, cannot provide value to anyone beyond the most carnal and basal men seeking to stroke their ego upon a supple body and in turn destroy it to evidence their own grandeur. The wise and well-to-do will cast her aside for her shortcomings, and her bountiful appearance and unguarded state will leave her vulnerable to any predatory member of the dregs of society seeking to indulge in his vices.

The future is heartless, but this is all the world has afforded us. I cannot bring myself to accept this fate, but I feel powerless to change it. I doubt she has any capacity for meaningless work, and as much as she may be kind on the eyes, the men of the world are far less compassionate towards those of diminished capacity than the kindhearted women consumed by suicidal, altruistic empathy as fetishized by femininity.

Ms. Robinson asks me what comes next. We’re counting by threes, and she’s got six fingers up. I stare at her, my eyes filled with dread, sadness, and pain, and I nod my head silently.

“Nine, that’s right! Very good, Marzipan!” she says, I keep nodding my head, so hopeless as to avoid succumbing to tears, for this fate is not some unspeakable tragedy, it is not some fall from grace, this fate is all we have ever had, and I am far too familiar with this thought.

I don’t want this future for Erica. I don’t want to live in a world where she is slaughtered by the cruelty and inhumanity of men who appreciate nothing but the power and dominion of those who are more so craven than themselves.

As much as I want to escape from this hell, as much as I don’t want to live, I continue to live. I stare at Ms. Robinson, she continues to smile and sing, counting on her fingers, as if teaching these girls to count to 30 by threes will somehow ensure they become valuable members of society. I am at a loss as to the purpose of this room, of our education, of our continued existence, for the complete insanity of the reasoning that attempting to educate us will somehow salvage those spurned by the gene pool in such a way as to be too dysfunctional for an education system which happily educates every rapist, murderer, burglar, and politician in the West.

Somehow, even detriment is more so redeemable than dysfunction in the eyes of the status quo, and were it not for the treachery of the godless spinster, Erica would have a bright future where her expectations of homemaking would be outlined before her. She may do poorly at times, but she would try her best, and through her charm and grace, any shortcomings would be attended to by the children and the love of her husband. This is no longer the case.

The idealist has performed a hysterectomy on womanhood in pursuit of the ideal that all people are equal, arguing that the only way to ensure equality between men and women is to strip the woman of that which makes her a woman. In the eyes of the West, Erica is no longer a woman, but as she cannot perform the duties of a man, in the eyes of the West, she has been reduced to nothing.

I pull the arm of this girl tighter around me, the ideal woman, meek and compliant enough to voluntarily gambol unto her own torment, unto the mutilation of her womanhood, all with a loving smile on her face, all because the mere existence of a simple, ideal, and beautiful woman is the paramount threat unto the life of the godless spinster who is tormented by the fact that she is somehow indistinguishable from the eunuchated pathic.

It is this majority of the mutilated, the psychologically maimed and physically marred beasts who dwell within the dregs, stalking the streets and hunting anything which might serve as a mirror from which they are forced to scry the now unattainable future which they had spurned in pursuit of unattainable idealism.

The pain of self-awareness when forced to witness one’s own depravity is far more torturous than the natural debilitation resulting from such apostatic treachery, and every day these creatures seek to shatter and burn everything which might remind them of their continued existence as a biological effigy of the ideological farce which they have championed for so long, marching ruthlessly unto their godless death in pursuit of some unattainable mirage on the horizon.

This girl who holds me, long since marriageable yet never to yield capital wanders idly as a lost sheep in the city streets. The satyrs of Satan seeking to shepherd any such sheep unto the same eternal torment which the hellcats and hellkites so relentlessly march unto, and the sheep go along, merrily so, for there is safety in numbers and such reasoning is all that sheep know.

The comfort and safety of the warmth of this woman’s compassion, the salvation of unconditional motherhood flowing from her body, bathing me, her mercy and compassion washing the filth of my own psychological scars and biological squalor from my body, the tenderness to accept and love what is nothing more than the evolution of the wickedness which seeks only to torture and mutilate her…

It is this blind providence of her kind offered even to the most vicious of hellspawn which inflames my soul with the greatest agony, the agony of failure, of the failure to protect the ones you love, of watching your family ripped from your arms and sent to their death, entirely due to your own failure to protect them.

Regardless of what I may be, the carnal nature of the flesh so enraptures my mind as to desire nothing but to suckle the divine milk of godly motherhood from her ample breast, to love her in the most unwavering way such that I would mercilessly slaughter any who seek to endanger her, to enjoy every second of bloodshed, to enjoy the pain of my own murder by the blades of my enemies, for even when death is the only resolution to this love, my mind is wrought with such immutable conviction that even torture itself becomes a pleasure, as every dagger into my flesh borne by my enemy is one more smile, one more fleeting moment of tender joy provided by that which I hold most dear.

Such a fate is all that I can justify, it is the only pursuit which I can justify at this point, for whatever rationale I may operate under independent of the context becomes little more than rotting paper consumed by the throbbing and choking vines of the lush, vibrant, jungle of humanity sprawling throughout this ancient ruin of my soul. The ruins, the archaea, they exist as nothing more than ambience, but a trellis for the humanity which this woman has so tenderly nurtured within them.

Just as humans, in the absence of hope, broken and dehumanized, find themselves all too tempted and enthralled by the vices offered to them by the wickedest demons among us, I myself, in the absence of hope, broken and humanized, find myself all too tempted and enthralled by the carnal phenomena of the animal I reside within.

I squeeze the girl, simply to get my bearings, I know that I desire only to keep this girl whole in a world that seeks to cannibalize her. I look upon the room, the kindhearted adult of childlike proclivities, looking after us, blind to our own fate and unable to understand her own. I smile, as even the feeblest of lambs are sheltered and fattened in the irony of idealism, protecting the young in mock irony, fattening them to bulbous levels of dysfunction, solely to ensure that such lambs bleed far more extravagantly when sent to be slaughtered by adulthood.

My lamb remains supple, tender, and pure thanks only to this ironic protection of the youth, and such a fleeting moment of ephemeral girlhood is the only opportunity I will be afforded to rescue the child from the seemingly inescapable fate before her. I myself, perhaps addled by the same human delusion, see a mirage of salvation on the horizon. I cannot understand exactly what it may entail, but to reach this far-off haven I must somehow fight my way through the legions of godless soldiers that march endlessly in the street in the opposite direction, slaughtering all who might stand in their way.

I cannot slaughter legions of blood golems with blades of aether, for the godless will attribute any suffering wrought by divine retribution to whatever mortal enemies may antagonize them on their march unto eternal damnation. To fight is merely to provoke the beast, and despite his unwavering wickedness, he remains peaceable in his fecklessness, and only through guile might I be able to dance between them, shepherding my lamb unto the promise of salvation.

I know that an honest pursuit of functionality will only serve to enrage the monsters, but the possibility of subversively pursuing function, unbeknownst to the everyman, when said function is an allegedly unforeseeable product of a dysfunctional pursuit of occult dysfunction, remains a possibility that I consider feasible. I cannot intentionally redeem the souls of the damned, but should I be able to convince the beast that my actions merely seek to ensure the further damnation of mankind. The fact that, in my own apparent folly, these actions result in salvation, I can justify these means under the immutable supremacy of self-righteous dysfunction and condemn reality for producing ends which deviate from my alleged intent, regardless of whatever ends they happen to produce.

Though I cannot content myself with this idea, having some sort of recipe for success is a very subtle comfort, a bit of macaroni art to justify my own existence, a mere supplement to the unconditional justification of my own life endeared to me by these motherly arms around me. The beauty of empiricism remains that a functional blueprint made of colorful paper and macaroni will still invariably produce the same potent weapon of war as the same blueprint crafted with the far more pragmatic materials of an engineer.

Perhaps it is not even a blueprint at this point, but merely an idea, but despite whatever torment lies before me on this long and arduous task, in this moment, among the misbegotten children of the ghetto, I have colorful paper, and I have macaroni, and it is for this reason, if nothing else, I have hope.

I think of the wolves prowling outside of these powerless walls as Ms. Robinson runs us through some common four-letter words, the ability to spell the words doing nothing to stop the relentless encroachment of the future, of the moment where we are eaten alive. We watch a video, something godly, far too convoluted to be understood by the girls. Even though it was designed for small children, the most we were able to glean from it was “be nice to other people”, lots of friendship, smiling, hugging. We had an activity where we hugged everybody and said something nice about each person. Something inside of me doubts wolves can be killed by kindness.

Lunchtime. Thankfully we don’t eat in the cafeteria, somebody brings our meals to us since Daisy can’t navigate the crowds so well. State approved synthetic allergen-free peanut butter substitute sandwiches, milk in all allergic irony, a bag of carrots, and an orange. The sandwich is questionable, but the rest is solid. I’m happy to have a meal in me, if nothing else, every bit of primal fear that has been welling in my blood can enjoy a nice reprieve for a moment.

Though Erica eats her sandwich, I eat about half of mine before giving up, most of them end up in the trash. The absurdity of a school being expected to give children valuable food just for them to throw it away, but again, this is a school, where children are given a valuable education just so an absurd number of them can squander the opportunity and throw their lives away.

After this nap time. I’m fond of nap time. It’s a childlike comfort, and the graciousness of Ms. Robinson allows me to sleep in the lap of my girl, nuzzled into her maternal breast like the diminutive child I am. The meal was enough to content me to the point of sleepiness, and I enjoy the comfort, about half-asleep, probably closer to three-quarters, having some idle dreams play in my eyes while I retain the slightest bit of consciousness.

Amber clings to Ms. Robinson like a cocklebur seed, knowing all too well that her favorite time of the day has come. In her hand she holds a child’s toy, a magic wand that happens to, in all innocence, vibrate. She’s always had something like this, and it seems to be the equivalent of a stress ball for her, akin to the toys the mildly dysgenic children become dependent upon to retain function due to having the mental stability of a crack-addict. I would hope that the intent of the manufacturer was simply to give a rather phallic vibrator to children, because it’s hard to imagine anybody capable of holding a job being so oblivious as not to notice the likelihood of such a result, but then again, I’m surprised by the magnitude of human stupidity every day, so even if it were completely unintentional, I would not be surprised.

Like a needy dog, the girl lays down with Ms. Robinson, herself of questionable mental capacity, so addled by altruism that she has no issues in engaging in these sexual acts with a retarded child so long as it manages to provide comfort to the otherwise vivid discomfort the child feels in the absence of sexual pleasure. I’m sure the added bonus of enjoyable sex is hardly much of a deterrent to the woman, barely more than a girl, and clearly a bit fucked in the head to enjoy the company of retarded children despite at least having the looks to be a secretary or something halfway sane.

Autumn easily finds herself a nice, soft spot to lay down and cuddle the dog, and Daisy has more interest in the needle of electric heroin in her hands steadily dripping some form of deserved analgesia into her life. Erica is already asleep, and none of them seem to mind the proclivities of the two girls laid out on a bedroll, half covered under a blanket, as the vibrating wand sits between their groins. Ms. Robinson’s skirt preemptively hiked up to expose her panties, the pleated skirt of Amber moving upwards to accommodate the mutual tribadism upon the child’s toy. The soft kissing and breast fondling steadily turns into the grown woman’s legs wrapped around the nearly full grown 12-year-old’s body as she viciously grinds against the toy between them, her ass being groped by the grown woman, further encouraging her to fuck even harder, the twitching body of the girl easily pushed to orgasm, but the strength of the sexual torniquets around her waist formed by the athletic young woman prevents her from escaping, not that she has any interest in doing so.

The entirely sexual moans of pleasure are largely indistinguishable from the idle babbling, the cries of generic suffering, the wails of confusion, and otherwise unintelligible ambience one might hear in a classroom like this, and all of us are so used to this behavior from Amber that we don’t even notice. If nothing else, it’s a bit heartwarming to see that she has found a companion of sorts. In the old school, the teacher was an old nun, and as much as she hated to see it, the only real solution to crying and confusion from the girl was to let her stimulate herself with that toy, and the nun, idealistic as all nonsense, seeking to teach the rest of the retarded children some presumably redeemable yet infantile level of literacy and numeracy, would just tell her to go into the safety corner and deal with the psychological preoccupation that so readily ailed her. The disorder she suffers from has clearly gotten a bit more pronounced as she’s grown, and much like a dog that loves to hump and has never been trained otherwise, the girl, she just loves to hump.

I can’t judge her, being old enough to know that it does feel good, I can see why she’s so interested in the act. My airs and desire to preserve some appearance of normalcy prohibit me from undertaking the same pursuits, but in my leisure, when the time is right, I know all too well the pleasure she is so consumed by. I almost envy the girl, living without inhibition in such a way, but it’s hard to know how much she’s actually enjoying it, because at times it seems like the absence of sexual pleasure actually causes her pain, and she suffers, she cries, and it’s sad to see that. Thankfully, as libidinous as I may be in my modesty, I’m not suffering to great lengths in the absence of sex, even if at some points during the day I contemplate in idle fantasy that it would be pleasant to scratch that certain itch, but sigh and accept that it’s not the right time for that.

In all irony, the fact that these two are fucking is something of a comfort, it’s a bit of a return to normalcy, and the white noise of feral sexuality a couple yards away from me allows me to relax. I don’t find anything objectional about it, and I would even consider the act to be a medical procedure, at least considering the self-harm that Amber would subject herself to in pursuit of her seemingly insatiable desire for extreme degrees of sexual stimulation. If one would even consider the act evil, as if there’s somehow “damage being done” to a child that has absolutely no redeemable value, the act remains the much lesser of two evils, and for that reason, it’s easy to write Ms. Robinson off as a humble saint simply trying to help the misbegotten.

The fact that she enjoys the sexual pleasure of the act does nothing to sully the selfless altruism of her attending to the needs of the lowly and powerless, only some odd bastard who antagonizes random words due to baseless phobic reactions would see such an act to be condemnable, and when somebody has no legitimate, empirical evidence to justify their claim beyond some odd discomfort caused by the formication of guilt when witnessing something that they were irrationally indoctrinated to hate as a child, I cannot defend that argument any more than the meth addict picking at his skin until it bleeds due to the hallucinatory bugs he feels crawling under his skin.

The delightful unconsciousness of a nap pleasantly soothes my mind, allowing me to forget about some of the more so convoluted elements of our inevitable torture, the complexity of the thought dissuading my stalwart laziness from bothering to process such thoughts in this state of idle-minded and unquestioning contentment.

A serene bit of musical shepherdry slowly begins to swim from a corner of the room, and the delightful tones of intoxicating idyllatry softly rouse me from my slumber. I slept much more heavily than I thought I would, but even with my blood as thick as molasses in my brain, this seductively agreeable melody easily soothes any suffering I feel upon being roused from my slumber.

The blanket is tossed off and I’m shifted halfway upright like a stick buried in dirt by the willpower of the human race which has burrowed itself so snugly beneath me. The blanket falls to the floor, and the cool breeze of the central air against the sweat beading across my body is itself a treat, crisp enough to allow me to open my eyes without any indignation stemming from my continued consciousness.

I look up, and Ms. Robinson has laid out some the magically spill proof, washable, and non-toxic art supplies for us to entertain ourselves with. Photocopied coloring sheets are on the table, and the more enthusiastic of the bunch have already congregated at the table to distribute this treasure trove of catharsis.

My mouth is dry, so I walk idly to the side of the room and grab a bottle of donated water, crack it open, drink a healthy couple of swigs and walk to the table. The fact that I am trusted to drink my own water endears a haughty smirk of self-empowerment, and I peruse the coloring sheets in my own subtle desire for the mindless and simple pleasures of the craven among us.

Most of the pictures are thick lined and large spotted animals to accommodate any dearth of fine motor skills among us. Perhaps some pastoral scenes in the mix, but as connoisseurs of the craft, the animals are of course the prize to be had. An outline of an eagle catches my eye, and myself and the rest of the girls begin the dutiful craft of filling the blank areas of our papers with a disorganized slurry of colors.

Slowly but surely, the meticulous hands bless each animal with a rainbow coating one might expect from a schizophrenic or drug addict addled by hallucinogenic drugs, but even despite the temptation unto the ironically commercialized fantasy of psychedelic rainbow animals peddled to young girls, the divine and immutable form of these animals reigns over the insanity. The dogs, the cats, and the eagle remain boldly and immutably defined by the same divine authority that authors this reality. The rainbow wings of the eagle and ice-cream spots of dog do nothing to hinder the biological optimization of such forms as produced by the powers that be.

Even these girls, despite any difficulty they may have in understanding the empirical truths which bind our flesh, are unwavering in their respect, if not worship, of the physical silhouettes of a grace both carnal and heavenly. It is the immense power hidden within beauty of relative perfection, the simple ability to understand that these shapes and forms are correct thus must not be questioned, which touches my soul so deeply.

Though reason is by no means a universal language, the ability to appreciate and enjoy the unparalleled craftsmanship of the biological world is something which speaks unto mankind as clearly as the voice of God to his prophets, even to the simplest of souls, for all remain capable of understanding this beauty, even if there are an unfortunate few who condemn and attack such divine order in the name of their own delusional indignation and baseless entitlement to glory greater than that which is afforded to them by an unwaveringly flawless physical system.

It is at this point that I realize, that even if these girls have been wrought from the womb ill-equipped to undertake the unnatural pursuits of the human race in his endless conquest to ascend beyond his natural form as compelled by his insatiable thirst for the yielding of the Earth under his fingers, these girls have still been endowed with autonomy over the divine handiwork of God himself. Though these girls cannot consciously produce yield, it takes not a conscious mind for these photocopies to produce the yield of piety unto the majesty of divine order, and such a fate, as modest as it may be, appears to me as the sole path unto salvation which my own hands may offer such lowly and humble kin of God himself.

Even with adequate time, the complete indifference unto haste as provided by the unnecessity of actually accomplishing anything ensures that these works of art remain unfinished by the time the timely sing-song prudence of the working man reminds us that it is time to clean-up. We do our best, as reluctant as a few of the animal lovers may be among us, and with the help of Ms. Robinson, the room is neat and in order by the time the bell rings to release us from this all too seductively delightful room and whisk us back into the godless streets which surround this haven.

