First/Previous
The travel took on a less gloomy quality in the day that passed since Gemma’s self-reflection and although there remained a queer distance in her eyes, she seemed in better spirits in losing the weight of the words.
It was a night just beyond Wabash Crevasse that we pushed on till sunset was almost upon us and we were each tired and the food stocks ran low and so we found harbor in a half collapsed cellar where a home once stood; it was only after examining the slatted, rotted boards of the old place, fallen over, tired with decay, that we spied the cellar doors intact; sheets of door metal plied us with safety from the outside world and the interior of the place stank of mold and the deeper recesses were collapsed, but there was a cradle to crossbar the stair hatch and I put my prybar there for the night. We finished the water and canned tomatoes, and I smoked a cigarette, staving off the inevitable doom which would come with the dwindling of our supplies.
I’d peeked through the space where the doors met at the cellar’s entry and watched the full darkness there while the youngins spoke of life and the trivial pursuits of it and I hardly said a word besides.
Sitting on the lowest step with Trouble dumbly maintaining her station by me, by the low glow of the space in the threshold, I saw they’d pushed their bedrolls together and Andrew had fallen asleep with his arm over Gemma’s shoulder and her eyes glowed with shine from the crack, blinked a few times while seeing me; she too eventually drifted to sleep, and I spent time by the secured door.
Gunshots rang across the stillness, and they stirred from their quiet slumber and Gemma asked, “Harlan, is it alright?”
I moved to the space there at the doorway again and listened and watched what I could through that crack and nothing beyond came. “It’s safe. I’ll be up a bit longer. I’ll watch.”
Andrew asked, “Can’t sleep?”
“I’ll sleep in a bit. Don’t worry about me. Rest. Sleep good and we can put more behind us.
They sat up, legs crossed triangle-wise, and Gemma spoke again, “Why do you have such a hard time sleeping? It seems I’m asleep after you and only awake after you too.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew.
“It’s cool at night. I can listen to the wind.” I shrugged.
“You should be the one that tries to get some sleep,” said Andrew.
I said nothing.
They reached out their arms and I shook my head.
“Here,” Gemma said, “Move your bedroll closer.” She reached across the dirt floor of the cellar and dragged my splayed roll so that it sat beside hers.
“I’ll sleep later.” I turned my attention back to the door and ignored them till their sounds of sleep could be heard. The Alukah was nowhere and did not tap on the door that night and when I moved to sleep, I shimmied onto the roll beside them, facing away on my shoulder; the dog followed, laid on the bare dirt beside me and I held the mutt.
Though I refused a noise as they stirred in the absolute darkness, I felt Gemma’s arm fall over my own shoulder and felt Andrew’s hand touch my back, and water traced the bridge of my nose and I slept deeply thereafter.
There was no breakfast without food, and the water was gone; I felt the eyes of the dog on us as we packed up our belongings that next morning and I tried not to imagine the poor animal skinned over fire. I smiled at Trouble, patted its head, scratched its chin; she sniffed my hand like she was looking for something that wouldn’t be found.
We went west again, ignoring roads and pushed through straight wasteland where nothing was and no one was, and with every dry footfall on the dry hard ground, I wished for rain, and I wished that when it had rained, as infrequent as it was, that I had been wise enough to save what we could from the sky; that sky was red and swollen and refused to burst. We pushed on through strange dead thickets where grayed and twisty yellow branches lurched from the ground into the sky like even they too wished for an end to all the suffering. It was days more till we would see Alexandria and though I could stave off hunger (thirst too, if necessary), I was not so certain that the children would be able to push on without it; they did not complain and watched the ground in our march and maintained higher spirits than I could’ve imagined from them.
Early in the day, they spoke often, and I listened and as they wore on, their words came less and even the dog seemed in a lower mood for the unsaid predicament; me too.
Gemma broke the silence on the matter by saying, “What are we going to do about food? Water?”
“We’ll push on.”
“We could turn back?” asked Andrew.
