And something wasn’t quite right.
Is there another year, this time? Another year, another horrorshow, unimaginable… time flies, why cannot it be stopped? The beating of existence… that vile pulse, the rhythm of the beating on a drum strung with human hide by some abominable monstrosity, hollow and empty like loneliness; eviscerating darkness seeping out from between the numbers, ageing us, destroying all; the concrete crumbles and flowers red and yellow and blue grow, wither and decompose. Flesh turns from red to brown to soggy black mush and to thick mud and merges with all else, becomes as one, you might say. Where’s my fucking time machine?
Way past Expiration Date
Does he wear maxi-pads as well ? A g-string perhaps ? The clean look ? Please. It is as Jesus Christ said over 2,000 years ago, you are all clean and neat on the outside but, inside you are as rotten meat attracting flies in the summer heat, on the inside, you are as puss filled boils, disgusting to look at and even more disgusting to be around. Let MEN be MEN and WOMEN be WOMEN, and stop with the faggotry. Enough is enough.
MrRedPajamas 1 week ago
And even in the winter the carcass of the RedPajamas odorously swell and the skin buckles and fissure horrendously, for that loathsome oaf rots even in the winter when temperature so low falls that all other cadaver freeze into silence; his stench so vile that even the numbed nostrils of someone spending hours in the negative thirty Celsius weather can feel that abominable odour… that rancid stench of Christian nutter, that sinisterly lingering psychopathic derangement of bigoted arsehole. The disease in this one so far gone is that not even the wintry cold in Antarctica can stop the course of decay; and yet, from the mists emerge, again, the sultry shape of a brown hairy monstrosity, the macho-man, the real Sasquatch; he lingers out from his ancient tomb, the eldritch cave wherein prevails disordered chaos and lamentable filth, he rolls every night in his own dung, this insectivore knows not to mix the textiles–
This is what happens when kids don’t have a strong fatherly figure and other strong male rolemodels in their lives. You never saw this 20 years ago in schools and the fact that so many people are for it is sad and scary. Masculinity is fading in this country.
billybassman21 1 week ago
Thus spake Billy Assman and brought the rotting corpse of the RedPajamas back to his cave, wherein dwelt his incestuous offspring, and forever they revelled and tumbled corpse-like and foul-smelling, shouting now and then lame and pointless slogans against “faggotry” and “emaciated effeminateness”, as they called it; and forever this joyous dance continued, until the day that they died, died believing they were in the right.
On the Beast of Stronsay, 1808
One of the most known carcass-stories (which I so enjoy for a number of reasons), the 1808 case of the so called “Stronsay Beast”, is an interesting look at the way that people’s stories and merely the words they chose to describe something can alter its perception in the minds of others. It also provides a number of biological eccentricities, so to say, relevant to shark biology. Basking sharks and whale carcasses seem to possess an uncanny ability to, in states of severe decomposition, confuse people as to what it is they are seeing. And it is not surprising.
Karl Shuker, on writing of the story in 1995 (I think), in an article, describes the events as follows:
Betwixt the Stars
Three months into the predicted five-month journey to Mars, the stars were no longer visible in the direction of the red crescent. No one knew why. It was as if something unfathomably immense had blotted out the stars behind the planets – Saturn was still visible in the distance as a faint speck of light on the hideous blackness. Butch Aldritch reported the news to NASA’s space centre in Houston on August 20, 2021, from aboard the little vessel as it innocently slid towards Mars on its mission, the first manned mission hoping to visit the drop zone on the planets surface where the modules of a future permanent base had been dumped by an earlier mission.
From the cameras and other equipment, the enormous blank space was sent back to earth where it puzzled technicians, scientist and government officials alike. Viewing the stars with the naked eye from anywhere on earth did not reveal any aberration, no blank spaces that had not been there before, nor did any telescopes on earth, or any orbiting space-telescopes. It was only from the rotund hull of EAGLE-1 that the peculiar thing could be seen. Experts were confused. Some suggested it was a result of some unknown quality of the windows on the vessel that was responsible, or some reflective cloud of space dust. No one knew. And as the days passed for the four person crew of EAGLE-1 on its way to Mars, the tensions rose and rose. Squabbles in the cafeteria. The urine container on the lose no longer conjured up laughter but shouts and anger. And outside the blackness seemed to be expanding, until by August 30, it blotted out half the universe from their vantage point.