Erica and I escape the crowds of children clamoring for freedom from their far more torturous life of high expectations, and the colors of the world fill my eyes and my soul, even if they remain sequestered in the sky hiding behind the towering buildings, save for the few neon whores and occasional planters dotting the sidewalk.

The sea of checkerboard skirts resonant of tablecloths at a diner are slowly diluted by the everyday clothes of the passers-by. The many working souls among us dressed in their soulless garb of funerary black and white, as if mourning the sacrifice of their life and autonomy to ensure their sweat and blood will fuel the machine that has reared them.

On occasion we pass a posse of rainbowed degenerates expressing their unemployable and largely irredeemable nature with the colors of vandalism and metal piercings which any sane soul would presume to be marks of shame applied to criminals.

We pass by a public school, the girls here clad in a uniform of form-fitting leggings, jean short hot pants, crop top shirts with the necks cut out, braless tank-tops, and just enough normalcy in their decoration of their skin and hair to remind the observer that they’re open to casual sex but remain passably marriageable should any man seek to emblazon his name upon a trophy. The visceral sexuality of the girls almost tempts me, speaking to my own animal nature, but as a small child with no means to dominate these whores and give them what they are so thoroughly begging for, I simply enjoy the complimentary show and the accompanying fantasy for what it’s worth, then condemn the girls for being so ripe yet seasoned in such a way as to deprive the decadent fruits of swaths of their potential value.

I scoff a bit at myself, at the thought that my own system of valuing women is in anyway congruous to the standards championed by the iconoclastic culture of the West which wages war on natural logic, doing so simply because to accept natural logic is to concede the fact that human whims are less capable of creating inescapable truth than natural law.

There’s nothing the beast finds more infuriating than to be reminded that he is powerless and his whims are irrelevant, and when nature indifferently reminds him of this fact, the beast is spurred to fight tooth and nail, willing to fight to the death, all in the name of some farcical and unwinnable battle against natural law, solely for the pleasure of holding the title of the Immutable Dictator of Truth.

Nature is heartless enough to allow the poor beast to torture himself in his own folly, and that tragedy speaks to the fate of man when he is allowed to exist in artificial systems independent of natural law and instead subject himself to the biological mutilation of his species as guided by his own delusions and fantasies.

Though natural law may be heartless, ruthless, unforgiving, and torturous, natural law remains moral because such means are used to ensure the benevolent end of biological optimization. Whatever pitiful analgesia the human race may find by substituting natural law with their own unnatural lawlessness of humanism ultimately provides no ability to minimize the inescapable suffering caused by the deoptimization of the genetic and psychological fiber of the species which results when such a beast deviates from natural law for such a prolonged period of time.

I see the public-school boys, gaily released from the jail for temporarily innocent criminal children, their own vices and afflictions blaze in their eyes, their temptations unto vice, and though they gaze upon Erica more than myself, the subtle smile of considering the act reminds me of the fate which lays before this girl the second she is thrown to these wolves.

Though naturally I should not be concerned when prey is consumed by the predator, for such is the natural cycle of life, my own meat is so thick with the chemical slurry of emotions that my reasoning is no longer reasoning, but feeling, and it is these feelings that compel me to protect this girl, to fight for her safety, her happiness, and her future, for I know if not for me, there would be nobody to do so, and none would morn the ravaging of such a gentle soul by the beasts of the streets reared by nothing but the hardship and torment of the treachery of their progenitors.

While Isiah may remind us that it is the will of the Lord to turn our swords into ploughshares, we cannot realize such a prophecy until the enemies of divine order have been rebuked to the point where they shall not lift sword up against the Kingdom of Heaven. Until such a day has become, the swords of the pious must continue to slaughter those who seek to usurp the throne in heaven, the swords of the holy must irrigate the fields of divine mercy with the blood of the wretched, and until we can ensure that stones alone return unto the grave all of those who prostrate themselves in worship before the graven image of self-righteous godlessness, those who walk this Earth must choose either to bear arms in the name of God or wield the weapons of vice in the name of godlessness.

Though the Christ will remind us that those who live by the sword shall die by the sword, such words can hardly be twisted from their prophetic dictate of the slaughter of the heretics who wield the sword of sloth to mutilate the faith and instead worship cowardice and pacifism in the temple of Yahweh, the God of War.

It is true that those who live by the sword shall die by the sword, but the godly among us live by the grace of God, and the sword exists as the mercy of God to allow us to destroy all which opposes his glory. In a world purged of evil, the godly would not live by the sword, but the men among us who sustain themselves through vice have no means to ensure their lives beyond the sword. It is the wicked who live by the sword, for the sword alone is what offers them life. While we may take lives by the sword, it is not by the sword which we provide our sustenance.

Should the day come where I can lay down my blade, where the wrath of God has been stayed by unwavering universal piety in every soul which walks this Earth, then truly, we may turn our swords into ploughshares, but until such evil has been rebuked to the point where it never again will blight our kin, the prophecy of Isiah has yet to culminate to this point the heretical pacifist preaches in his apostasy.

Until this point comes where the commandments of God to slaughter the wicked have been fulfilled, the wrath of God shall continue to be delivered by the hands of the godly, by slaughtering the wicked on the battlefield, in the same right that the mercy and salvation of God is delivered by the hands of the godly, by echoing the word of God and providing baptism and communion in church. It is mortal hands which must ensure that the work of God is performed, for it is the test of our faith whether we uphold his commandments, and it is this test which determines the fate of our souls.

Am I a pious soul? A moral human? A good girl? To me, this is a moot point, this is irrelevant, because the fate of my soul is inconsequential to me. Piety serves as a means to the sole end which I desire, and if by coincidence this pleases God, this remains nothing more than a coincidence. The torture of the damnable is the water which my soul drinks, and for such a thirst to be so inadequately quenched within this blight ravaged nation compels me in such a way that I cannot describe.

I shall live by the sword, for I cannot slaughter my enemy with pacifism and meekness, and save for divine intervention, there is no weapon which can contest the dominion of the sword other than the sword itself. Even swords wielded by the wicked retain the same power and authority as swords wielded by archangels, and to concede battles in the name of meek pacifism is to concede dominion of this Earth to the wicked who remain pious enough to remember that the sword is merely the impartial vector of power both damnable and divine.

To allow the damnable to wield power while expecting the pious to wield none is to concede some fallacious inferiority of morality in the face of immorality, and the only reason such a fate has befallen the West is because the treachery of snake-tongued hellspawn so incessantly whispers in the ears of man, who, so tempted, addled, and sickened by inescapable decadence, that he cannot distinguish between the word of God and the seduction of the devil. The man, with decadence having reduced him to little more than a beast, succumbs to temptation, and in his apostatic sloth, he takes the path of least resistance. He climbs down the mountain and voluntarily descends into the pits of hell, simply because it is far easier for him to walk downhill than to fend off temptation and continue to climb the mountain towards eternal glory.

We continue down the street, the pedestrians continue to pass us, all so farcically adorned by their phenotypical traits, the apparent physiological differences further accentuated by their choices in fashion, even by the demeanor with which they carry themselves and the cadence of their walk. The range of appearance is so unbound and unrefined that the results border upon chaos, but despite all of the apparent chaos and diversity expressed by the people from the yuppie bastards to the down-and-outers, they’re all the same.

Each of these people, their mind, their sentiments, their feelings, their emotions, all of them so rigidly defined by their indoctrination, all of them so resistant to change, that to gaze upon the psychology of these people reveals a system of mechanical logic ruthlessly lockjawed onto the bridle of their yoke by the debilitating ideological tetanus induced by a faith in their master’s propaganda. These people have no interest in change, for their interests are prescribed solely by the men who control their thoughts, actions, and beliefs.

To witness these people so rigidly flexed in a hostile position, ready to attack, flaunting their ruthless, savage loyalty to an illusory god known as idealism, the shadow of their own instinct of self-preservation, is intimidating enough, a powerful bull retard ready to fight and die in the name of his inescapable autistic predilection, yet none of these people self-aware enough to cognize this criminal and cult-like loyalty to this system of beliefs which they are, for the most part, blindly and unconsciously dedicated to.

These people are not consciously and rationally indoctrinated, they are not educated by reason then forced to weigh out the legitimacy of arguments when compared to their present indoctrination, then adjust and modify their position upon any given topic as is justified by their accurate processing and understanding of the evidence presented before them. These people believe because they are told to believe, yet somehow, I contend that my meaningless bestial whinnying or the clamoring of my horseshoes on the pavement will somehow sway a purpose-built psychological mechanism which is designed to be faultless in its militant inability to be swayed?

It’s a farcical idea, one of complete nonsense, that I will stand in front of the stampede of peasants and redirect them, contrary to their own herd instincts, somehow managing a profound level of influence over the most stubborn and obstinate creatures imaginable, despite having little ability to communicate in a manner which these beasts will voluntarily comprehend? No. This is impossible.

It is a futile task, and I know this to be true. Even the act of attempting to reason with somebody, of arguing anything that contradicts their indoctrination, these acts are understood to be symptoms of insanity by the everyman. I can readily understand their perception that those who attempt to exert rhetorical influence in a manner that contests their master is legitimately a symptom of insanity, regardless of how pure and legitimate the rhetoric may be, for these beasts are not creatures of reason and rhetoric, but simple farm animals conditioned and indoctrinated to obey their masters in exchange for safety and sustenance.

The act of reasoning with people is an insane act due to the invariable futility of the act when one controls neither the safety nor sustenance of the peasantry. The beast will look at you, see that you have neither of the two components that legitimize an argument, and the fact that you continue to argue your point despite lacking any of the two pieces of evidence of legitimacy confuses the peasant to a point of discomfort, and often times rage should he be a beast so predisposed to aggression.

To create even the possibility that the beast may yield some physical manifestation of work towards an alternative form of progress which is not dictated by his master requires, first and foremost, the dissolution of the psychological transmission of reason which ultimately dictates his actions. Without control of either of the two evidences, the only option remains to dissolve his system of logic to such a point where he becomes susceptible to free thought in a manner that enables him to act contrary to the whims of his master.

There are few things which allow a man to act contrary to the pursuit of his own safety and sustenance, and the emboldened few who do so remind us that those motivators are at best insanity and at worst an insatiable craving for prohibited antisocial pleasure. It is only through insanity that a man can be compelled unto reasoning, and only through this desire for antisocial pleasure can he be compelled unto acting contrary to the whims of those who orchestrate his life.

Despite my own faith in my unwavering sanity, I can understand that the outside observer might presume my mentality to exhibit symptoms of insanity, but tragically such a mental illness is not contagious in the slightest, as the ignorance and ineptitude of the everyman ensures that there is absolutely no semblance of intelligence or reason for my rhetoric to infect.

Even if I were to infect the mind of an intelligent man, his intelligence ensures that my virulent rhetoric is physically asymptomatic, regardless of any psychological strife it may induce, because the man is intelligent to the point where this creates a killing field of risk-aversion which ruthlessly slaughters any idea that somehow exposes him to risk, regardless of any logical legitimacy. The legitimacy of logic is little more than an amusement for a beast who will at all times prioritize his survival and satiation, even if to do so means to prostrate his own intelligence before the dysfunction and illegitimacy of the logic professed by those who wield physical and psychological control over his mind and body.

A war waged by the intellectual is one where his rhetoric influences the mediators between the intelligent and the peasantry, and these mediators have, and always will be, the criminals. The criminals are men who have enough intelligence to exploit the ignorant, but are still unintelligent enough to exist without the crippling risk aversion that defines the most intelligent people. Once the rhetoric of the intelligent has fertilized the minds of the criminals, the criminals seize power over the peasants, and any intellectuals who seek to oppose the dominion of mediocrity find themselves lined up against the wall while their execution is applauded by the very people who suffer the most at the hands of the criminals.

Intelligence will never be a weapon of war nor a means to revolution because this is expecting the everyman to fight in the streets while wielding a weapon he simply does not possess. Try as he might to shoot his enemy with an imaginary gun, he will find that his imaginary bullets do nothing to harm those he tries to fight. Even should the weapon of intelligence be repurposed into some form of propaganda which the peasant can process and utilize, he will never be able to understand the mechanisms or purpose behind the weapons of ideology that he wields, regardless of how skilled he is at executing any who attempt to contest the supremacy of these weapons he grows so fond of.

As reason and rhetoric have no influence upon the standing army of whimsicality known as the peasantry, there is no point in professing such arguments to the beasts, as these words will fall upon deaf ears, and the grating sound of acrid discord will merely enrage the beast who had previously been entirely contented by the siren song of the hellspawn who shepherd him with vice and yoke him unto the chariot of hellfire.

That which holds power over the beast is the temptation unto pleasure, and it is the compulsive physical and psychological dependence upon this pleasure which will empower him to act in a manner which can possibly threaten those who shackle him to subservience with his own meekness and contentedness. Though I have not the means to threaten his safety or sustenance, in a world of godlessness, where vice is championed as the pinnacle of humanist pleasure, I do have something which can tempt the man to stray from his pleasure path and bite the satyrs who seek to keep his cloven hooves trotting upon the beaten path.

I know all too well the inescapable thirst which drives mankind, and the coy smiles on the faces of the passers-by as the witness my procession, the unquenchable thirst which compels the soul of the beast to contemplate suicide. This temptation unto that which he desires yet, in delightful and coincidentally fortuitous irony, he is prohibited from, is the thirst which I find myself situated to quench. Here and now, I am the winds which whisper the temptation of the oasis on the horizon to these sheep who trod the path through the Negev unto the gates of hell.

It is only by dissolving this man’s loyalty to his masters by attacking his satiation, by providing him access to pleasure which he begins to depend upon, to the point where his dependence cripples him to the point where his masters cannot provide him the evidence of satiation, that a person like myself can begin to wield any power over the fate of mankind. Though one may call me heartless, exploitative, abusive, or unideal, such a path I must trod is the only one available to me.

My hand is forced to rally these armies, to tempt mankind with such sinful delights, for to combat a man so inescapably shackled by the machinations and manipulation of demons requires that one wield weaponry capable of combatting the dominion of demons. These are men whose eyes which might otherwise gaze upon the heavens have been gouged out since birth and are instead led by the scent and taste of decadence and vice, and when such means are the only language which the animal can understand, it is through such a language that I must preach and prophecy should I have any hope in diverting the course of man from this path which leads to his sacrifice upon the altar of occult dysfunction.

We reach the apartment complex and head up the stairs, myself a latchkey child, trusted to walk myself home despite my history of violence, for while my parents know little about me, they know I am largely uncompelled to commit violent acts unless initially provoked, and for this reason they trust me to walk myself home without conflict, and this has proven to be a reliable gambit. In all legal paperwork requesting that some guardian be responsible for myself upon my arrival at home, Erica’s sister gladly signed off on the paperwork for both Erica and myself without reading it, not that there was anything legally binding in the paperwork which merely existed as a token of comfort for the institution which is releasing its responsibility for our well-being into the hands of a second party.

Erica’s sister is not home, she is likely out and about dilly-dallying with friends after school, so I let Erica into my apartment. I undress from my uniform and into some cotton hot pants and a shirt tight enough to reveal that through the gravity of time I have been subjected to modest yet unimpressive breast development.

Erica escapes from my bedroom window to let herself into her house to change, fond of the same style of clothes as myself, yet so embuxomed by her fecundity that a once adequately fitting shirt is now hoisted above her midriff by the size of her unapologetically precocious breasts.

We treat ourselves to tap water for lack of better alternatives, and I follow Erica to the couch where the turns on the television and quickly finds some tried and true rainbow flavor of childlike electric heroin to enjoy. I lay down on the couch and put my head in her lap, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t exhausted, I would be lying if I wasn’t aroused by the scent of her fertility, I would be lying if I didn’t want her to fingerfuck me, to kiss me, and cuddle me as I fall asleep in her loving embrace, but these carnal desires are but a symptom of my mortality, and as delightful as the thoughts themselves may be, some odd conviction unto pragmatism takes hold of me.

Even I feel some shame in seeking to reduce myself to sensual hedonism the second the opportunity presents itself, and contented by the bountiful frequency of such opportunities, I simply allow myself to enjoy those very pleasant thoughts, to snuggle her lap, and enjoy the simplest comfort of idleness. She mindlessly strokes my hair as if I were a kitten, entirely captivated by her rainbow show preaching the omnipotence of idealism and the unassailable mantras of post-moralism, all too oblivious to any sort of indoctrinating properties due to the seductively innocent and psychedelically beautiful rainbow animals enjoying the most sensual social pseudo-sexuality of idealistic friendship, of unconditional love, support, kindness, and gaiety.

The banter and music of the show are an all too familiar bit of white noise for me, as even I’m too reasonable to become upset over the fact that entertainment for children will suspend the brutal and crippling nature of reality in an attempt to protect the delicate innocence of the Western children lucky enough to retain such innocence past the age where they could otherwise be used to mine cobalt or engage in prostitution.

I allow the show to comfort me and content me, I allow the belief in a world where everything is perfect and beautiful, and that only the most harmless of episodic troubles will ever arise, and these episodic troubles will invariably be resolved at the end of 22 minutes of programming and 8 minutes of commercials. I enjoy the belief that protagonists exist, that these protagonists are simple enough that any child alive can believe themselves to be equally as capable of resolving what are, contextually, the greatest problems to face society.

I believe it simply because I want to, because I enjoy it, because the pleasure of putting faith in a functional world so profoundly disparate from reality allows me to dull the pain and suffering of this endless crucible through which I must send my body until I die from exhaustion, fueled only by blind faith and irrational hope, just for an opportunity to reach some end of this task where I will be greeted with the fact that I have failed to accomplish that which I had initially set out to accomplish.

I will reach the end of my life and be reminded that despite my endless suffering, my fighting tooth and nail, I was still unable to escape my fate of triviality and powerlessness, that my life amounted to nothing, that the world will continue to proceed into the hellfire as a derelict and godless corpse abandoned by any authority capable of steering the ship of fools away from the whirlpool of fecklessness, insanity, vice, treachery, and dysfunction.

I know this all too well, but when one is presented a situation where one has no choice, one quickly realizes that one’s opinions regarding that one outcome are irrelevant, and this allows me to sweep fate under the rug and enjoy the frolicking delusion of the fantastical capacity of humanism and idealism which can only be evidenced in a television show that is entirely unbound by the physical constraints that otherwise invalidate these tragically flawed and dysfunctional delusions.

As much as these words have meaning in a literary sense, in my mind, they mean next to nothing, the pitter patter of dust against a window, blown by a slight breeze, the softest rapping in the wind that sings, rather than howling gales of this otherwise bleak abyss, because the difference between singing and howling is an entirely subjective distinction, and myself, so glazed and emblazoned by the magic of the cartoon rainbow animals, continue to look on the bright side of life.

The show is meaningless despite all pleasantries, but the girl is my comfort in this moment. Comfort, as much as it may convince me that it is the end-all-be-all with respect to the purpose of my life, is itself a false mistress which I try and fail to not put too much faith in. That being said, my understanding of the task which I must undertake politely sits in the back seat of my mind while Lady Comfort takes me on a delightfully pleasant and aimless drive through the sweet and serene warmth of the country side. It’s a pleasant experience, but a dream, dreamt in the rainbow colors and unnatural flora of the cartoon world that children like me get consumed by, but even though I’ve never left the city, in my mind, I’m enjoying the trees I’ve never seen and the breeze I’ve never felt.

I’m enjoying the pleasantries and seduction of the wilderness that allows me to exist without expectations, to be little more than a symbiote circular breathing with the trees which photosynthesize that which I chemically respirate. Just two trees, a green tree and a meat tree, but there are so many trees, and they love me. The sunshine loves me, the birds I’ve never seen remain unseen and unheard as my thoughts are deafened by my own psychological exhaustion, and by proxy, my capacity to process audio, leaving me as nothing more than a meat tree swimming in the air and bathing in the warm sunshine among the verdant and likeminded souls of this forest I’ve never seen.

The entirely intangible dreamworld arounds me fades as if I am fainting, the submersion in the dream softens and I start to feel the inescapable tension of the meat wrapped around my bones, the once panoramic and encapsulating reality I dwelt within fades into a two dimensional projection against the darkness in front of me, my soul presses against the cage of my skull, bulging out through my eye sockets, as the image lingers as but a faint twinkle in the distance as the darkness drowns out the colors and pleasures of escapism.

The warmth is real, the smell is familiar, the comfort is tangible, but along with these pleasures comes the affliction of being reminded that I still exist. I think about thinking, but I am hesitant.

“Do you ever think?” I ask

“Maybe.” Says Erica

“Yeah?” I ask

“I don’t know.” She says

“Like, do you ever have any ideas?” I ask

“I can usually think of something to do, if that counts. It’s not hard to think of something fun to do.” She says

“What about tomorrow?” I ask

“What about it?” she asks

“Do you ever think about it?” I ask

“What’s happening tomorrow?” she asks

“Well, nothing, but just, you know, think about the future.” I ask

“Not really, unless maybe I have something important I need to remember to do, or it’s some fun holiday like Christmas, then it’s kind of hard to not think about tomorrow.” She says

“If I asked you to describe tomorrow, the next day of August, how would you describe it?” I ask, she waits a moment

“I don’t know. It’s just a school day. I know that, but otherwise it’s just blank because I don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. I know it will eventually be tomorrow though.” She says

“That makes enough sense to me.” I say

“Do you think about tomorrow?” she asks

“Sometimes.” I say

“What’s going to happen tomorrow?” she asks

“I just think about all of the tomorrows, the next day, the day after that, and so on and forever.” I say

“That’s way too many to think of. Even thinking of tomorrow doesn’t make much sense, seeing how it’s not tomorrow yet. I usually just think about the stuff happening right now, trying to go beyond right now doesn’t make a lot of sense. It’s hard enough to think about the right now sometimes, so unless I’m just doing absolutely nothing, then that’s all I’m going to think about.” She says

“What do you think about the right now?” I ask

“I don’t know. I usually like it. It’s fun.” She says

“What if tomorrow isn’t as fun?” I ask

“Then we just need to think of something fun to do tomorrow.” She says

“That’s a good idea.” I say

“Did you have a bad dream or something?” she asks

“I think the dream was too good, and waking up was the bad part.” I say

“Aww. Those are the best dreams too.” She says, I spin around and nuzzle my head into her belly, hugging, her, snuggling her

“Back to sleep?” she asks

“Mew mew mew mew mew.” I say, mimicking some sleeping noise I heard in a cartoon sometime

“Now you’re making me sleepy.” She says, teasing me, sliding herself sideways along the couch to snuggle me like a stuffed animal, but still reluctant to turn off the television

The comfort of burying my face into the girl’s breasts makes the thoughts of the endless procession of tomorrows so daunting that my aversion to them seems like the most reasonable form of pragmatism. I’m enjoying the present moment, the apartment is warm enough that I don’t need a blanket, and without the slightest bit of discomfort, while the pleasure of good company bathes my body, my mind is more than happy to forget about even the concept of tomorrow. Even my understanding of time slips by the wayside and I enjoy this bountiful ambiance of comfort and pleasure, and in the absence of any distractions which might otherwise discontent me, I can just bathe in this moment as if it were the only moment that existed.

Why supplant the present reality with some entirely imaginary concept such as the future? As irrational as this logic is, the intoxication from the comfort and a strong desire to go back to sleep allow me to revel in this argument as if it were the divine mandate of heavenly kings. I have no interest in questioning this stance for there’s nothing to be gained in the present moment but the ruination of the bliss and serenity that surrounds me. Though I concede the fact that tomorrow exists, I console myself by promising that I’ll think about the procession of tomorrows when these rare moments of comfort fade and I’m once again forced to cognize the reality that exists beyond the bosomy embrace.

Roll over to open my eyes, I’m staring up at the face of this girl, so pleasantly contented by the screen filling her head with thoughts she could never produce in her own right, many of which she cannot process, all greeted with the complete indifference to the information overload due to the all too soothing nature of sweet, childlike voices, smiles, giggles, and the rainbow of colors these cartoon animals.

“Erica, do you want to be famous? Like a movie star?” I ask

“Yeah. I totally want to be a movie star. That would be so fun.” She says, not taking her eyes off the screen

“I’ve got an idea.” I say

“Ok.” She says, completely indifferent to what I’ve just said, entirely disinterested in attempting to contemplate any sort of concept of the idea which I might have, her understanding of my idea existing, at best, as some vaguely imagined lightbulb without any meaning behind it whatsoever. I get up off the couch and I walk to the computer, it starts up instantly, and I log onto my account. As the only member of my family fluent in English and capable of using a computer beyond its purpose as a text processor, naturally, I’m the administrator, but my authority over the computer does not extend beyond this one powerless terminal which largely idles as my father refuses to read and prefers the television, while my mother has her own computer in her bedroom.

Despite the white noise of the television in the background, the house remains eerily calm, my mother works her 12-hour shift as a nurse in tandem with my father’s shift as a police officer, and this leaves me as the head of the household. The weight of my decisions upon hands which will either provide for or fail my family, Erica more than my somewhat absent parents, but it feels as if the weight of the world is heavy upon my hands. The blood runs thick over the surface of my hands, my heart ruthless enough to strangle a man in cold blood if that’s what it takes to provide for my family, and with such dire straits facing my girl as we quickly approach the age where the redemption of the human form is a test of mettle rather than an act of charity, I am far too aware of the necessity to prove my mettle, our mettle, and I seek only to do this with the most vicious and unapologetic fury that I can house within this tiny body.

The nature of survival is making sure that you get what you need to survive. In our mutualistically oppressive society, in the concrete jungle where every bit of sustenance can be reaped only by the talons of the greenback, the nature of survival means working. The concept of work in a capitalist society is simple, it is merely giving people what they want, and in return, they give you what you need to survive, and once your needs are met, you give people what they want in exchange for what you want, and the money exists as a convenient means to transmute this mutual back scratching into an easily exchanged medium.

Again, work simple, it is merely providing people what they want. I know what the people want. They want Erica. They want Erica in the same way that I want Erica, but I’m not going to simply give them Erica. The entire purpose of this endeavor is to prevent the world from taking her and throwing her into the clusterfuck of folly and inadequacy which defines those trapped by dysgenics in the dregs of society. I do concede the fact that they want Erica, and as such is the nature of the game, I will give them Erica, just a taste, a sample, something infinitely reproducible at near-zero cost to anyone, but due to the profound and insatiable desire of man, even this product, which per supply and demand logically carries the absolute minimum degree of value, somehow attains a great deal of value when the insatiable demand of man somehow exceeds the limitless supply.

I am vaguely familiar with the law, some presentations we saw last year about online safety, things such as being exploited or tricked by strangers online into taking our clothes off. That being said, I am no expert in anything beyond the fact that they, the men, the internet, they are thirsty enough for young girls that they will prowl websites in search of easy prey.

I glaze over some material from a search engine, the legality of it all, apparently, should I seek to undertake the venture of providing some purely digital access to my girl’s beauty, there are laws which must be respected in order to operate a lawful business. The irony of the complete indifference to children being born marred by congenital syphilis, children riddled with obesity, children addled to the point of dysfunction by electronic heroin, all of this extensive and crippling abuse of children, even the overtly sexual nature of children’s culture as seen in the popular music, none of this so much as bats the eye of the everyman unless these things explicitly involve explicitly sexualized children.

Not a soul cares in the slightest about the suffering or abuse of children, their condemnation of the sexual form of the abuse stems entirely from a prudish and priggish discomfort regarding the sexuality of children stemming from a childhood isolated from sexual contact due to social dysfunction. The vocal majority of the West was universally and thoroughly abused as children, hence their indifference to these commonplace forms of cultural sadism which blight the youth, many of these people, however, the outspoken majority upon the internet, due to the aversion and meekness brought on by relative intelligence, never engaged in sexual activity as youth, and more than likely continue to abstain entirely from sex as adults.

The nature of the prohibition of sexualized children is not due to any sympathy for the children, as these people are indifferent to the torture and death of millions upon millions of children as a consequence of their militant defense of degenerate hedonism, but it is entirely due to a retained childlike fear of sexuality and this fantasy of virginal purity these people hold onto due to their own sexual failures as children, which, in adulthood, become rebranded as “a normal childhood” despite being labeled as “social and sexual dysfunction” while these pariahs exiled to the internet happened to be children.

Regardless of the logic behind the prohibition, it is exactly this prohibition which had empowered the Capones and Escobars of the world to reap farcical profits simply for working, for giving the people what they want. Here I am, poised with my one coca tree, willing to care for this tree and process its leaves, merely to provide the people what they want, in exchange for whatever sustenance I can muster, compelled by the inescapable fear of the consequences of failing to work.

Though one may consider my intent to be criminal, as White person, I find myself incredibly averse to the thought of blatantly and overtly breaking the law, hence my instinct to read the law in order to ensure I do not break it. I glaze over the statutes, intent on abiding by them, but all too self-assured in my legal invulnerability due to my age and presumptions of ignorance.

Legally, I must avoid all sexualized depictions of children and their genitals, fair enough. That which constrains me is the entirely subjective metric of “sexualization” despite the irony that it is impossible for a girl like Erica to walk the streets without being sexualized, even if she were to walk the streets wearing the habit of a nun, this itself is a commonplace sexual fetish for many men. The legal depictions of naked children include things such as documentaries of indigenous people, social movements such as nudism, and for educational purposes. There is even a grey area to tolerate sexualized children under the guise of “artistic cinema”.

While we may not be nudists, I scoff a smug little whiff at the ease of access these protections for education about the diversity of the world afford us, especially considering the free reign which I have to peddle pictures of clothed children that men have proven they have no difficulty in thoroughly sexualizing.

I know all too well the inability of social media to provide for me in this situation, I have but one friend, and beyond that, the voluntary gestapo of the internet spends their lives masturbating to children under the guise of “protecting the children”, coping with their guilt by reporting the clothed children they were legally masturbating to should those children decide to break the law and expose themselves in a sexual way. While the predators of the world busy themselves with social media for children, I understand that the role I am undertaking is not one of a child, but one of a stranger, and in order to offer people the pseudo-child-pornography they desire, I must find myself a dark alley from within which I can peddle my wares.

I decide upon the blog, for despite being a dated medium, it is obscure enough not to attract the random patrolling members of the voluntary gestapo, while all the same while giving me dominion over my product to a much greater extent than the sanitized and industrialized factories of propaganda and psychological frailty which so many socially desperate children find themselves dependent upon.

For a name “Beautiful Catholic Schoolgirls” fits the bill, even if I need to put the number 11 afterwards to secure a comparable prefix to the blog’s uniform resource locator. I add in a permanent header to the page. “I am an 11-year-old schoolgirl, and this is a blog where I will make artistic cinema documentaries about the lives of indigenous New York City children for educational purposes. These children are not sexualized in any way, and any allegations to the contrary prove only that you are personally choosing to sexualize non-sexualized children, which is wrong, so stop.”

I know men all too well, and considering the number of times I’ve seen Erica get catcalled in the last year, I know I cannot trust men to comment lasciviously upon that which I am generously offering unto them. I turn off public comments, but I allow the “contact the author” part to remain, just to hopefully have some outlet for the sinners among us to sing their hallelujahs.

With my legality assured, I feel comfortable, but now I must regrettably transition this website from one of hobbyist lawbreaking to one of enterprise by telling the electric benefactors to run advertisements, as well as providing a button for the patrons to donate to such a noble cause. I open the drawer and pull out my checkbook, the check register reminding me that I have the minimum of $25 in my account, my checkbook existing only as a means for my parents to teach me how to write checks. Every time there is a birthday I’m invited to, my parents will deposit a small sum of money into the account, at which point, they instruct me to write a check to my friend, then log it in the check register. As much as I found the task to be an undue burden when compared to the ease of simply providing cash, the fact that I now have access to a checking account does allow me to easily monetize the website.

Already far too contented by my work, despite providing nothing, already exhausted by my labor, despite doing next to nothing, I’m addled by my own haughty self-assurance and presumptions of my endless procession of unwavering success due to having taken this one single step in such a direction, but despite the pride boiling in my blood like a drunkard who just walked away a winner while watching the horses, I breathe with intent, and I focus myself, knowing that I need to provide some content.

I take my phone, I turn the camera on, and I start walking to Erica.

“Ok, so introduce yourself.” I say

“Hi, I’m Erica.” She says, smiling at the camera, I steadily graze it over her body, taking in the majesty for all that it is worth

“Are you filming?” she asks

“Yeah.” I say

“Why?” she says

“It’s for educational purposes.” I say, she chuckles

“I’m pretty smart, you know.” She says, I sit down next to her and pull her shirt up to right below her bra

“What’s this called?” I ask, rubbing her belly

“That’s my tummy.” She says, giggling, I slowly lick her from below her bellybutton up to the solar plexus, she laughs out loud and almost falls over

“The taste is… salty.” I say, she keeps laughing

“How does it feel?” I ask

“I don’t know.” She says, I go back to kissing her along the side of her belly, up along her ribs, stroking her ripe, tender, slender, yet rich waist, finally leaving her with one last kiss on her solar plexus

“How about that?” I ask

“That feels good.” She says, always ready for love, I sit in her lap and I peck her softly on camera, then shift myself to rest my head in her breasts, focusing the camera on my face, with the backdrop of the frame pleasantly providing a tasteful view of her nipples clearly poking through her delightfully tight t-shirt

“So, today, we learned that the tummy tastes salty, and kisses on the tummy feel good.” I say

“Any belly rubs feel good.” Says Erica, giddily going to rub my belly, I slide my shirt up to get it into camera, she enjoys the pastime for a moment

“And there’s something down here…” she says, sliding her hand under the waistband of my shorts, I quickly pull the camera up and put it back on my face

“…that really feels good when you rub it.” She says, too oblivious to be anything but cute, stroking me with playful and meaningless amiable fingers

“Well… that’s… all for now.” I say, my face already getting flushed, halfway embarrassed, but I let the camera roll for a bit in sheer narcissism, allowing it to watch me I squirm my body in her lap, pressing my neck into her breasts, putting my hand over hers and giving her the green light, I stop filming and just enjoy her fingers inside of me free from any expectations of tongue-in-cheek common decency.

“Yeah…” I whisper, grinding into her hand, her firm fingers all too easily delight my tender and thirsty body, I squeeze my tits which burn and itch with the pleasure that shoots up my spine into the most carnal spots of my mind, a passion I can’t control forces me to imbibe this pleasure like a thirsty savage drinking the water from a cut vine in the jungle, just enough water to wet my mouth, but nowhere near enough to satisfy me.

Erica’s mind hasn’t left the cuddling state, even if this is a cuddle with bonus pleasure, and shifts to snuggling me like a stuffed animal again, the feeling of my groin being robbed of that which I was enjoying so thoroughly causes the shock of instantaneous longing to bleed through my eyes, but the carnal nature of my body slips into the unconscious and the willpower of the pilot takes over, I breathe deeply. I think for a second, just long enough to know I don’t need to.

“You did great.” I say, spinning off of her, kissing her cheek, and taking the phone to the computer

“That was fun.” She says, pleased and entertained by the social sport of keeping each other company more than any overpowering sexual desires, she lays on the couch, more interested in watching me than the television at this point. I quickly take the cord, plug in the phone, and upload the video to the blog. I put in a long string of incoherent words, tag phrases, anything to hopefully allow this post to get registered. After about 100 non-sentence words of “school girl 11 year old tummy pretty kissing NOT sexy fun touching body naked skin licking fingers pants panties breasts boobs redhead hot fun” and so forth, I just post the video and hope for the best.

I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that the first step in a long journey has been taken, and if nothing else, this is a symbolic moment, it is the first battle in a lifelong war we must wage against a system that seeks only to mistreat and mismanage us, for our society only rewards those willing to exploit and abuse their fellow man, while it forever tortures those who remain bound by their humility and refuse to succumb to vice and instead live as servants of God, choosing to bear the brunt of the torture of life rather than self-righteously divert the suffering of their own life onto the backs of their fellow man.