“We don’t know what it is”, the man from the Kennedy Space centre said. “We can’t see it from earth or any other observational spot,” he continued, “but we can see it from your cameras. The only advice we have is to proceed as if it isn’t there. Try to maintain good spirit and order.”
“What if I can’t?” Butch Aldritch asked.
“Execute Order B7-EL12 in the Emergency Manual.”
“Really?”
“Only if absolutely necessary, of course.” The voice blurred and soon faded into nothingness as they entered radio shadow. Butch Aldritch got up from the radio seat and walked out of the communication room, setting course for the cafeteria. They seemed to know something he did not. Why else would they have authorised the execution of that dreaded order? He knew what it was. Pushing a button to release gases to put everyone a board to sleep and quickly enabling the automatic and remote piloting programme. He’d hate to do that.
At what the clocks communicating with earth said was 14:25 on September 4, the blackness stretched almost all the way back to earth as far as they could see. A minute thereafter the strangeness begun.
A rasping sound came abruptly along side all sides of the ship, the rasping of steel girders and claws, and the vessel begun to slow. With trembling and shaking making cups detach from their holders until the entire inside was full of levitating debris, panic followed. There was no way to contain it. If the EAGLE-1 Martian Lander was a car, they had just wrecked their wheels on a nail carpet laid out by the space police.
“The fuck was that?” asked the worried voices of the crew. Butch Aldritch could offer them no solace or support. He was just as scared as they were. And then the vessel tossed and turned with a suddenness he could never have imagined would exist in space; and he wondered for a few frightened seconds if they had been struck by some space rock or debris hard and large enough to pierce the lander. But they didn’t die. So that could not be it.
Swimming through their air the entire crew made their way to the communications room. They tried to contact earth, but it was impossible. They tried their best, but the only response was a wheezing as of troubled breathing coming from somewhere that was not earth. It was coming from nowhere in particular, they twisted and turned the settings, but the wheezing was still there. “It must be coming from that black cloud”, Butch said to his crew. They all looked at one another, pale with fright and anxious to get home, besieged by eerie reminiscence of the lost days on earth, the simple times and a place where up was up and down was down, and everything followed some logic they could grasp. That was not so any longer.
Someone hit the frequency wheel on the radio by accident as they shifted restlessly in cold sweat and unnameable horror. A voice. It was a voice, speaking, somewhere! Was it Houston? Reflected from somewhere if they were lucky! They turned up the volume.
From somewhere in the vast emptiness of the black cloud that blotted out the stars – even Mars was half-invisible by now, faded into a light orange blotch with unclear borders – a voice was speaking, a clear voice, but without any hint of the human. That was not to say it had any hint of the mechanical either, it was clearly something organic, something soft and mushy from the gurgling and shifts in pitch, it was talking, no, singing, singing a soothing tune in a language they had never heard before. Then, a disjointed sentence, somewhere in that garbled mess, it was in English!
“—what they call earth”—and then it was cut-off, chattering resumed in those vile guttural foreign tongues.