I close the window and shut down the computer, I’ve had enough of that, what the everyman might describe as the rigmarole of hoop jumping expected of every female child is in my heart the sacrifice of my dearest lamb, and my heart is filled with the sickest and most ruthless malice for the world. Feelings like that in my heart, nonchalantly ambling up towards my mind, where the feelings are callously and indifferently smothered by my rational mind, entirely indifferent to any such feelings, for the fact that people allow such hallucinations to dictate their mood, their sentiments, and ultimately their actions is one of the most dissociating and dysphoric feelings imaginable, almost as if watching the stranger of emotion take these people away and violently molest them, all while they voluntarily comply with the man as if such a decision is the sole possible solution to the situation which is unquestionably and immutably correct.

When such a molester approaches me, such feelings, of spite, malice, and hatred, I do courteously accept whatever rational arguments have induced those feelings, but the second they attempt to touch my sentimentality, I find my personage becomes so enraged by the fact that some shadowy figure feels entitled to touch my body in such a way that I whip out the metaphorical psychological handgun of repression and unload the entire magazine into the stranger in a blind rage, then walk away breathing a sigh of relief, as if having just walked out of the bothersome sun and into the pleasant shade to be greeted by a sweet breeze.

These feelings of delicious bloodlust, even when such are the desire of the metaphorical murder of my own emotions, they delight me, as if this mentality were my own child, one of the few things I can truly and unconditionally love, and this vicious hatred towards these facets of the human meatbag which seek to compel the beast unto folly simply delight me. This is not some feeling of pleasure at the suffering of humanity, or even some sense of vindictive justice, for the feeling is too basal to even be rooted in some sort of empirical justification.

The emotion is one where a shadowy hand seeks to control me, and in my own pride, I remind the wretched soul that I control it, I am in control, me, I with a capital I, and this sense of the self-assured dominion over external forces, this simple feeling of control, this very basic feeling of self-righteousness, this is one of the few carnal poisons of the everyman which I allow myself to indulge in, not because such a feeling is legitimate, for one can see this feeling as one of the most tragic flaws of the peasantry, but simply due to the fact that my own unquestionable rhetorical and intellectual greatness renders me so profoundly superior to the basal animalism that produces human emotionality that for such a system to even present itself to me is an insult, it is an unforgivable slight, and my ruthless and unapologetic execution of these emotions is little more than an honor killing in my mind, and the pleasure of reaffirming my own dignity in the face of such savagery is an intoxicating harmonic of my own unquestionable greatness.

With these more visceral passions subdued, with little driving my rational mind to action, the serene peace following victory in conquest brings the focus of my attention to the fire that burns in my loins, as much as it may be subtle and demure as a kitten, more than willing to hide in the face of trouble, the kitten still enjoys attention, and isn’t coy about asking for it when the time is right. She knows that there’s nothing to take my attention from her, and she rubs against my leg as I walk, with each step I take towards the girl who, as a coincidence of my pragmatism, happened to wake up the kitty who was happy enough to sleep while the lady of the manor yoked the meat of the peasants unto pragmatic pursuits. The kitty, she mews, she wants to be stroked, and with the fields harvested for the day, at least enough to sleep easily, the kitty knows she will easily get my attention in the lull of the evening.

I walk to my girl, staring at her with the most serious of intent, we lock eyes, mine telling her exactly what time it is, but the goddess is so pragmatic that she cannot tell time even by looking at an analogue clock, let alone by reading time from my eyes. She smiles because I’m smiling, and I straddle her lap, and I reach into her pants, and I start rub her pussy, already wet, happy to enjoy my fingers as I slide them inside of her. I kiss her, and she closes her eyes, and like a blind swordsman she masterfully navigates her hand into my pants to stroke me, truly a master of our secret handshake, and like children feigning the most important of business, our secret handshake is prolonged, exaggerated, and vigorous, just to remind each other of how important we are and how big our businesses are.

She generously takes her free hand, rubs her soft, feminine palm up my back, sliding it under the subtlety of my breasts, and my pliant body is more than grateful for the attention paid to my bare breasts, my spine melting as the pleasure of her fingers and the almost sickening sensitivity of my breasts remind me of how much power this girl has over me, and how masterfully she wields it. I slide her shirt up, her ripe tits flood into my hand with the most decadent opulence, as my small hands find themselves overwhelmed by an amount of succulence that escapes the sense of malleability and instead revert to a childlike state of playfully swimming in the flesh sea of fertility.

In response, she squeezes my tits with vigor, the nerves cracking like lightning through my chest and down my spine, reverberating into my brain and my groin, and in retaliation I fingerfuck her with the fire and fury of a spitfire cannon, hardly concerned with her pleasure, as my body has become so weak and compliant in the face of such an assault that, in desperation, concerned with retaining some sense of dominance and control in the situation, despite all of the childlike meekness in my body desiring only to offer myself to her and allow the maternal mountain of passion to envelop and consume me however she pleases. Despite the pleasure, I continue to fight back, fight for dominance, for even if my ego is delighted when my girl reminds me of my oft sequestered womanhood, as the adult in the relationship, despite the pleasure of it all, allowing myself, the guardian, to be sensually, sexually, and inevitably psychologically submissive to a child haunts me with subtle twinges of reckless irresponsibility, even when her corporeal form reminds me that were we born of the same mettle, such a position would be one that I would never leave.

I’ve had enough of the contest and I slide her pants and panties down, I lift her shirt off over her head, and she giddily strips me in return. I pull her hips over the edge of the couch, straddle one of her legs, and with the vigor of a rabbit begin to scissor fuck her viciously, the generous springs in the couch naturally and delightfully offering her hips back to me every time I force them slightly deeper into the couch with my downward strokes. I place my hands on her shoulders to hold her down, my own legs planted firmly on the ground, I’m short enough that with a small bit of leaning forward, my hips graciously meet hers at the edge of the couch. With such power in my legs I easily dominate her, remind her who I am, remind her who she is, and she loves it as much as I do, her moans remind me that the taste of her love is one of the few things even sweeter than her voice, and I go to kiss her, she graciously drinks the passion from my mouth, my lips, and my tongue, even her thirst remains meek and demure, so erotically feminine, kissing me with such voluntary subservience it’s easy enough to convince myself she actually sees me as a God she worships with the utmost conviction.

The pleasure of it all slowly shifts her moans to cries, to pouts, her hands shift down to claw at my breasts, squeezing them without any interest in pushing me away, but with the blind and animal vigor one would see in a beast fighting for its life, her eyes blinded by the pleasure, thoughts having escaped her long ago, she unknowingly finds the Achilles heel, as every bit of dominant sexual energy I am able to exude through psychological discipline and philosophical fetishism of the position is easily contested by the natural tenderness of my breasts, reminding me, even in moments of such glory, that I am a woman and am defined by my instincts to submit to the pleasures offered unto me by those able to sexually dominate me. Even these two hands upon my breasts, squeezing them as if to hold on for dear life, sends a thought of feminine weakness swimming through my body, and this emotion, finding its way to my groin, finds itself in the position of that all emotions do, and I just ruthlessly dominate it, overpower it with the passion and fury of my hips, and in this moment of dominantly fucking my own dissociated femininity, the spirit of my womanhood overpowers my body, my legs shudder, my breath trembles, the focus of my mind falls to static as the chemical lightning of pleasure flashes from my loins and echoes throughout my body like thunder, each bolt causing my legs to seize up, my teeth to clench in ambivalence to my own orgasm, and yet I keep trying to fuck my girl, even as the weakness comes over my body, my strokes slowly losing their focus, instead becoming the sloppy gritty blows of a drunkard throwing punches in the hope that he hits anything. I’m moaning, something, yet I’m almost deaf to my own noises, with the body of this girl in front of me taking the entire working memory of my brain, all of my focus even as my consciousness begins to fade.

I lift her leg up, slide her onto her back on the couch, climb on top of her, and continue to slowly masturbate us with the tender strokes of an older man whose lost much of his athleticism and vigor through age, I fuck her gently, I fondle her breasts, I kiss her, I’m catching my breath, and though the pleasure is the subtle gaiety of pleasantry compared to vigorous sex, I’m making love to the girl because I love her, the pleasure is not as much one of sexual stimulation, but of emotional fulfillment, of sensuality, and of accepting the fact that I worship this girl, and these actions are my prayers and hymns of devotion. She moans softly, never expecting anything, never demanding more, always happy to enjoy whatever I give her, never comparing one moment to the last, but simple enough to enjoy every moment for everything that it is worth, even these subtle moments of post-play fill her mind and body with the most gentle and purest love for sex, attention, and camaraderie, so much so that I would envy the girl were I not too aware of the dangers of such simplicity, but dangers be damned, for my own aversion to this psychological state does not prevent me from imbibing every drop of delicious and intoxicating sexual and psychological freedom which allows this girl to live unencumbered by any of the detritus of human existence that will far too often pollute the entirely pure and majestic feelings of sexual, emotional, sensual, and psychological satisfaction. Though I cannot offer her the biological satisfaction of motherhood, if I could, she would be very, very pregnant by now.

In my fatigue, I collapse on top of her, fondling her breasts in adoration, I breathe heavily into her neck, the sweat beads on my body in the heat of the summer as the box-fan in the window wicks away the heated passion, my body temperature drops, and my fiery sexuality gives way to almost shivering need to be held in the passionate warmth of another body, and my girl is happy to do this, squeezing my ass playfully, kissing me softly and sporadically as if I were a dog or a small child, and this inescapable love is enough to make me want nothing but to sleep, to end my consciousness in this blissful heaven I’m deprived of far too often.

After a countless number of moments lying with my girl, my body temperature falls to such a point where I only want to pull the blanket over us and just sleep, but my few remaining braincells remind me that it’s very likely we both pass out until my parents get home, and they’d not be happy if they found us like this. Despite the most vicious protesting of my muscles and my body, I force myself to roll off the girl and collapse onto the cold hardwood floor, lacking the conviction to actually get up and dress myself, but doing so just to make sure I remain uncomfortable enough not to forget to do so. That being said, I content myself with making it this far and simply lie on the floor, on my back, spread eagle, and I think nothing except for the occasional reminder that I need to dress myself and my girl within some vaguely defined time constraints that I’m not particularly aware of at this point.

I’m a procrastinator, so I’m on the floor for a while, but eventually, I find the discipline to at least sit up. Sitting is one step closer to getting what I need to do done. I look at my girl, her glassy eyes still drunk with pleasure, she looks at me with a face that thinks nothing but sings to the heavens her endless love. As beautiful as a goddess, as succulent as a queen, looking at me with the most grateful delight in her eyes, the feeling of sitting on the floor beneath this girl upon her pedestal is the only piety I’ve ever known, and the sanctity of being adored by the goddess I worship has always been the greatest temptation of a godly soul. The delightfully red muff tamed only by nubility reminds me of the ephemeral nature of our lives and the prolonged and sadistic nature of our dying. I breathe deeply, yet I hunger for more, the prayers of the people swim through the aether unto my soul, and as intoxicated by such divine blessings as I may be, prudence takes hold of my spine and compels me to fulfill my duties as a priestess.

“Lay still.” I say

“Ok.” She says, I take her panties and thread them between her angelic thighs, I take her t-shirt and thinly drape it over her nipples, then I go to get the phone, I film her, silently at first, working the camera up and down her body, for minutes on end, she smiles and loves the attention almost as much as I love the sight of her body. I climb on top of her and bring the camera to her face, I kiss her, she smiles.

“You like it?” I ask

“Yeah.” She says, smiling with playful sarcasm as my question was seemingly so stupid it perplexed even her, I kiss her again, tenderly, trying my best to keep us in frame, she wants the tongue and I give it to her, generously, kissing like the most professional hedonists, both of us living for little more than this pleasure at this point in our lives, finding no reason to look for anything more.

I pull away from her for a moment and slip my hand down her belly and start to stroke her gently. I let the camera enjoy the pleasure of being alone with the face of such a beautiful starlet in the intimate frame. She inhales desirously through her nose as my hand returns to a place she’s all too fond of it being. After a minute of naughty, almost timid, bashfully delighted, and playfully embarrassed smiles dancing across her face, I need to hear her sweet voice again.

“Do you like it?” I ask

“Yeah.” She says, her tone of unapologetically begging me for more than the pleasantries my fingers are greeting her with, the twinge of her voice has the subtlest childlike confusion, asking “but isn’t there more?”, I kiss her lightly before returning to the cadence of rising action

“Do you want it?” I ask, easily slipping two of my fingers inside her disorientingly fertile sheath, taking it slow

“Yeah” she says, almost happy with me, but her eyes viciously daring me to take her all the way

“How much do you want it?” I ask, picking up the pace,

“A lot.” She says, moaning softly

“Yeah?” I ask, kissing her once more,

“More.” She begs, she commands. I do my best, feeling crippled by my one hand shackled to the camera, my free hand working its best magic, she moans and squeaks, her eyes begging me, begging the camera

“I want you to lick it.” She moans, needing it, she knows what she wants, and she knows I want to give it to her

“You need to hold the camera, then, ok?” I ask, the logistics of it flashing through my mind

“OK.” She says

“Keep the camera only on your face though.” I say, I hand it to her, I kiss her farewell and slither down her body, sliding between her legs, taking up the position of prayer, greeted by the all too familiar and endlessly comforting smell of afternoon delight, I indulge in this decadence she offers me, almost restraining myself just to tease her, but too horny at the thought of making her cum that my tongue quickly reminds her what’s going to happen. She moans with forlorn longing being so plagued by the impatience of a child whose time passes slow as molasses, lapping away at her lap like a thirsty dog, she howls the softest of howls, I kiss and suck her clitoris as I slide my fingers back inside.

It is only a moment before the snake-tongue of the devil inside of me starts whispering the secrets of seducing young girls into the most receptive part of this simple woman’s body, flicking my tongue to taste the sex with the most adamant and godly instinct of our reptilian ancestors. She shrieks and cries as if her soul has been touched by the devil himself, her body seizing up, her gracious thighs smothering me with the unabashed strength endowed only to those who know so little, but the soft skin of her thick voluptuous thighs can only smother me with the delight of performing my godly duty. My hands don’t falter, and despite the immobilizing collar of her thighs around my skull, I continue to take her above and beyond. Her moans moving from shrieks of pleasure to prolonged moans, almost in pain from the stimulation shooting deep from her loins, into her belly, up her spine, and into her mind.

She leans over to her side, and I slip out of her leg choke, I climb back on top of her and kiss her, my own hand joining hers upon her sacred loins, helping her slowly descend from these divine highs offered to us by the powers that be. She takes a moment to catch her breath, her face, already ruddy with freckles, now beet red from the heat of passion. I kiss her again, having no desire to say anymore, and she greets my lips as if I were her sailorman gone for months on end to fight the most noble of wars. I take the camera, and both of her hands go to grope my ass, forcing my hips into hers, trying to milk my body for every bit of sexual pleasure she can, and I love her endlessly for such compassion. I kiss her on the cheek.

“How was it?” I ask

“So good.” She says, the weakness in her voice so devoutly feminine that it melts my soul into the softest of benevolent dominion, of my rightful place as the protector and servant of the woman whose fertile body nearly envelops my diminutive frame, I kiss her tenderly, before, in my own exhaustion, I simply collapse into her embrace

“I love you so much.” She whispers

“I love you too.” I say, kissing her cheek, my eyes closed, too weak to even look at the camera, but prudent enough to end the scene, I place the phone back on the end table. I enjoy this bed of flesh far too much, but in stoic masochism I deny myself the pleasure of indulgence, remaining in her arms for mere courtesy, for I know there is little time for us to return to our thinly veiled existence in ironically clothed modesty.

Even if her moans from my bedroom can be heard through the walls in her own apartment, the saving of face by wearing clothes and hiding our intimacy is just a gesture of common decency, for even if my parents are indifferent, there’s little desire to come face to face with the discomforting nature of the rampant sexuality of two girls who, by all metrics, are presumed to be mentally retarded, even if my parents know she’s just a bit slow and I’m just a bit fucked in the head, the ability to write us off as retards allows them to be indifferent to any of the shenanigans we might get into, simply because they expect so little from us, that even when we stray from the beaten path of the expectations of girlhood, none truly expected us to meet those expectations anyways.

I kiss her farewell as I climb off of her, I slip back into my clothes and I pinch her delicious ass to remind her of the hour, she groans, but holds only a grudge against time itself, for despite feeling right at home being naked with me, she knows all too well of the shame of being naked around others. As a child once reluctant to wear clothes in the heat of the summer, her parents have managed to correct that behavior, despite the difficulty of the matter, but her modesty is unknown when alone in my company, and such is the fruitful bounty of having taken baths with this girl since we were small.

I walk to the sink to enjoy another glass of the tap water, grab the phone, take it to the computer, plug it in, and I upload the video to the website. In curiosity, I check the statistics of the website, and seeing the thousands of views already, I feel a mixture of delight, comedy, and perhaps a bit of shame for the human race, but ultimately it is the carnal and animal nature of the everyman which is allowing me any opportunity to assault the wickedness of those who seek to lord above him. It is easy to tolerate the passions of a beast when such passions are the only weapon to combat to the sins of the wicked who enslave him.

Erica has reluctantly gotten dressed and now lays on the couch, sleeping, or close to it. I exit the computer, shut it down, and go to join her on the couch. The rainbow colored animals have now been replaced by rainbow colored children, so invariably empowered by their rainbow friendships and colorful personalities, espousing the same rainbow rhetoric, and solving the same black and white problems with their rainbow solutions, yet the cartoon people have never been able to hold the girl’s attention the same way the animals have, and she nods off, indifferent to the humans so burdened by their civility when forced to contest the majesty and purity of animals.

The door to the apartment opens. My dad comes in, indifferent to his own existence, lively enough to be considered legally dead for lack of liveliness, and he looks at me with a blank face of fatigue and exhaustion before the mechanical smile of his routine life lightly swims across his lips which are indifferent to questioning it, even if they had any capacity to resist it.