There are things, Butch Aldritch thought, things that are too horrible to see. The eyes cannot fathom them, the ears cannot hear them. And those things live in interplanetary space, they swarm like schools of fish, hither thither in uncontrollable madness, infernal beasts of the cosmos, the invisible nameless larvae of the Outer Gods, and when the unhuman shriek echoed from the radio, he knew they had been detected by those beings out in the emptiness. Butch Aldritch too, screamed, as his crew turned into sprays of red paint and purple dust as some abomination unseen squeezed them, and screamed until he had no breath left as he saw, made visible by the blood of his crew, the hideous, slithering form that came through the wall as if it had no material basis at all and made for him with precision and cunning even though it had no eyes, no mouth, no sensory organs of any kind. That which is blind yet sees, he thought to himself, that which knows all and yet nothing, that which is everything and nothing… that damn things front was like an earthworm, a pig and a human being all at once, he could see the flesh, or whatever it was, twitching, going circles, little flaps folding and unfolding, taking the shape of his own face. Butch Aldritch was by then far past making any noise at all, his throat sore, but even if he had been able, he would not have. He didn’t need to scream anymore. He now knew that this was what his life had always been going towards, knew that this was the conclusion and a new beginning… madness rides the Martian winds! The beast with a thousand young, Shub-Niggurath! His mother had said his father had died before he was ever born, but now he knew that was a lie! His father was alive and would never die, he understood at last where those dreams and things all came from, the primal source, the bubbling insanity at the nuclei… He smiled, and all was well and forgiven. For the first time in his life, he felt loved.
Not of this world.
The familiar sound was heard as the thing came out of the elevator on the sixteenth floor of the tower block in Targówek, eastern Warszawa. It always came this time of the night; at four in the morning he innocently peered out through the peephole in his door and saw the shambling shape, copiously rotund and struggling hard to move its bulky mass across the landing and toward the flat door like a blasphemous porker. It must be a terrible thing to dwell in a tower as tall as this and be so fat. He put his ear to the door.
It was uttering some faint whining sounds. He could not tell if it was the passing of the noxious gases through the lungs – the odour of stale gin, the chemical factory of vodka, the smell of old cigarette smoke, rotten flesh and a faint sweetness of diabetes – or if it was saying something. He pushed his head carefully closer to the door.
It was talking.
Words were coming out of that hideous abomination’s mouth! They were incoherent, for its thick fat mouth was hanging loose from the flesh like a poorly fitting skin-tight suit, wrong size for this reptilian thing.
“Emiru is just soooooo cute,” it seemed to say. “I think he looks wonderful, and Sono too, I love him…” Then some giggling. He had no idea that this meant. It was some sort of coded-language, he would have guessed. The thing was apparently speaking in its mobile phone.
The light came on outside. He saw it.
It was fitting its key into the lock. Fat was bouncing, shifting, and roaring as it did with the noise of thick papers quivering in the wind; the clothes ill fitting hung like fragments of cloth on a football whose structure was vibrating with uncanny movements and seemingly independent twitching and convulsing. Was that thing a human being? The door opened up. As it did, he saw that thing turn its face toward his door, and he saw it, full-on, like he had never seen it before.
He could have died had his mind not mercifully blotted out the horror he had just been confronted with.
The face was like a warped pink hairless bulldog, chins hung like loaded hamster sacks bloated and sick. The cheeks were flushed red from alcohol consumption and the eyes were distant and rolling impatiently in their sockets. A river of drool that the thing was unable to contain drivelled down from the corner of the mouth. Its hunger seemed insatiable; it was chewing something white, he could see as the mouth in a second opened; limp lips hung like sausages. A piercing more as a steel pipe punctured the lip in the middle.
There was more to it, but he could not bare looking at it anymore.
He reeled away and vomited on the floor and the door.
The door outside closed, and that dreadful thing was gone. It had left cracks in the landing outside, little depressions from its feet. Feet that were not visible, for the hideous ethereal corpulence hid them so well.
Blood-red stream.
A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he
does not know why he is not one of the others. -Georges Bataille
The conflict between that which is and is not rendered clear by the sight of those that you are not, and knowing your own worthlessness, a bestial jealousy bubbles up like a magma plume towards the earth surface, which buckles and bends and finally gives way to a flood basalt, a loathsome eruption of reprehensible thoughts and feelings and actions-
Wanting to vanish, invisible, as one peers into the depths of the mirror and the brain refuses to fathom that it is stuck inside that thing which the mirror reflects. The despair and horror upon that reflection felt is grounds for panic and anxiety of untold proportions. The gaze flickers and finally veers away, peers down into the toilet bowl, into the ceiling or at the door, into the sink, studies instead the dust that has settled on the shelf immediately blow the mirror.