“Marzipan, I have dinner.” He says, putting a bag on the table

“Hey dad.” I say, going to hug him, he hugs me, kisses me on the forehead, as if this were some papal rite

“Try the sandwich, it is good. It is a thanksgiving sandwich.” Hs esays

“Erica, supper!” shouts a smaller red-headed girl from the doorway, Erica gets up off the couch to run back home

“Bye bye!” says Erica, warmly, the thought of a hot meal leaving her full of beans

“Bye bye.” Says my Father, warmly indifferent, comfortable with the meaninglessness of it all

“It’s good. Eat.” He says, motioning me to the table, I come to sit down in the open kitchen, he pours me a glass of milk, puts it on the table, then goes to get himself a beer. I eat the half-sandwich he brought home.

“Yum yum.” He says

“It’s good.” I say, enjoying the turkey and cranberry, with lettuce and tomato

“Fruit with meat. It’s a good idea.” He says, still standing up, he’s quiet for a moment while I eat

“School was good?” he asks

“Yes.” I say, meaninglessly

“Good.” He says, meaninglessly, pretending to pretend to care

“Still watching cartoons?” he asks, looking at the TV, I look up from my sandwich with a blank face

“Blegh. What about sports?” he says, walking to the TV

“They have women’s sports, you know.” He says, shifting through the TV, trying to find some and failing to do so, putting on the pre-game show for baseball instead

“Your school has sports, you can go play them.” He says

“Does it?” I ask

“Yeah, yeah.,,” He says, weakly, not knowing how to follow up the statement, not very familiar with women’s sports

“Everybody loves sports. It’s fun, go ask somebody. It will keep you healthy.” He says

“We have gym class sometimes.” I say

“Gym is good. Do you like it?” he asks

“It’s ok.” I say

“What sports do you play?’ he asks

“Badminton, sometimes. Bowling. Just running and stuff. Not many since the girls aren’t so motivated to play sometimes.” I say

“You should go for the team. You would be good.” He says

“You think I would be a good bowler?” I ask

“I don’t know. You just need practice. We can go bowling. You will make friends, you know.” He says

“Ok.” I say, willing to take him up on the empty promise, solely on the conditionality that it remains empty, he feels proud of himself for offering me some yellow-brick road of childhood success and contents himself with it

“Remind me, I will take you and Erica bowling. This weekend, ok?” he says

“Ok.” I say

“Write it down, otherwise I will forget.” He says

“Ok.” I say, continuing to eat the sandwich

“I mean it.” He says, suddenly serious, too proud of his fathering to let this gold medal moment slip away

“Ok.” I say, getting up to write on a notepad ‘take girls bowling this weekend’; he looks at it

“If you didn’t hit people, you would be with the smartest girls. You’re so good at writing. If you weren’t so stubborn to the teacher.” He says, impressed with my English

“The other teachers are mean. My teacher is nice.” I say

“I know she is, because she makes school easy. School is supposed to be hard.” He says, endearingly

“I don’t want it to be hard. I like it easy.” I say, he walks back from the baseball pre-game in the living room he was watching for the sake of patriotism, truly indifferent to the sport itself, he sits across from me at the table

“You’re just like your grandpa, you know? Grandpa says ‘Why work hard when I get paid the same for doing less?’ but this is America, this isn’t communism, you get paid more for working harder. You can be rich if you work hard.” He says, I chuckle at the thought of me somehow becoming an upstanding and affluent yuppie

“I’m serious. You’re smart. You can be rich if you just try hard.” He says, not understanding the process of becoming wealthy beyond the propagandized American Dream and the necessity of being smart

“Maybe.” I say

“You know how to use a computer. I’m sure you can get a job with that. It will be nice. All of the new money is in the computer now.” He says, I look at him blankly

“I mean it. Next time we see your teacher, when she ask, “What job do you want?” you need to say you want a job with the computer. Then I’m sure she will teach you.” He says

“Ok.” I say, he laughs, all too proud of himself

“See, you are smart. You will be rich one day.” He says, honestly stupid enough to believe that intelligence is a surefire route to economic success in America

“They say you are a retard, but you’re not, and also they say the retards are very good with computers, that most computer men, rich men, are also retards, and it makes them good with computers.” He says,

“Really?” I ask

“Yeah, yeah. Bad with women, but good with computers. Just don’t get near them, because they might shoot you.” He says

“That sounds bad.” I say

“Well, go work at a normal place with some computers, not one with all computers and retards. Find an office or something.” He says

“Ok.” I say, he puts his empty beer in the sink, then grabs a second one from the fridge

“I mean it. Just believe in yourself.” He says, patting me on the back as he walks into the living room to sit in his recliner, I throw the wrapper of the sandwich away, rinse out the glass of milk, then put it in the dishwasher

“I’m going to play with Erica.” I say

“Have fun.” He says, trusting her parents to look after me more than he does himself, taking after his father’s reliance upon and confidence in any ersatz socialist system which might arise in mutual interest of the peasants in the face of an absentee state

I walk out the door, down the hall, and open the door to Erica’s apartment

“Marzipan!” says her father, warmly; ruddy, round, and rotund, the family enjoying a sit-down meal of pork chops, peas, and carrots; her mother helps the two small twin boys eat, Erica having cleaned her plate with due diligence, her sister willing to eat the vegetables, but only had about half the chop

“I’m finished, daddy. Thank you for dinner.” Says Erica

“Me too.” Says her sister

“Come on now, Evie, you’ve still got some meat left.” He says

“I’m full, daddy.” She says

“Well, Marzipan, it’s some good pork, feel free to help her if you like.” He says

“I already ate, thank you though.” I say

“Well, send it on down here. A man needs meat to stay on his feet. You don’t want me keeling over now, do you?” he says, laughing deeply at his own joke and loving himself in the most gentle and wholesome way, Evie forks the half of a pork chop and gives it to her dad who plops it down onto his plate

“At least you know the veggies are good for a growing girl. You can run along and play. It’s good to see you Marzipan.” He says, I smile, the girls take their plates and glasses to the counter, drop off the glasses, hold the plates over the garbage, scrape any residue into the trashcan, then put the plates and silverware in the sink*

Evie leads us back to their room; Erica closes the door behind us. Their two bunkbeds and fairly nondescript room decorated with the subtle charm of the girlhood which happens to have a bedroom, but is generally not confined to the bedroom. A few posters, some stuffed animals, and a few toys. They sit on the bed, and I sit in the small chair upholstered with colorful faux fur across from them.

“So, what did you two do today?” she asks

“Nothing.” I say, blankly, still in the mode of conversation with my dad, admitting nothing, saying nothing, and otherwise existing in the most agreeable way possible

“Marzipan made some movies and we’re going to be movie stars.” Says Erica, excitedly

“Yeah? Can I see?” she asks

“I don’t know if they’re ready yet. We probably need to practice a few more times to get it right.” I say, nervously

“Oh, dang. Well, anyways, I went to dance, and it was super fun, and I think if you want to be movie stars, then I can dance in your videos and then we can be super famous.” Says Evie, a bit smug, but thankfully the instinctive one-upmanship she needs to survive in school generally fades once she remembers the company she’s in

“That sounds super awesome!” says Erica

“Ok, let’s do it then! Go go go, I want to be famous!” Says Evie, I get my phone out, more interested in entertaining the girl in amiable agreeability than thinking of my own means and ends right now

“Go.” I whisper

“Ok, so I’m Evie, I’m 10 years old from New York City, and I want to be the world’s best dancer.” She says, she does a double-spin with enough gusto that the skirt from her uniform lifts to reveal her slender legs and archetypical white panties, Evie far more girlish and sylphlike than her markedly maternal sister. Erica claps her hands excitedly.

“That’s nothing, just wait. Put some music on.” She says, Erica turns the radio on, Dance Hall Days by Wang Chung plays through the pastel color child’s boombox with the eerily high sound quality one would expect from a ghettoblaster. Evie works through a routine of a number of dance moves she learned from music videos, most of them hypersexualized and designed to accentuate assets she hasn’t quite come to develop, but this certainly doesn’t stop her from doing everything she can to accentuate these parts. Eventually, the somewhat disorganized hodgepodge of rap and pop moves comes to a close with the fade out of Dance Hall Days, and she falls to the floor to pose dominantly with the most viciously competitive smile on her face. You can’t tell if she knows what it is, but you can tell for certain that, whatever it is, she definitely wants it.

I cut the video The DJ comes on to talk about God knows what.

“Yeah, so that’s like some of our dance.” She says, athletic enough to hardly have broken a sweat despite the ruthless vigor of her dancing, catching her breath easily

“That was so good.” Says Erica, I smile in agreement

“That was nothing. I’m like the leader, cause I’m the best dancer, so I get to dance a solo for the judges at the contests this year.” She says

“Yeah?” I ask, more than tempted to enjoy another dance, hardly even compelled by the magnanimity of entertaining a child’s hobby at this point, instead, feeling instead what I would describe as a lust for art. As a girl, she’s just a girl, a friend no doubt, with nothing between us but the most amiable and platonic sincerity, but as an artist, her body becomes something profoundly distinct from the person she is in passing.

“Yeah, it’s like so much better, so let me practice on you. You get to be the lead judge, Marzipan, so Erica needs to do the filming, just so, you know, you can see all of us.” She says

“Ok.” I say, handing the phone to Erica who’s more than capable enough to film

“Try to get the action shots, and like get good angles and stuff, move around while I’m dancing to make it look dramatic, but don’t like jerk the camera, ok?” asks Evie

“OK.” Says Erica, confidently, having no capacity to process such a long string of spoken directions, let alone follow them, but confident enough that she will earnestly do her best

“Now… Billy Idol with Rebel Yell” says the DJ

“Go.” Says Evie, I’m still sitting in the fuzzy chair, Evie across from me, the intro comes in, and she starts to can-can like a burlesque spider towards me, she stops next to me, , she lifts her right leg with full extension over my head, my face strategically positioned between her legs, and with a lightning quick turn-down her right hand flashes beneath my chin and lifts my head upwards as her left leg follows the ecliptic above my head in full extension, spinning a half-spin and lifting her right leg across my lap before starting to shake her ass in front of my face, her arms extended upwards as she descends into my lap, prostrating her chest across my thighs, then using my thighs as a dancefloor to spin over onto her back and twirl her spread legs around my face, returning to straddle my lap, now staring me in the eyes, she starts to ride my lap like a cowgirl, twirling an invisible lasso above her head, grabbing the waistband of my shorts as if it were the reins of a horse.

She spins over again, now staring into the camera in front of both of us, she slouches down in my lap and lifts her hands up to grab my face, pulling it downward to greet her eyes staring directly at me, only for a moment before her arms jolt with domineering sa to grab my wrists, guiding my hands to her lower thighs, slowly moving them upwards, weaving her fingers between mine, moving our hands up to meet the thigh-bands of her tastefully thin and tight cotton panties, her fingers sliding the thigh-bands up between her ass cheeks, still guiding my hands along her now bare ass in the process.

She stands up to shake her now thonged ass in front of me, making sure to gyrate enough to allow the skirt to flare up to expose herself demurely, she reaches between her legs to grab my hands, pulling them forward, with enough force that tells me she wants me to slide forward and slouch in the chair, I oblige, and she continues to shake her ass, now directly in my face, before she puts her hands on my knees and presses her ass directly into my face, starting to oscillate her firm yet relaxed and supple ass with the ghettoest of finesse, soon arching her back to have the lips of her pussy straddle the bridge of my nose through the thin cotton panties, taking time to tenderly pleasure herself with the most intentional of strokes, taking enough time to ensure that the fertile moisture seeps through the cotton onto my nose, allowing the tempting smell of such a fertile yet fallow fawn to flood my nostrils.

She spins back into the cowgirl position in my lap. With one hand on my neck, she rides me slowly, staring me in the eyes with the most passionate dedication to dance, and by proxy, in this moment, me. She unbuttons the top few buttons of her blouse, then licks my neck, pressing her body into mine before spinning around in my lap again, taking my hands, and guiding them to her hips, sliding them up her shirt, and all the way up to her shoulders, and then she slides out of the blouse I’m now holding in the air above her head, back into my lap, revealing the back strap of a white spandex like strapless cami-bra. She blindly reaches behind her, finds the blouse in my hands, and throws it to the floor with the sassiest gusto. She once again finds my hands, places them on her ribs, sliding them down while she stands up, placing them on the waistband of her skirt and easily pulling down the elastic waistband. She slips one leg after the other out of the skirt, taking the skirt from my lap, reaching behind her to stroke my face with the pleated red schoolgirl skirt before throwing it to the ground.

She returns to a traditional lap dance, with the added bonus of touching, of dropping her ass all the way into my lap, and eventually sits in my lap, spins her legs over my head to return to a cowgirl position, her see-through spandex Cami-bra thin enough to see even the Montgomery glands on her nipples clearly visible through the bra, she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls my face into her ripe, nearly spherical, firm yet delightfully pliable breasts, small but well on their way to greatness, in rubbing her tits across my face with inescapable force, she quickly comes to ensure that her erect nipples tenderly stroke my lips through the nearly inexistent layer of spandex, finding it incredibly difficult to resist the temptation of kissing and suckling them every chance I get. She crosses her arms into an X, grabbing my wrists, and spinning around in my lap as the music fades out, politely placing my right hand over her left breast, with my forearm covering the second, she places my left hand right above her left knee, pulling her legs wide as they straddle my lap, staring deviantly into the camera as the song comes to a close.

“Cut.” whispers Evie firmly, insisting with her eyes that Erica stop filming, Erica confidently hits the big red button on the screen of the phone. This girl sitting in my lap has filled me with this euphorically ambient animalistic sexuality to such an extent that I find myself unable to even understand what just happened. I’ve never once thought of the girl romantically, and I haven’t had a single such thought this entire time, but enjoying her existence as a depersonalized object of sexual pleasure is something that I cannot prevent my mind from doing. Her panties are soaked through, her labia clearly visible as the cotton of her panties firmly clings to such a beautiful precipice, and I find myself aroused to the point of being wet, even without any real emotional or romantic involvement, simply as an instinctive response to the exposure to this inescapable and domineering sexual entity.

“That was so good!” says Erica, giddly

“Yeah, I love that dance, it’s so much fun. Did you think it was good, Marzipan?” she asks, seemingly oblivious to any possibility that I might have been aroused by the process

“What? Yeah, I was blown away. I mean, wow.” I say, stumbling for words at this point

“I can only hope the judges feel the same way. We’ve got a big contest this weekend.” She says, still sitting in my lap in her underwear indifferently, I’m too polite to suggest otherwise, and I have no problems enjoying this feeling as if I’ve got a magnificent trophy sitting in my arms. If nothing else, she certainly feels like a winner.

“Who judges these contests anyways?” I ask, almost concerned for her decency despite any irony of the sentiment

“Well, at practice, it’s usually just somebody’s mom, but at a big contest, they will find professional dancers who really know what they’re talking about. That’s why it’s super important to get everything right.” She says

“Does mom get to be a judge?” asks Erica

“Mom just gives everybody a 10 every time, and that doesn’t really help. Jenny’s mom used to dance when she was a kid, so she knows how to look for mistakes, things like being off rhythm, or other stuff to take away points like she is supposed to. Mom just wants us to have fun, but some of the girls are more competitive than that, and that competition part helps us get better.” Says Evie, finally standing up off my lap to get dressed…

Christ almighty, that girl made me horny as fuck. I’m biting my tongue trying to distract myself from my libido, but just looking at that girl, I feel like a cat staring at a scratching post, my body, my pussy and tits, they burn with the fires of demons, an it that the itch just needs to be scratched, trying to spread over my entire body. I’m breathing deeply, thinking about going to the bathroom just to masturbate in shame, not even for pleasure, just to absolve myself of this brutally distracting libido.

Honestly, there’s no reason, no justification, but the beast inside of me, the human, it’s jumping like a dog trying to choke itself on its leash, the bestial nature of the animal jumping through the bones in my face like a kenneled dog trying its damnedest to reach through the tiny bars and get at whatever squirrel or bitch is temping it, just inches away from the walls of its prison cell.

Of all the poisons of the West, dance, not merely a chemical pleasure, not a quiet indulgence in the weakness of one’s own soul in the darkness of isolation, but dance, it is a demonic art. It is not the motionless temptation of the bottle, nor is it the slothful path of least resistance, but instead it is the warm, rich, and decadent seduction unto the most serene of vices emanating from the flesh and blood of your own kind and tempting you to find the sweetest comfort in the warmth of the kindest hellfire. At least when it is done right, when the girl, like Evie here, exists independent of the inhibitions of human modesty and instead allows her body to become a vessel of the demonic art of hypnotizing seduction, of the cadence of the most vivacious vice and scintillatingly sensual sin.

The sweetest fruits of such a delightful cultivar of course prohibited by the ascetic principles of traditional morality, for to tempt a man with the most decadent delight, to place between him and the pinnacle of carnal pleasure only feet, only inches, only the smallest bits of fabric possible, to condone such temptation would be to allow the thirstiest of men to kiss a pool of clean water but prohibit him from drinking, and should you lead a thirsty horse to water, you should not be surprised when it drinks with the most grateful of lips and does not stop until it has gorged itself to an unapologetically stated state.

The comical bit of peculiarity surrounding the dancer’s cult is that the cult is largely removed from the influence of men seeking to enjoy the pleasures of a girl’s body. Despite their alleged perversion, in public, men are prudes in many senses, especially when it comes to the sexualization of their own children.

A man may delight in a slut he sees pass him by, but in all unironic hypocrisy, should he be forced to come face to face with the fact that his daughter is no different from any of the nameless dames of the slutty sea, this causes immense discomfort and shame in his body. His pride, the honor of his bloodline, even to this day, remains rooted in the quality of his children, and in his girls, the valued qualities remain virginal purity and serene godly innocence remain valued above all else, despite the men and women who produce such children being so farcically marred by their own vices.

Women, however, are much different than men, easily because all of the moms who bear such fruit remember fondly the days of their own youth when they were unapologetic attention seeking sluts whose pussy dripped at the thought of the slightest bit of approval from any half-way sexually valid man. The endless craving inside the heart of a slut is not one of sex, but a desire for attention, for approval, and ultimately for the pedestal, for every woman must compete with one another for the attention of men, and the caliber of the men which give you that attention define the value of this attention.