Everywhere, they go about their daily things, the others. Surrounded by still more others, they talk, exchange things and thoughts and feelings, messages here and there conveyed, sometimes they fight, nonsensical dramas that spice up their little lives, and here and there they hug one another, closeness so far detached from the void that is me, that which does not exist. From the frames of other’s minds I am absent, moving betwixt the shadows, a total indifference, a memory soon forgotten. All the things that never happen to me and will never happen creates a conflict and envy for that which is not me that is not simply the result of aimless and naïve escapism, but also the result of some fundamental internal rejection of the exterior which foments anxiety and loathing at the thought of being seen by others, which is curable only by the destruction of the physical body, and therefore impossible.
There are walls all around us. The Berlin Wall might be no more, but walls prevail all the same, everywhere, and not just at the U.S.-Mexico border and Israel. Walls between people as impenetrable as steel and concrete, as divisive as mountains and political dissension. Little universes, solar systems, planets with satellites in orbit. They tell their little stories, which maybe be loathsome and repulsive and vapid and every-day, as they say, yet a conflict with that which is essentially nothing remains, that is to say that which is me. Memory fails when there is nothing of essence to remember. Feelings flail in the wind and the carrion birds set their dinosaur feet down to eat on that cadaver.
The years run on by and soon one realises that by that long time, most people had done something, had stories to tell, even vapid sick ones, and one realises as such that one is lost, and that it is too late to do anything, and that those that have anything that one does not have, must all be destroyed, incinerated and killed; this is the logical conclusion of those feelings, the childish revenge fantasy that results from having being wronged and betrayed by factors beyond the control of anyone, a haunting jealousy that eats away a jaded heart and leaves a sour after-taste that is only obliterated by the acid reflux that follows.
And all the innocence must be taken away, all the things that are not ugly and monstrous be destroyed; there will be sprawl everywhere, single-family homes and fat soccer moms and fat bearded office drones with bald heads and deep rift zones down their faces, there will be only crime and poverty and capitalism, and there will be only dreadful things, and we will have to endure eternally the pointless suffering and the countless waves of pain that wash over us. There is only despair.
On Eternity’s Road
1
In the reception at the clinic off Rue de Eternité the pace was relaxed, almost leisurely. The older man in the reception with facial features worn under the relentless gnawing teeth of time still had a full head of grey– or was it more towards the white spectrum?– short-cut hair. Hizaki was sure this was the right place. The sign at the door was simply a big white cross on a square black background, which gave him a flash of a star-less night in a half-forgotten burial ground for the war-time dead. The innocent façade revealed nothing of the dark secrets indoors, save the ominous black-painted steel chimney that reached into the sky.
This was where people came to die. Hidden in the maze of alleyways in the 14th Arrondissement of central Paris, it was known all about Europe as the place where people went in through the big wooden double-doors and never again came out; dispersed into the already polluted atmosphere of Paris, their bodies returned to the earth, to nature; their sufferings terminated; and now before the reception he stood in his ugly red- and white dress with needless detailed embroidery whose purpose alone was to enhance the sensation of 18th century aristocratic taste, a bourgeois decadence utterly derailed; a big fluffy skirt that made his otherwise quite small buttocks seem almost as wide as a bed.
The old man was scribbling crabbed notes on yellowing paper from a golden scroll; but as he noticed Hizaki’s presence, he looked up, eyes full of utter boredom and resignation. His eyes they seemed to want to shrink into his head.
“And what might we do you for?” he asked with a voice weak and trembling, as if frightened, but it was definitely not Hizaki and his wide buttocks that he feared, it was something else, something general.
“I want to die”, Hizaki stated plainly. The atmosphere of this reception was oppressive, but he could not tell if it was all only the work of the old man with the whitening hair.
“Go in to the waiting room”, the man replied shortly.