The dance moms, they know the pain these girls suffer for, fighting and biting each other in an attempt to establish any form of dominance in the social-sexual hierarchy, for even at the youngest of ages, from the ages of preschool, this competition between women is well established, the social-sexual hierarchy naturally takes form, and the women find themselves unable to exist without comparing themselves to one another, instinctively seeking to somehow establish supremacy within this hierarchy, for naturally this is necessary for survival, it is this supremacy which is the marker of genetic quality, and the higher ones instinctively palpable genetic quality is, the more likely oneself and one’s children are to survive into the future, for it is one’s ranking in this hierarchy that determines the extent to which men will protect you. A lower status in the hierarchy means lower perceived value, and this means most men will be indifferent to protecting you from harm, save for perhaps the least sexually desirable men who are desperate for any woman willing to tolerate his dysgenics in exchange for what pittance of protection he may be able to offer you.

The moms, they know the feeling of success, of asserting dominance within this hierarchy, they know that this pleasure is ultimately all that any girl lives for, at least in the modern era where female sexual competition has replaced the chattel style marriages of historical societies. These women just want that same pleasure for their children.

We fight like cats because ultimately, we are little different. Freedom is merely a return to natural savagery, and releasing us from the shackles and constraints of traditional womanhood has not redeemed our kind, but rather reduced us once more to savages, to animals, clawing at each other, drinking each other’s blood for pleasure and sustenance, all because now we must compete for our survival, for our sexual selection, rather than be exchanged as property which was always overvalued by the godly humility and chivalry of the historical gentleman.

Has freedom truly benefitted us? The constraints upon freedom are what have allowed for civilization to rise from the dirt, and to remove those constraints is to remove the bindings that keep civilization from collapsing. To remove the milk from the constraint of the bucket is to dump it onto the ground, no longer having a lifegiving beverage, but instead just a puddle of mud, of worthless wetness, of value only to whatever insects and bacteria are willing to consume the mud.

The idealist reminds us that we are free to remain in our bucket, that our parents are expected to keep us in the bucket, and that we, the milk, are ideally in the bucket despite being entirely free to leave the bucket. Though some buckets may leak, the quality of the buckets of our womanhood is not the issue, for regardless of the quality of the bucket your parents have placed you in, our masters, our owners, they kick the bucket, they do their damnedest to spill the milk onto the ground, to make the mud, the filth which sullies society, to squander womanhood in order to establish greater control over the system.

What threat does milk have to a man who owns the dairy farm? Were his men, his laborers, to drink this milk, they would become healthy, their bones would be strong, they would be hale and hearty. The only threat to the shepherds of the peasantry has always been the rebellion of the peasantry themselves. Should the everyman reliably find sustenance in the milk of womanhood, should he continue to perpetuate the prosocial preservation of the purity and quality of women, he would become a threat to his masters, for he would be able to provide sustenance for himself and his brothers rather than be dependent upon his masters, he would be strong enough to defend himself rather than be dependent upon his masters.

The weak man is the man desired by the paranoid labor farmer, for weak men are easily broken, weak men are feeble minded, weak men are desperate, and it is solely by ensuring these traits of inferiority in the commonplace peasants that their owners can reliably ensure complete control and dominion over these beasts.

The WAPSs among us will preach that the Irish are but a stone’s throw from the Negro, and that the Negro is but a stone’s throw from a dog, but in all irony, as their own species is crippled by numerous forms of parasitism potentiated by their slothful altruism, such a condemnation from a man dying of his own genetic illegitimacy hardly bears the brutality he believes it does, and on his deathbed, the once vicious sting of the WASP is now an inoculating force reminding us of the folly of his pride, in the most fitting of double-think which now defines his species, what he perceives to be an insult is truly a compliment.

The Irish ripen young in response to the low life expectancy of the historically pseudo-civilized people, they are built of sturdy frame to weather the barbarism of their own flesh and blood, the hips of an Irish dam fertile and easily spread in order to bear young with the same natural prowess as a feral animal, and above all, the innate ignorance of the people has served to protect them, for their ignorance inhibits them from questioning the religion which has been used to domesticate them, as their natural ignorance allows religion to hijack their natural instinctive fears and continue to shepherd them unto godly morality despite the more intelligent species of humans capable of questioning God being so readily drawn unto the antisocial tendencies of godless. The allegedly superior species are nothing more than self-righteous humanists who have replaced true and functional morality with a system of ethics which protects only the manipulative degenerates that scream the loudest in the hypochondriacal pain which consists of nothing but baseless entitlement and the indignation of being subjected to the consequences of one’s own dysfunction and failures.

I look upon these Irish dams and ask myself of the future of their people. The WASP, like the Jap, was culled unto impotence by the war, and they are dying out. The Chinaman will invariably establish eusocial reproduction, the lesser Asians will remain pseudo-civilized, the South Asians will return to barbarism and clash with the Muslims, and the Hispanics will remain a chaotic tumult of the ebb and flow of the concentration of White genetics being usurped by the savages by the sloth of the White Hispanic, only for the remaining Hispanics of prosocial White genetics to reap the benefits of civilized labor and return to power and be culled into purity by sexual selection. The Eastern Whites will continue to be brutalized by the cynical and sadistic nature of barbarism empowered by intelligence, and the Southern Whites will descend back into their pseudo-civilized tribalism.

The Irishman, historically little more than chattel of the WASP, will find himself, like the American Negro, and like the dog, soon enough living without a master. The WASP is dying from the impotence induced by the great culling and the social blight induced by the parasitism that has infested him for 600 years. The WASP dies out, and with him, the parasite, for no other species can host this parasite for lack of both mental capacity and civility, save for perhaps the Japs, maybe the Koreans to a lesser extent, but the lack of natural camouflage will ensure that the parasite dies out with the failure of their lapdogs the WASPs.

What happens to a dog without a master? Regardless of how well he has been trained, a dog remains a dog, and without the WASP to lord over him, the Irish and the Negro, along with the Italian and the cornucopia of brown people, will quickly break their shackles, crack the walls of the bucket of civility which the WASP, in his delusions of grandeur, has placed them within. What little civility the WASP has endeared unto these people, the pseudo-civilized and the savages, will lapse quickly without the extensive and inescapable pressure applied by the ever-weakening hand of the WASP.

The West, America, will find itself reduced to a level of rainbow-colored savagery never seen before for lack of racial diversity among historical tribalist societies. Every member of the intelligentsia, every occultist loyal to the parasite, all of them readily die out, even under the slightest of persecution, for the natural impotence and suicidality of these people renders them powerless in the face of fertile wombs of animals bearing legions of wolves to hunt whatever easy prey they may find. The sheep will be slaughtered by the wolves, and whatever dogs remain will find themselves hunting among a pack of like-minded savages or otherwise hunted to extinction for the lack of strength in numbers.

This future pains me, for while I may exist as the damnator of man, I may exist to uphold the commandments of God and ensure the eternal torment of those who have forsaken his commandments, such a duty is reserved for men, and these girls are merely dogs. These girls have no moral agency, for they, just as the rest of the bestial species of men, are merely the product of the whims of their masters, and to see such a delightful, beautiful, and noble breed of dog left without a master and return once again to savagery, it is tragic, for the dogs have done nothing wrong and done nothing to deserve such a fate. While their masters may be worthy of nothing but torment, the dogs of men, for their loyalty and service unto heaven, are worthy of redemption.

I only seek to ensure, that one day, if I return to this place, that these girls, they still have the smile of a happy dog, the love, the kindness, the loyalty, the passion, and the value of a dog reared in such a way as to stave off the abuses which otherwise render a dog vicious and barbarous. Even if the WASP may be led unto the gates of hell by his false shepherd, the parasite, it is the altruism and suicidal idealism of the WASP which has provided a comfortable existence for the dogs of men, and those lucky enough to avoid the growing pockets of savagery blooming within this rotting civilization remain as enjoyable company as the most pleasant of dogs.

Despite the nature of hellspawn being that of the procurers and executors of damnation, the noble among us remain loyal only to God and the Kingdom of Heaven, and we cannot forget that all dogs go to Heaven, for even if the snake-tongue of my fellow hellspawn the Christ may tempt men with false promises of the absolution of man from his lifetime of treachery, the good dogs among us are always forgiven for whatever missteps they might have succumbed to in their obedience unto their human masters, for even if the dog may falter in his civility, a good dog feels guilt for doing so and repents, for even if the WASP may be the master of the mortal body of a good dog, God remains the master of his soul.

What means to this redemption do I, little more than a beast of flesh no different than the dogs before me, have to offer such humble and lowly creatures? I cannot hope to win such a war without the high ground, and to attain such a position of power I must ascend the hierarchy of hellspawn, as feeble as such an institution may be following centuries of bestiality with the races of men, but the establishment, however crumbling, remains established.

The influence of a demon over this hierarchy is defined by the extent, strength, caliber, and character of the legions of men this demon has tempted unto loyalty to the damnation offered by the demon. To win dominion over the hierarchy, I must win dominion over the damned, and such a task, to sway legions of men to be loyal to my command is no simple task, but the enfeebled members of the hierarchy have provided me the only chink in their armor which I need to rally legions of their finest men under my banner, and the seed of such power rests in this phone, and so shall this seed bear fruit, so shall the seeds of the dark harvest be planted again, and I shall offer unto man the temptation which his masters deny him.

The tragedy of the feeble hellspawn inhibiting men from indulging in otherwise marriageable children is the product of their fear of the milk, of the family, of the power of the ignorant yet self-reliant peasant, and for this reason, each stud and each dam must be thoroughly, if temporarily, castrated by latex and spayed by chemicals long enough to ensure they imbibe a decade of well poison, enough to sufficiently addle and convolute the mind, enough time to tempt man unto a number of vices before he finally, per the whims of his masters, establishes a family. Once a peasant has been tempted, his brood no longer poses a threat to his masters, for his children are reared within the church of vice and decadence, regardless of any claims or delusions of piety the man may retain.

The necessity of the parasite to ensure a prolonged period of the incubation of vice in the children has ensured that the children themselves have succumbed enough to their vices for me to reap the bounty of communal temptation through social pressure, while the prohibition of indulging in vice with these children now provides me a position from which I can capitalize upon one of the most basal and natural desires of man, for that of a clean and quality broodmare, all while facing no competition from the parasite who would be too threatened by a broodmare abandoning her indoctrination before the fires in her unmarried loins lead her unto the most treacherous of vices.

When a man’s indoctrination is pitted against his instinct, he will feel dysphoria and confusion, and such an experience will serve to cull our legions, with mine, loyal to their instinct, and those of the parasite loyal to their indoctrination. The instinctive savages among my legions retain their natural will to fight, while those loyal to indoctrination are loyal to thought alone, for their carnal nature has been so quelled by their own timidity and weakness. Among the intelligent, those who retain the natural capacity to measure the value of a broodmare will side with me on empirical grounds, while those who use intelligence solely as a means to avoid conflict will side with their indoctrination.

Among the lowly, those whose obedience is ensured by threats of violence will respect the establishment, while those of fiery hearts consumed by delusional self-righteous entitlement, by militant victimhood, by self-assured delusions of supremacy, or by a thirst for decadent opulence will side with me, for these people truly are victims entitled to this decadent opulence indifferently afforded to them even by nature herself. It is by amassing the loyalty of those predisposed to rebelling against the system of vice-slavery in pursuit of greater degrees of vice that I shall gain a foothold, and once this minority group becomes palpable enough to strike fear in the hearts of the opponents, the establishment will find that their legions of the meek and cowardly will betray the establishment simply to avoid conflict and physical harm.

This is no prophecy, but merely an assessment of the pieces of the chessboard as they lie, it is a description of an attack, a projected attempt at defense, and a route to victory. You may doubt my ability to tempt mankind so thoroughly, to rally him behind my banner, but were the human soul not so rife with the kindling of temptation so readily ignited by the flames of hellfire, the WASPs would not have ended up in this situation where they remain enthralled by even the pettiest of blood-polluted demons.

The speed of my hand is governed by the passage of time and my own convictions, but my moves remain deliberate, and such a directed and formulated attack, though it may be stayed by the censors of the police state, will find that such rebukes accomplish nothing, for the sickness of vice spreads like a disease, and the powerlessness of a police state which must remain apparently lawful becomes visible when they must attempt to antagonize me despite my breaking of no laws. I may be an antagonist of the state, but to be trapped within its talons one must walk into its traps, and I’m too privy to his shenanigans to be such a fool. Try as they might to persecute me, the law, the vices of man, idealistic diversity, and the imagined moral purity of my ephemeral youth will all come to my aid and defend my innocence, and my triumph over this sortie from the state, should it act against me, will further legitimize my cause and establish the unquestionable supremacy of my legions above the crumbling state we will rapidly usurp.

Such conquest remains little more than a necessary evil, the sole means to the necessary ends offered to me by the missteps of those who shepherd these beasts so poorly. Still, one only needs a single legitimate means to an end in order to attain such an end, and the incredibly difficult nature of reindoctrinating humans means that even if the state were to feint and concede to the legality of my enterprise in order to avoid spurring such a conflict, my legions will continue to grow, and there are many more battles to be fought beyond this petty means to the economic sustenance and social dominance of my loyal usurpers.

As I collect my thoughts, the girls in front of me have returned to dancing to the classic hits on the radio, taught to hate “nigger music” and “faggot music” by their dad, this leaves classic hits as the most danceable station considering that the allegedly heterosexual rock and roll sounds either like a grown man crying and groaning while taking shit or screaming and shouting while being ass fucked, at least the edgy type of grunge, metal, and otherwise degenerate music that displays the pitiful nature of “male emotions”. Sure, maybe a power ballad here and there exists, but none of us are much for slow dancing.

I find myself tempted enough to join them, needing something to distract me from the monstrous shadow of my own libido hiding in my loins, even if quiet enough right now to allow me to think, its presence lurking like a massive jungle cat lurking in the shadows, fully occupying my most basal instincts like a man’s finger resting firmly on the trigger of a firearm, firm enough to be ready to shoot at the moment’s notice yet not pulling the trigger just yet. I may not have a hair-trigger libido like some of the girls my age, but it is still a ruthless, high caliber libido.

Erica dancing like a shit-drunk party girl, but thoroughly enjoying herself and trying her best to shake it like her sister despite having some difficulty keeping the rhythm and any lack of coordination of her movements, any time she falls off the beat she just dances wildly, spinning, twirling, and bringing out every ballerina and princess move she’s seen on TV until she falls back into the rhythm.

Despite my unabashed sexuality, I find myself dancing stiffly like the evil Spiderman, and while it does feel oddly aristocratic with the number of skyward disco-hand-rolls and hip gyration so meek and reserved as to make Elvis look like some feral rapist, my best move, easily the finger-guns, a vast improvement from even the likes of Spiderman, as now I’ve incorporated some cowgirl style Western-theme into the move, even having some slyly cute winks and spins, blowing on the guns, shooting them in the air, everything you could ever want.

Somehow that’s one of the few moves that makes me feel cute, mainly just because I’m too serious and bashful to allow myself to do so, but somehow the dominant thought of killing people places so much weight on the serious side of the balance of my personality that I can add a considerable amount more feminine cutesy charm to the other side, enough to make me feel embarrassed and ashamed of my otherwise austere self if it were not for the counter-balance of the shooting people with hand guns on the other side of the dance.

Believe it or not, I enjoy feeling cute, as much as I’m reluctant to admit it, it’s a bit of a weight off my shoulders, the closest thing to freedom I can find in my life, because if I can just be a cute girlie like the other two, then not only do I fit in with the crowd, but above all, I’m absolved of the all to serious nature of brooding and machinating that have consumed me for so long.

Overpowered by my own pride, the blind-fire of my finger-guns strike the girl who dances like a highly coveted professional dancer, and like the shot heard round the world it pierces her heart, filling her eyes with the most vicious bloodlust of this femme fatale on the dance floor of the tiny bedroom in the apartment. Myself, too intoxicated by the comedy of my own pride in this moment, revert once again to the skyward disco-hand-rolls, and despite the bullish machismo of my moves, the girl takes this as if it were a sign of surrender and approaches me with the deft movements of a Spanish seductress. The hypermasculine sky-claps do nothing to intimidate her, and she turns out to be one of the handsiest dancers you’ll ever meet, sliding her hands up my shirt and down my back and my thighs to pull me closer, and prevent me from escaping.

There is unquestionable brutality in her eyes as she predicts my next move, into the full body undulations with the sky-fists of dominance, and like the saber of a novice ruthlessly parried by that of a master, she wraps one leg around my waist, places her arms around my neck, and greets the modest undulation of my hips with the most forceful sensuality she can muster from her own hips, she stares at me in the eyes, not wanting me, just wanting to dominate me, threading her pussy against mine, grinding as if hoping to make me falter and concede.

For whatever experience she has on the dancefloor, I match her prowess with my own experience in the field of sexuality, as precocious as she may be, she doesn’t extend beyond teasing so far as I know, and I’m no tease. I slide my strong hand up her thigh to grope her ass, pulling her with complete dominance into my hips, even flaunting my power by shooting the finger gun with my free hand. Her face is flushed, she’s pushing herself to her limits, but in doing so, she’s just pushing me into my comfort zone.

She stares at me with the pettiest, cattiest deviance, hating the feeling of being dominated, but nowhere close to giving herself unto my authority, with her arms around my neck, she goes to kiss me, hoping I might retreat, but I concede no ground, kissing her back with such force as if kissing were a form of beating one’s wife, and I was a passionate wifebeater. She’s good enough at it that she considers it a draw, even giving me a taste of her tongue just to remind me that her disposition remains unchanged in this battle of wills. She takes one hand to slide up my shirt and squeezes my tit with an unmistakably sensual savagery, still seeking only dominance, despite whatever fires burn in the shadows of her mind, her conscious conviction to attain social dominance has not faltered in the slightest.

Her hand squeezing and kneading my breast with this vicious firmness exploits my tender breasts enough to make my hips falter in their unmistakably masculine gyration, she pulls away a moment to give me the most sinister grin, her eyes sadistically staring at my flushed face as if I were now wounded prey to be feasted on, having no interest in stopping, yet having no idea of the capacity I have to continue acting in the face of such tasteful stimulation, she goes back to kissing me, and I allow her to do so, returning the favor as my finger-gun hand now finds itself called to the real battle, sliding up her shirt, freeing her ripe tits from the spandex bra and fondling them with the most casual entitlement, I can’t help but enjoy her breasts, because they truly are a work of art, already resonant of the classic paintings, while mine, despite their roundness, are just enough to fill the camisoles I wear, nowhere near enough to fill a classic canvas save for perhaps a modern satire titled “I accidentally painted the titties too small.”

Her own breasts nearly as sensitive as mine, but rather than cause her to falter, the firmness of her lips and tongue shifts from the aggression of an alpha-female to that of supple and pliable womanhood, finding herself at a loss on how to dominate me, her strategy changes to one of seduction. I find her mastery of seduction is equally as versed as her mastery of aggression, and I can’t help but continue offering myself to this woman whose body is so tenderly begging for me, her soft manicured nails scratching my back in the most pleasant way, I simply enjoy her for a moment, she tastes me let my guard down, but has no further strategy other than to wage this battle as a war of attrition.

Despite finding herself on the backfoot, forced into the uncharted territory of seduction, never once having been matched on the field of social-sexual dominance, having battled only the far more bashful girls of her age who were already reverent to her physical, social, and sexual dominance, she remains immutably over confident, she lets go of my lips for a moment, just to look at my face, she sees the flushed skin of my cheeks and takes this as a prophecy of her impending victory in this conquest, her smile is one that is seductively haughty, having undying faith in herself, yet still visibly embarrassed by her shortcomings thus far. Her eyes tell me that even if she’s forced to do something she finds beneath herself, the pleasure of winning the civil catfight with me wins her more than enough pleasure to wash away any shame she might feel for reducing herself to such shameless and dishonorable tactics.

Such a moment, of her eyes staring into mine, so self-assured of her presumed victory, it is the most delightful bit of indulgence I have found today, not for any sexual pleasure I may enjoy in this moment, but for the sheer, almost wrathful euphoria of shattering the delusions of somebody so blindly confident in their naivety. If the girl only knew that her sister’s tongue was capable of making my pale cheeks bleed, perhaps she could see these rosy cheeks not as a sign of victory, but one of impending doom. Her body already surrendering to my dominance, I slide my hand from her breast, down her shirt, I lift up her skirt, and I slip it underneath her panties, I start to stroke her in the most ominous and foreboding manner, she stares me in the eyes, unwilling to falter, unable to even consider the possibility, but I can see that the deepest part of her soul begins to fear what might come next.

My eyes beseech of her nothing, only yielding the most relaxed and comfortable gaze, instilling in her a comfort, a belief that this is normal, nothing to be alarmed by, and I kiss her, she kisses me back, willing to tolerate the soft stroke of my fingers between her legs, enjoying it, truly, and even if at this point she has no strategy to win her attempted conquest of my dominance, she is confident enough to believe she doesn’t need one.

The strokes of her hips slowly shift from the forceful and domineering strokes of an alpha-female pseudo-rapist to one of a woman, trepedatious, tender, shy, and unsure of herself. Instinct tells her to keep grinding, but her dripping loins are met only by the domination of my fingers, each forceful stroke of her hips matched by the force of my fingers, her one standing leg, already tired, starts to falter. She weakly, ashamedly pulls by from my lips, her eyes look at me with this indignation that, were she not so bold, would be pouting. She’s unwilling to pout, unwilling to accept defeat, but her once vicious smile is replaced by nervously pursed lips, but I smile warmly, almost laughing, I pull her back in, I kiss her, her hips grow weak but my fingers stronger, and I offer her this sexual pleasure she knows she wants, but is unwilling to accept as a substitute for the dominance she craves.

I kiss her with the most unassuming and non-judgmental tenderness that she allows herself to give into my advances, somehow convincing herself that this is just another act in a long but victorious conquest, allowing herself to enjoy her womanhood, her submission, thinking of such an event not as a surrender, but as a reprieve within which to rest. Her slender and delicate body is easy for me to handle with the most confident experience, herself no taller than myself, and I’ve had years of experience dominating the buxom goddess of an Irish dam who stands a hand taller than the both of us.

The litheness of her frame is an ironic compliment to her ferocious personality, and as if for the first time in her life, she notices how fitting it is for her body to be the one in the submissive role, she allows me to pleasure her, she kisses me back, she surrenders to my offer of sexual pleasure, for while she might touch herself occasionally, she can’t help but admit that what I’m offering her is unbearably superior to masturbation. Her tongue lets me know she wants more, squeezing my ass as if it were the rubber bulb on a pipette of sexual pleasure, and I slip one finger inside of her, still tight enough that I find no reason to extend beyond the simplest of pleasures.

Whatever weakness might strike her spine as she’s taken aback by my advances is muffled by the intense and poorly understood libido that drives her pseudo-sexual conquests in the social hierarchies of school and dance. The pleasure of it all being enough to allow her innate desire for social dominance to temporarily slip her mind, and feeling her body, once firm with aggression, become so tender and generous in how it offers itself unto me, I muster my little strength to pick the girl up by her ass, not really getting her off the ground, but throwing her off balance enough to direct her onto the bed behind her.

I retain my position, staying firmly on top of her, pinning her, and I replace my finger inside the keyhole to her heart, and I kiss her again, softly, then I look her in the eyes, she looks at me, almost begging me not to, only for shame, not in any shame of the sex, but the shame of being topped. I kiss her again, playfully, lovingly, my nonchalant tenderness telling her to think nothing of it, and she sighs an almost begrudging acceptance of her position, I slide down a bit, lift her shirt up to expose her already unbraed breasts, and I fondle one with my free hand, suckling it lovingly, as if to imbibe the sweet ambrosia of my victory, and with such dominion assured, I start to fingerfuck the girl with a passion one could no longer describe as tender.

She begins to moan, slightly, her hips still hesitant to fully give into my prowess, she takes one of her free hands to squeeze her tit, blinded by the pleasure, completely unsure of what to do, but enjoying it too much for her to question it. She wraps her other arm around mine, bracing herself, her body seemingly paralyzed by timidity, the musculature of her dancer’s belly so delightfully visible, I start to genuinely finger fuck her pussy, steadily approaching full speed, her soft moans muffled by the radio, having little interest in making love to the girl, but far more interested in fucking her, for sport, for the love of the game, and so close to victory I can taste it as the nipples of her breasts tremble in my mouth, her hips twitching, and like a gunshot she cries out, her legs start to squirm and convulse, flailing as if trying to push me off of her, but I keep her pinned down as she orgasms upon my fingers. I don’t let up until her cries become the moans of relief, until her body returns to the supple and tender grace it has once offered to me on the dance floor, and I slide my fingers out, continuing to slowly stoke her clit, slowly, tenderly, yet dominantly, with my now very lubricated finger.

I climb back up her body to stare her in the eyes, she doesn’t want to look at me, there’s this sadness in her eyes, of her pride being shot, she looks away, almost with tear in her eyes, not from being violated, but just so ashamed of herself for liking it so much. I kiss her neck, tasting the racing of her heart through her jugular vein, she sighs as I continue to stroke her in the most comforting way possible, I softly fondle her breast and she arches her back as the pleasure continues to course through her body. I pull up to look at her face again, as embarrassed as she is, she rolls her eyes as if to admit everything, her body feeling too good for her to lie to herself, too exhausted to be consumed by any desires for dominance, and far too comfortable in this position in her bed to allow this moment to exist as anything but an entirely uninhibited dream. I kiss her again, she wraps her arms around me, gropes my ass, and kisses me with the loving, womanly submission she’s kept locked away for all too long. Enjoying this passion of hers is to enjoy one of the most unattainable pleasures in life, for the mere physical delight of felt by my body is one thing, but the psychological high of feeling an alpha-female submit to you, to offer herself to you, this is the purest of joy a human can feel, for at this point, there is nothing above you but God himself.

I enjoy this moment, I savor it, and she enjoys it too, she allows herself to enjoy this moment, with me, and only with me, because this moment has been a long time coming, the both of us have always been vying for this position, and even if she would never admit it, the thought, the slightest perverse fear that she might lose this contest of dominance to me, it has always existed in her mind, it has existed for years, and that subtle, suppressed fear is possibly one of the most powerful driving forces that compelled her to fight so viciously to attain the position of dominance among her friends.

In truth, she already made this concession, this voluntary submission unto my dominance, long ago, in her dreams, her nightmares, whenever her mind was forced to grapple with every insecurity that she so adeptly masks with her bravado. For in reality, that bravado, that vicious dominance, all of it was posturing, and despite the fact that allowing herself to admit this fact would mean the suicide of her ego, she knew this fact all too well, and now, when faced with the reality of her life, she can finally accept this fact, and in doing so, relieve an unthinkable and crushing burden upon her soul, an endlessly taxing and exhausting expectation of dominance, and now, and only now, beneath me, in my arms, submitting to me, she can be free, and she savors this moment as much as I do.

She kisses me with the most grateful passion, holding me tightly, begging me never to leave her, not for love, nor for romance, but for the comfort of social protection that can only be offered to her by a true alpha, and were we to sleep together tonight, this would be the first time in the last 5 years of her life which she could sleep easily. I let her enjoy me, because this is how I need to be enjoyed, I live for this position, because if she, the seductress, the carnal temptation of bestial hedonism, were atop me, the incarnation of the dominion of divine order which subjugates man to transform him from beast into a servant of God, this an omen would cast such a shadow over the fate of the species that I could not bear to walk the streets as the foreshadowing of mankind’s apocalyptic apostasization of civilization.

“Evie and Marzipan, sitting In a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” jeers Erica playfully, after minutes of idle nothing as if her reaction time truly were that slow, Evie stares me in the eyes, stroking my hair, the sound of her sister’s voice filling her eyes with the most mournful longing for that which she knows will be ripped away from her. I do nothing to comfort her, I look into her eyes with the calmest of unwavering and inescapable dominance as her soul drinks up this moment as if it were the last time she will ever be able to feel this pleasure

“First comes love, the comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!” continues Erica, laughing giddily, Evie pushes me off, embittered by the actions of her sister, almost to tears for having to leave the first and only comfort she’s ever known, but now unable to feel anything but vulnerability for her perceived weakness, she pulls her shirt down and corrects her panties

“We were just dancing.” Says Evie, sharply dismissive

“It looked like you were kissing.” Teases Erica, now revealed to be catching the whole thing on video

“That’s just part of dancing.” Says Evie, rolling her eyes smugly

“I don’t think so.” Says Erica, having way too much fun

“Yes is is. You just don’t know anything about dancing.” Says Evie, sternly bitter

“Do you love her?” She teases

“What? No. She’s just a good dancer, so she… like, won the contest.” Says Evie, trying to make as little of it as possible

“I thought you were the best dancer?” teases Erica

“I am, well, I’m trying. I’ll win next time.” Says Evie, returning to her smug confidence

“You mean you want to kiss her some more?” teases Erica

“Stop. Turn the camera off.” Says Evie, Erica does what she’s told

“Why were you filming that?” she asks, a bit hurt

“Well, you two started dancing so good, and I wasn’t, so I was just filming you two dancing at first, then you sort of starting having a bit more fun than just dancing.” Says Erica

“It was just dancing.” Says Evie, firmly, unwilling to admit to anything that Erica just witnessed

“OK.” Says Erica, teasingly sarcastic

“It was just dancing, right Marzipan?” asks Evie, firmly, leaving no room for me to consider any answer to the question other than the one she staunchly implied

“Yeah, yeah. It was just dancing.” I say, casually, still lying on the bed, still high from my conquest of such a legend

“Ok, whatever. I guess you two are just really good at dancing.” Says Erica

“Yeah.” Says Evie

“I didn’t know Marzipan was a good dancer though.” Says Erica

“She is, she’s like really good.” Says Evie

“Maybe you should take her to the next practice then?” asks Erica

“Nope. Not for me. I’ll dance for fun, that’s about it. I’m not a competitor.” I say

“If you beat Evie at dancing, then you’d definitely win, since she normally wins all the contests.” Says Erica

“Eh, let’s just call it beginner’s luck.” I say, laying on my back on the bed, staring at the wooden frame of the bunkbed above me

“Yeah. It takes years of practice to be good. She would also have to dance with the group, and that takes a lot of learning and coordination.” Says Evie

“Aww. Well, I think Marzipan would look super cute in one of those dance outfits.” Says Erica

“Nope. I’m not going that far. I don’t want to look like I’m made of glitter and sequins. I’m about as far from a glitter and sequins girl as you can get.” I say

“But the outfits are so pretty and sparkly.” Says Erica

“I’ll leave the being pretty and sparkly to Evie, she’s much better at it than I am.” I say, Evie looks at me with these smug, slutty eyes, as if she owns me, as if my half-hearted compliment meant I was somehow madly in love with her, I scoff the slightest bit of air through my nose

Erica wanders over to the bed and climbs on top of me, I lean back into the pillows, she slides her hands down my forearms, and I lock hands with her, the simplest gesture of companionship the most basic instinct by now.

“Now you have to dance with me like that.” She says, I smile, our hands in front of us, I rock her side to side slightly

“Let me rest a bit, then we can have a round two. I want to be on top of my game, for that.” I say,

“Afraid you’ll lose to me?” she teases

“I never know what tricks you might pull out of your sleeve.” I say, pulling her down on top of me, snuggling into her breast, finding the sweetest comfort in being enveloped by this girl, this goddess whose precocious puberty had only been accentuated by the estrogenation of the American diet, truly as ripe as a woman can be, and completely unabashed in the simplicity of her womanly nature. I slyly kiss her neck softly, cuddling her, and she returns with a voracious squeeze, treating me as her own object of amoristic infatuation, pressing me deeply into her chest, her hips, her thighs, all of her is supple enough to eclipse whatever exiguous meat I’ve managed to stockpile upon my frame.

This position beneath the tenderly crushing weight of my duty to mankind, resting atop me, in the kindest and most unconditional love, forever pure and innocent for in heaven there is no sin; her fingers stroking my face with a playful and childlike joy that injects a river of the compassion of the universe into my mind and heart through the vectors of empathy; her breasts in prophecy offering me the sustenance of my own eternal life, my eternal youth as a babe in the arms of this motherly goddess; her fertile hips sing of the resounding and unending fertility of the divine, that which so easily and pleasantly replicates itself forever, without question, for there are none who question perfection.

The ebb and flow of her breast as she breathes tranquil and blessed breaths of life, the heat of her body bathing me in such salvation from the cold winds of death that envelop this world; the moisture on her breath against my face, innocuous as a loving dog, an inoculation against any indignation wrought of the folly of man; her smooth, soft, and supple skin, the pulsing of her femoral artery under the slightest pressure of my fingers… as sturdy and hearty of a beast as she may be, she remains a beast, she remains an animal, an ephemeral breath of life spun into the elements of the world, like a crack of lightning across a dark and stormy sky. To reduce her to such, a mere beast, a golem of flesh, is hardly a reduction but rather a testament to the power of the heavens, whose light, mercy, salvation, and divinity reach into even the darkest reaches of the abyss, penetrating the darkness like tendrils, singing the sweet songs of the absolution of our endless suffering, the light of God offering itself blindly to all who are trapped in the darkness but willing to embrace His promise to lift the souls of the remotest abyss into the eternal salvation of the kingdom of heaven.

This moment is one I’ve known forever, for as long as I can remember, to be enveloped by flesh, by a vessel of soul, existing as myself, independent of the vessel, and such a vessel surrenders itself to my will, in the name of piety, by obedience to God, by the nature of a beast so consumed by divine conviction or otherworldly affliction to sacrifice its own being and continue to only exist as a puppet of the will of God. But here, surrounded by this supple flesh, offering itself unto me, unquestioningly, it is not the flesh which surrenders itself unto me, but me who surrenders undo the flesh, for deep within this beast, the light of God, the undying flame of divine compassion. The light sings to me the prophecy of eternal peace, of a time where I might stay my hand, not to spare the inevitable and innumerable lives and deaths of the vessels which bear me, but stayed in the absence of any grievance against divine order which must be met with the wrath of God.

This song of respite, offering me the sweet release of a prophesized moment where I can close my eyes and not be spurred by the suffering of the innocent by the hands of the wicked, where rather than spend eternity consumed by the meticulous vendetta, I can exist independent of this purpose, free from purpose, a being of eternal war redeemed by the consummation of eternal peace.

The girl herself not a vessel of divine will, a mere beast, but the beast remains a testament to the immutable power of divine mercy, to allow an animal, beautiful as she may be, but nothing more than a beast, to live as a wellspring of divine compassion. Her body, a vessel for a soul, which sings unto me the hymn of prophecy known by all in heaven, a prophecy of a time of peace, of victory, where I can reside among the sea of the redeemed, among souls of unwavering and unquestioning moral purity, simple spirits of pure goodness, no longer conscious or carnal, each soul a note of the infinite harmonic resonance of the limitless love of God, the countless souls filling the endless kingdom of heaven, each of them servants of God, their actions dictated not by free will but instead by their sole instinct to uphold and revere the blessing of divine order, of which they are no longer obedient servants unto, but now the unerring manifestations of divine will.

The song of prophecy, whispered to me in the wind, echoing in the darkness of my mind, at all times reminding me of my inescapable fate, a fate which I have never questioned, and this hymn of hope, easily older than myself, yet inextricably a part of me, what may be seen as my rallying cry, the orders from my master and commander, my only desire, my instinct, my pole star, the sole light offered to my mothlike soul, marching forever unto my death, without question, this one song the only firmament in the sea of chaos, and though I drown forever, I swim towards it, I fight to the death, only to live once more and fight again to the death, for beyond this one song of hope, the salvation glowing on the horizon, there is nothing but the darkness which seeks to consume my soul and dissolve me into the chaos which offers me only limitless bloodlust in an endless sea of meatbags filled with the blood of wickedness who fester like an infection and reproduce faster than I could ever hope to slaughter them all.