WAITING ROOM it said on the door to the left, and Hizaki proceeded to open it gently, for this was a place of silence. The sounds of the city seemed unable to penetrate the walls and windows. One could hear a pen fall to the floor in some room hidden behind a homely timber door, on which sat a sign saying WELCOME, jotted down by colour crayons, like the work of a child or a liberal youth group.
There was only one other person in the waiting room, a young woman with scars on her wrists and music tranquilising her via earphones. She looked like she was sleeping, eyes closed but still revealing movement, surely that of dream, Hizaki reasoned. Maybe the waiting time was long.
Soon he was proved to be wrong, for a nurse appeared in a strange pink outfit more like something out of a fetishists closet, with wide mouth in an amused grin and thick red hair teased up in the back, and Hizaki thought there was something familiar about this person, but he failed utterly to connect the woman to any clear memory.
“You there,” the nurse said – voice was strange, dark, almost with a manly quality, but it could surely not be that it, like himself, was just a man in women’s clothes? – “come with me.”
And Hizaki followed in silence. He wondered why no one had asked him who he was, what his name was, who they were to notify.
“I know what you wonder,” the nurse said, “but we do not care who you are, where you come from, we ask only to know why you want to die.”
Hizaki said nothing. He was led into a small well-lit room with orange wall-paper and a paper lamp in the roof emitting a warm yellowish light. It made him think of his childhood room on the second floor of the old family house. He was told by the nurse to sit down on a chair, and did so in silence.
“Why do you want to die?” the nurse repeated the question.
“Because I am getting old,” Hizaki said, “soon I will no longer be beautiful. My face is sagging from the rottenness of age. Without my beauty and my agile fingers, my reaction time is getting worse, what worth will I be to anyone? I wish not to be a burden upon the people close to me, and to the people which I care about. Therefore I have decided that the only reasonable reaction is that I… am better off dead, for their sake.”
The nurse nodded and left the room. The patient, who now had applied to die, was left alone in silence for a while.
2
He was lying in a comfortable bed with fluffy covers and a radio by his side, playing the music he had always so much cherished: it was Beethoven, Bach and Satie, Mozart and a long list of other dead famous 18th and 19th century musical prodigies, conductors with mastery of the arts, and this music in him instilled a mood of dread coupled with a placid acceptance of fate. It was best this way, no doubt he had, he must die, for he was soon to be no longer of utility, no longer of value, a parasite to society. There was nothing medically unsound with him, and he was not even old – next month would bring his thirty second birthday – yet the weariness of life had been creeping up on him for years and years now. It was always the same boring rituals that had to be repeated. Guitar practice took its toll and his arms were sometimes troubled with fleeting pain as he played. Knowing he might not be able to keep on doing what he loved – and that he would no longer be a beautiful aristocratic vampire-fetishist any more – he wanted only to die while he was at his height, at his most beautiful and respected. He wanted not to turn into an ex-celebrity, a forgotten drug-addicted hidden away in his degenerate lover’s mansion.
The nurse came into the room.
“This is the drink which you have to swallow,” said the nurse and gave him a big plastic container with a thick plastic straw sticking out on top. Though the container was not transparent, he could see through the straw the white liquid inside, which seemed to have the consistency of a milkshake.
“It will put you to sleep,” the nurse said. “You’ll just start feeling a little sleepy, before you know it; all your troubles will have faded away. No one will even know what have happened to you.”
Hizaki looked at the container for a while, puzzled, unsure of what he was going to do. Did he really have to die? Then, an image appeared in his head: Kamijou at his bedside, with tears flowing down his cheeks, telling him he was no longer of any use value. Crocodile tears, he knew the shallowness which prevailed all their souls, he knew the thoughtless inconsideration by which he would be flicked aside by the person he had used to fancy his most beloved should he ever become less desirable and less useful, and at that thought, he put his lips around the straw.
“You must finish it all.” The nurse smiled, and again he thought that there was something familiar with those eyes, that face and those quite big teeth. He had seen them somewhere before, and just as he fell into slumber, he recalled a moment – but disregarded it as hallucination – wherein he had shaken the hands of a man with just that hair and those eyes and that face.
3
Hizaki had not expected to wake up again, but he did. At first he thought it was the land of the dead, or hell, or heaven, or wherever the dead people go; for Hizaki believed in a land of the dead, he believed in the immortal human soul, foolish as he was and plagued by bourgeois romanticism, but when he noticed he was still in the very same room and that the attending nurse was still that strange person with the fluffy red hair, he realised he was not dead at all. Did it just fail? Where they going to try again?
But hitting him like bullets from a sub-machine gun came reality bursting into his bubble of inexcusable self-pity:
“We have given you a drink that makes you unable to die – what they’d call immortal. Nothing you do will ever kill you. You will live forever. You asked for death and to be banished from this world – we give you eternal life and suffering. You ask us for solutions, and we give you all there is: struggle, torments and horror. You wanted an easy way out, to get out, jump off the sinking ship: we put you into the storage space, we blocked the exits, we turned you back onto the only road; and you will thank us in the end.”
Tears wallowed out of his eyes.
“Cursed for eternity.” The nurse left the room.
;__;
Last seen: August 2009
Another fucking Summer.
The walls are closing in and whatnot. It is cold and wet here, and nearby the churning masses of a sewer, more like a river, of green glowing frothing water is passing by. And this is as far as you can get from reality at any given time. An inconsistent morass of imagined adventures, of faceless shallow characters with no depth and no qualities of any worth, a pastiche of a rose-tinted memory brought back from the past that never was in a cloud of nostalgic euphoria.
And when thus one encounter the images of closeness and connection, that which exists only between the other – anything not-me – it becomes again clear that any attempts at anything is a waste of time. Any muscle movement is a waste of time. The bitterness from inside grows, soon to engulf everything in flame, a narcissistic derangement, or the opposite, a self-loathing trip to memory-land, the pasture is always greener on the other side of the river; for always the present appears dry and uninteresting, an indeterminable period of waiting, a waiting for what, one asks oneself, but there is no answer to be given, no hope to hold onto, no reason to bother. Everywhere those sick little runts that scurry back and forth like rats, like dogs, rabid and manic chased by their misdirected instincts, sickness and vileness all around; over there, a politician, telling lies now once more, and there, an economics professor, jotting down his diseased mind on paper, soon for that to be rewarded; and there, those people that are not me, always going about their little adventures.
It is the eternal enigma of the external, of the other; that which happens behind the closed doors and beyond the reach of my eyes, in the corridors of loss and loneliness where only my mind plays at repeat the morbid scenarios I envision. Behold, their touch like a leper’s kiss, their eyes empty yet their voices vibrating with emotion, faked they say, probably that is no exaggeration, and like puppets they dance mindlessly to the piping that through time and space perpetuate itself, the ceaseless reverberations of the mind’s electric pulse, oh, will they ever stop—and there, at the street corner, a little set of stairs, they sit in a row, cigarettes in mouth, discussing their imbecilic triviality heralding their vanity, so to say, a figure across the street, in the rain with umbrella in hand, sing to himself his mother’s bed-time rhymes, and in through a door he vanish, to his life, his little universe, distant and lost.
Drifting through the void that surrounds us all, a void filled with mystery, uncharted dimensions, twists and turns along long empty corridors ending with that bright-green emergency exit-sign, one contemplates the nonsense for no reason save that one cannot help it. Two people meet and caress, kiss, their lips they touch, sickening, yet, confusing; how to react to such a sight, what do they feel as they do that, nervous? Are they shaking to their bones, are they filled with happiness? Tricked by the human bodies home-manufactured drugs, seduced, sedated, tranquilised from the horrors that surrounds them, the fighter-jets that roar past a distant memory then, in that moment, a unity, a strength, that of the union between them, how I regret everything I have ever said and done, everything was always just a mistake.