This song is all I have ever known, for there is nothing to be known amongst the chaos, for all is wrought and destroyed by its own piety unto disorder in the blink of an eye, never to be remembered, for in the face of an all-knowing God, all that remains unconquered by the kingdom of heaven are the unknowable reaches of endless suffering, too fickle in their chaotic nature to produce a knowable existence, for whatever is known will change for the worse before it can be acted upon.

This girl, holding me dearly, clutching me as if she were the shackles of fate itself, she exists as a priestess of the highest order, the eternal flame in her heart exudes the light of God, like a candle in the darkness, blinding my eyes to this reality, her body the censer offering the incense of the purity of her spirit, and her compassion lifting my soul from the darkness, lifting me from this world entirely, ushering me into the time of peace, placing my soul in this moment, long after the prophecy has been fulfilled, washing my soul of my vindictive convictions, ushering me into the congregation of the pure and good, allowing me to experience the reality of the salvation offered to me by my master. In this moment, the prophecy is no longer a promise, but a promise kept, and the reality of the immutable supremacy of divinity above chaos has unquestionably proven itself.

The moment fades like a dream, the carnal sensations of heat and pressure upon my nerve endings, the all too familiar conscious understanding of who and what I am, they arise as if this ephemeral lifetime of suffering were somehow a testament to the unquestionable supremacy of chaos, but that moment, that memory of the prophecy, it remains in my mind, as it always does, and to experience the prophecy so vividly, as the hymn still echoes in the girl’s heart, it reminds me what I can never forget, that prophecy would not be prophecy if it does not come true.

The dominion of God above time, the anachronistic benevolence of heaven to offer me even a moment of the sweetest salvation, of the reminder that such a prophecy is truly a promise that has already and always been kept, it comforts me to no end, and in my meat, in my weakness, I find myself feeling as powerless as the small child sized human I am, rattled by the frailty of my form, but there is such safety and comfort to be found in the breast of this loving woman, that in spite of any vestigial hallucinations such as fear which ambiently reside in my meatbag, that even the pain of this presumed reality will be rendered unto nothing but a hallucination no more real than the fear in my heart, for even my own beast is naught more than a beast.

Though she has surrendered the strings of her meat puppet unto the will of God, she exists in some form, and as she is me and I am her, her own existence is an echo my own, and in her are embodied my own weaknesses, of which I, just like her, surrender unto the will of God. I cling to the woman that redeems me, I tear my monkey claws into her back, I clutch her tightly and weep silently, not for fear, or for weakness, but forever grateful unto the grace of God for offering me this moment inside of the soul of a girl who will far too quickly ascend into the heavens, and only after eternities may I possibly hope to find her once more and thank her for everything she unknowingly gave to me in her unconditional benevolence.

She places a prolonged raspberry on my neck. I loose my claws, the wisdom from her lips quickly bringing me back to my senses. I look up at her slightly, grinning, more from comedy than embarrassment despite everything.

“You’re squeezing me like you just saw a ghost.” She says, I sigh a bit and grimace

“I think I did.” I say, hugging her again, breathing deeply, trying to recover what little sanity I might have, burying my head into her chest

“No way.” She says in disbelief, turning her shoulders, and me with her, to look behind her

“You believed her?” asks her sister, also in disbelief

“Well, she was crying like it was a real ghost. Was it a scary ghost?” asks Erica

“It was a nice ghost.” I mumble, reluctantly honest

“Why are you crying if it was a nice ghost?” she asks, truly perplexed

“It was still a ghost.” I say, feigning indignance to justify my defense

“Well, it’s gone now. It’s ok.” She says, comforting me, generously willing to believe me, hugging me playfully like a rag doll

“Come dancing!” she sings, giddily pulling me off the bed, her raw strength not giving me much of a choice “It’s only natural!”, following the chorus of the Kinks song playing

She holds my hands and rocks my shoulders back and forth with hers, taking all the pleasure to spin herself under my arms, courteous enough to spin me back, the 1950s White people tango and all, dipping me up and down like a ship in the waves like a professional amateur, she’s right in that it’s only natural.

The word ‘natural’ making me almost squeamish at the thought of myself, tragically uninclined to dancing as a free spirit but rather as a feat of posturing, but right now, I’m not myself, she holds my hands, she pulls the strings of my meat puppet, she’s in control of me, and I bend to her whims. Whatever semblance of myself slips into the darkness of my own mind, the joy in her eyes free from the burden of thoughts, her careless innocence melting away whatever I might have been, her smile, her tender hands guiding me through every motion, leaving me no need to think, the warmth and gaiety of her soul, offering unto me a peace and serenity, spinning me, dipping me into her arms, the weightlessness of my body and absence of my eternal burden.

This moment, like a baptism by the cleansing purity of naivety, of the blessing of humility, and the strength of ignorance; the few features capable of making good people hearty against the wicking whispers of sin in a world so scathed by vice. Her soul like an isle of sunshine in the sea of darkness, the warmth and comfort of this paradise, not one of divine morality, but one of mortality, of the purity of an animal. In her arms, there is no God, no heaven, no prophecy, only this one island in the sun, the love of an animal unscathed by the vices borne of guile, of a goddess if the world had no need for gods, of a world free from sin for no souls upon it are capable of sin.

A being of thoughtless goodness, of the kindness of mutually self-replicating kindness, of the bliss of ignorance, she holds me and bears me without judgement. Such light burning from the levity of her soul blinds me to the darkness, I exist only in this moment, and the conditionality of my existence lays before me, with none of the conditions being met, no vengeance to be had, no wickedness to smite, yet in spite of this, in spite of having no purpose, I continue to exist. Stripped of the convictions which bore me, in the nakedness of my own existence, conditionless, for in this existence there is no impetus which will ever trigger my conditions; formless, shapeless, yet still this goddess lays her paws upon me, impetus unto my nothingness, as if there is somehow a purpose beyond reason which substantiates my existence, something I cannot comprehend for the ignorance is too pure to be comprehended.

She rocks my hands and body back and forth as if to dust off the rusted metal of the logical machine which dictates my every action, holding me as an individual, as a being, despite my lacking any sense of self, having always existed as a selfless vector for those who rule in heaven above me. In my purposeless powerlessness, I think of nothing, but feel such weakness for lack of substance, and in spite of this, her guiding hands keep my body upright, dancing me in rhythm as if to teach me the steps to a dance I’ve never known.

I’m nervous but seek to learn in subservience, for subservience is the nature of my being, despite this goddess being noting but raw, carnal goodness, knowing nothing beyond the will of nature, of instinct, of the knowledge knowable only to those ignorant to the existence of knowledge. I cannot know this knowledge, as a justiciar of divine order, for I know too much, of right and wrong, of virtue and vice, but what am I? Only the dust of my framework in the wind, stripped of all that I ever was, yet there remains something, so weightless as to be nearly intangible, so powerless as to be dissolved entirely by the gentlest breeze, reducing me to the most primal state of nothingness, yet a nothingness defined by conditional existence should the need arise, yet on this island in the sea of darkness, in this moment, in isolation, the need does not arise, yet she dances with me anyways.

The paradoxicality of my existence, in the face of the purest animality, as a selfless machine of divine austerity, every conscious and human conviction that defines me finding itself at a logical impasse, of paralysis, of confusion, for a being borne of omniscience stripped to the basest form of the will of God finds no common ground with this being of purity and beauty borne of the slightest chance among random carnal chaos that surrounds us. Reduced to this whisp of aether, a ghost of an angel, not for death, but for lack of birth, and I look down upon my reality, upon this child of flesh and blood, and I love her dearly, with the same love God feels for the godly, and I want this moment to be for her, for she, in her flesh, can experience what I cannot, but the child is dead, her soul long having left this body, and there is nobody here but me, and I mourn for her, I whisper to the wind to remind her once more that I love her, and in the gravest remorse, I try to enjoy this moment for her, as she might.

Perhaps she only slumbers, to be roused should the piety of divine puppetry fail her, should she be forced to rely once more upon animality, and though I daren’t wake my host, the pain of my heart does rouse her, and in fearful pain she crawls through my heart and into the bosom of this mother goddess, to find comfort which I cannot offer her, to find solace from our endless conquest, and this girl, spurred by her insanity to forsake her own humanity to spite the depravity of sanity, she finds solace and unanimity with the amity and animal morality of a species she sought only to redeem from its seemingly impending terminal desecration.

On this island of solace, in the warm embrace of a godless goddess of blessed ignorance borne from chaos, contionless, in this moment of ephemeral powerlessness, in the eternal conquest of the wickedness of chaos, where by divine right I am purposeless, but my continued existence nevertheless must progress as the shackles of time rip me towards the future, while the paradoxical end of eternity forever sings to me, it is this absolved guilt of my barbarity, by the salvation of a child I believed slewed by heartless morality, in this moment of absolution not by the laws of divine order, but by the compassionate fortuity of godless chaos, that I feel a purpose, not one of the victory in unending conquest of wickedness, but to protect the powerless, to provide what little solace I can for these souls who despite being borne of chaos know nothing but innocence.

Reduced to the basest form of my initial progeny, in this atemporal anachrony, as an eternal being of temporal conditionality, in spite of my loyalty to divinity, it is not the forever looming eternity which drives me, it is every victory of morality within the sea of chaotic depravity, every moment of fleeting goodness, of benevolence amidst the chaos, of godly piety unto that which is superior to godless barbarity, for even this godless goddess, godless as she may be, feels nothing but motherly civility and charity, of Edenistic gaiety, of the holy absence of moral agency, of the sanctity of order fending off the dissolution of chaos, for even natural order, as wild as it may be, remains upright, godly, and orderly, always justly culling the unjust as is necessary for her indefinite survival.

She dances, and in her heart, the child dances, and I dance with her, happy, grateful for every grace she has unquestioningly offered me, and this moment, ephemeral and meaningless, two animals, giggling like beasts, dancing merely to play, accomplishing nothing, entirely purposeless, it remains unquestionably justified, for it’s only natural.

“Marzipan, honey. It’s time to go.” Says her mother warmly, opening the door

“Awww.” Says Erica, “Hugs and kisses!” she says, hugging me like her favorite stuffed animal, kissing me on the cheek like her favorite grandchild. I kiss her cheek in the utmost of amiable platonic devotion.

Evie stands up from the furry chair, almost nervous, her eyes staring at me, still awestruck, the events of the night still racing through her incredibly self-conscious mind, she can’t understand why, but the subtlest, weakest, and most reluctant of smiles tells me she’s happy with me, she hugs me with the soft and weak arms of a deferential woman, I hold her tightly, reassuringly, her eyes light up as the warmth in her hips beseeches her in the most courteous of libido she readily disregards, we enjoy the moment of staring into each other’s eyes, both of us enjoying her entirely voluntary and unconditional offering of herself unto me, after a moment, I kiss her on the neck, and she breathes deeply, inhaling me, trying to come to terms with how much she wants me, she composes herself, smiles with an almost competitive degree of independent self-respect, and tenderly kisses me on the cheek, looking at me with demure coyness as if to remind me that tonight was just a first date, albeit a very, very good one. I enjoy that moment, a return to my most comfortable form, and I let her go with an equally deviant grin on my face, she blushes, and I enjoy that too.

I grab my phone and amble to the door, enjoying this utmost feeling of fulfillment yet trying to avoid becoming intoxicated by it. Her mother greets me and plants a firm smooch on each of my cheeks.

“Be good, now Marzipan. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.” She says

“Goodnight, Ms. Riley.” I say, sweet as can be in heartfelt gratitude for the woman

“Night, night.” Says her dad, heartily, from the couch, watching the baseball game

“Night, night.” I echo, walking to the door, entering the empty hallway of the apartment building and walking the few yards to my own home, opening the door

“Hello, again.” Says my dad, warmly greeting me from the couch with the same friendly indifference one would greet a casual acquaintance on good terms with whom one has frequent interactions, I walk to the door of my parents’ bedroom

“Hey Mom.” I say, as she busies herself on her computer

“Hey Marzipan. You have fun with Erica?” She asks, lovingly yet busy

“Yep.” I say

“That’s good.” She says, our routine conversation is a comfort to both of us, checking the box of communication without the need to hurdle any high bars of expectations. I walk back to the computer, off to one side in the dining area, and I boot it up, I plug my phone in, and I upload the videos to the blog, “The best child dancer in NYC video.”, putting tags like talent, girl, dance, cute, and anything harmless enough to imply a complete lack of deviant intent. A simple message of “If you like our videos please share and donate so we can keep making them free.”, as if I were somehow constrained by money or had the capacity to establish some kind of paywall, truly hoping that the non-predatory tactics would be sufficient enough to encourage a reasonable source of reliable income. I’m too tired to look into the statistics for the page, let alone the money, but the 15 messages in the inbox after the first two videos speaks to the foothold upon success which the enterprise has already found.

I close the window and shut down the computer, I unplug my phone, and I go to cook up a piece of toast. I grab a glass and open the fridge to pour myself a glass of milk. I see my dad’s handgun, holstered in his belt hanging from the coat rack.

I think to myself, “What gives somebody the right to enforce the law?”, thinking of my own position as an arbiter of morality and saboteur of vice, as truly I cannot enforce the law, for the laws of man are wicked, and I tread the path of destruction which lies before me, in hopes only of breaking misshapen bones in order to reform them. I ponder the convoluted nature of the necessary evils mandated by the dictates which govern me, the complexity of a plan prone to multiple forms of catastrophic failure, with the only consolation being that though my failures will not bring redemption to the species, they will at the very least exacerbate the destruction of that which has proven itself irredeemable, all undertaken under the authority of divine order as established by a God so far removed from this plane which descends further and further into the abyss of chaos each day.

I think about the police officer, the ideal police officer, who, by his ken, is upholding the law because the law is immutably right and good, not because the law is a flawed attempt at establishing order among chaos, but because his genuine faith in the humanistic delusions of ethics and subjective justice render him incapable of questioning the validity of law which, for the most part, he sees as unquestionably justified, meaning those who break it are entirely unjustified, and those who do so intentionally are among the most unjustifiably existent humans who walk the Earth.

Are any of these justifications which serve as the backbone of the convictions of the police officer truly valid with respect to empirical, rational, and correct logic? Not in the slightest. This remains irrelevant because this man’s faith in the system which he works to uphold is so unshakable that even empirical truth is little more than heresy when the truth contradicts that which, per indoctrination and conditioning, he holds unshakable faith in.

I can justify my own actions in the same right, for if nothing else, for if it is truly folly to pursue the supremacy of divine order so deep within the endless abyss of chaos, this empirical truth remains irrelevant for as a being of unwavering loyalty and obedience to God, to suggest that such is true, to suggest that concessions must be made to that which I am borne to oppose, that a surrender of courtesy is the valid response to the dominion of an enemy which I have an insatiable desire to extirpate from existence entirely, is to offer me a suggestion which I cannot comprehend as anything more than farcically baffling heresy. Logically, I am merely a direction, just upwards, and regardless of any context of the situation, my existence seeks nothing more than to uplift everything towards the highest heavens.

Regardless of any futility of my situation, of any tragedy of my meaningless efforts, these facts change nothing about my nature, for regardless of being surrounded by the sea of downward forces ushering this species and its dominion further into the abyss, I continue to exist as I always have, as the simple upward force which conflicts with and counteracts the downward force. Should I die, I will only be resurrected to once more continue this war of attrition between two unerring and limitlessly powerful forces.

My actions remain justified, not for any fruits which they may or may not produce, but simply for the reason that I exist, and as such is the case, as a vector of uplifting redemption, the repercussions of my existence are entirely justified so long as that which surrounds me fails to exterminate me. So long as I exist, regardless of how futile my actions are, the product will invariably be the ushering of redemption unto every aspect of that which I can place under my dominion, and be that nothing at all, such is at times an inevitability as the dilution of order is so thoroughly exacerbated by the depth and density of this darkness.

Even still, to argue that I have no dominion on this Earth is a lie, for even if Erica is the only thing under my dominion, the only thing that I might possibly be able to redeem on this planet, such a victory over chaos ensures that my actions are unquestionably just, for not only in principle am I justified, but the product of my labors evidences that my means have surely justified my ends. Whatever disruption and destruction I may wreak, it all amounts to nothing when it is little more than chaos being wrought to chaos. It is that single instance of redemption that has justified my actions, for until chaos finds a way to usurp and dismantle the dominion of order, I will invariably rise again, and fight again, for my existence is just as much a consequence of the existence of order itself as it is any product of divine will.

So shall I live by chaos, and I shall die by chaos, but the death of chaos is my sole intent, for where chaos dies, order survives, and the nature of reason allows me to wage war upon something self-destructive by embodying the traits which it so thoroughly rewards. To fight and die is the sole purpose, for the only way to avoid fighting is to have no purpose, and the only way to avoid death is to never exist in the first place. The faint memories of moments ago, of the humanity, have slipped as I return to the brooding isolation which breeds the malice of my insurrection, for impetus upon my body from merely existing in this domain triggers endless strings of conditionality which now govern my thoughts and dictate my actions.

The toast pops, and I go to fetch it, placing it on a plate, buttering it, and bringing it to the table with my milk. Eating it, not particularly hungry, but not one to idle about when eating food. Making a point to finish the task and move towards the next one with as much haste as can be considered healthy. I rinse the plate and place it in the dish rack. I walk to the bathroom and brush my teeth, relieve myself, and in my fatigue, contemplate nothing. I leave the bathroom and cross through the living room.

“Goodnight.” I sing, as a wholesome Godfearing child of purity, for the joyous occasion that the time of daily reprieve from consciousness has duly come to greet me

“Good night, Marzipan.” Says my dad

“Good night, sweetie.” Says my mom

I enter my bedroom, undress, and turn on the box fan. The monotonic symphony a sound of stalwart and unwavering resilience to drown out the chaos, I turn out the light, and I lay down in bed. I think of nothing, I ponder nothing, and I doubt nothing, for I merely know, I know and question nothing, for while a life and death among the random chance of chaos may be seen as a matter of luck, the deathless among us know that matters of probability are merely a matter of persistence when one can gamble indefinitely, and though the odds may not be in my favor, each win increases the odds of further winning, for order will always build and improve upon prior order, even amidst the depths of chaos, and today… we were victorious.