“The more time we spend out in the open, outside of a city, the more likely it is that the Alukah will catch us unawares. Tighten your belts.” Our feet took us around a dilapidated truck, an old thing with a rusty hook which dangled off a rear arm. “Save your urine.”
They made faces but did not protest.
“Does that work? You ever drink pee?” asked Andrew.
I laughed, “I thought we’d be there by now. I took us too long by trying to drop the scent of the Alukah. That thing’s hunted us for days—last night was the first time it ain’t bothered us. It’s got me wondering why.”
Gemma piped up, licking her dry lips before speaking, “Do you think that monster ran into those scavengers we saw?” Then I caught her shooting a look at Andrew, “At least we warned them.” Her smile was faint and almost indiscernible as one.
I shrugged. “Can’t say. Don’t think it’s smart to turn back. Won’t be long and we’ll touch the 40 and then it’ll be a straight on to Babylon—couple of days—can’t turn back though. Maybe without food; that’s doable. Water’s the worst, but if it comes to it,” I paused and looked on the weathered faces of the children, on the lowered head of Trouble which followed her nose across the ground (it searched just short of frantic), “Like I said, ‘save your urine’.”
The first pains of hunger held within me brought up some reminiscence and I wished for nothing more than to hold Suzanne; I could nearly smell them and in the swaying walk which took us on past toppled townships, I held long blinks where I could nearly make out their face and if I really pushed the limits of my imagination, I could feel them. In those moments, as we passed dead places, rotted pits of despair, I could think of little more than their presence. Though I knew it was a dangerous game, hoping for more than I was worth, I hoped for Suzanne then and I wished that I’d taken them up on their offer to travel to Alexandria with them; it could’ve been home—it never was in all the times I’d gone there, but who knows? The thoughts of Babylon brought forth their gardens; the wild gardens and the water which flowed freely through their pipes. I wished I was a different person entirely and that too would’ve been better for Suzanne; how it was that they’d seen anything in me, I don’t know. How it was that they could stoop to the level of being with someone like me—I warded off that thought, because to place the blame there would certainly be unfair. I thought of my love plainly and wanted a different life more suited to them.
Imaginations played more furiously, and I remembered the evening when Dave stopped me from leaping from that roof—it’s doubtful that he even realized that he’d slowed my demise; perhaps he did know—I wished then that I could ask him. Too kind for the world. People too kind for the world were scarce and hardly worth the trouble. Yet, there I was, chaperoning those two across the wastes.
Gemma was a broken person when I’d found her, tortured in Baphomet’s well; Andrew was a dullard boy who’d lost his hand. What a silly predicament.
I stopped in my movements and swiveled on my heel to catch Andrew by the shoulder. “You still got your hand, don’t you?”
In good humor, the boy grinned, lifted the nub on the end of his left forearm to show me, “Nope.”
“Dammit, no! The hand in the jar!”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “In my pack.”
“Stop,” I commanded Trouble; the dog hardly recognized my words and continued a way then circled back, sad eyes looking up from where she took to sit by my side. Gemma, both arms dangling loosely from her own pack’s shoulder straps, took into the circle we’d formed.
The girl asked, “What about the jar? It’s nasty, but I guess it’s his.”
“I think that’s it,” I said. I took Andrew by his shoulders, looked him in his eyes, “We could use it!”
“What?” The boy almost laughed in the display of our concern. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think I’ve got it! It’s good for a trap.” I shook him; maybe too hard. I almost smiled. “It’s worth a shot!”
“It’s mine.” He bit his top lip, withdrew from me.
“You’ll feel differently about that,” I said.
Gemma placed a hand on Andrew’s pack and tried ripping it open. “Give it to him!” shouted the girl.
The boy whipped from her grasp, and he spun on his feet, and panic stood on his face. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
I took a step forward, “No, not anymore.” I put out my palm, “Give it.”
Andrew nearly flinched at the thought of it and shook his head a little. “Why?”
“I told you why,” I said.
“You don’t even know if it’ll work, do you?” his words were long in protest.
The girl started again, “Andrew, please.”
He locked eyes with Gemma and once again, his bottom teeth came up to meet over his top lip and he moved his jaw methodically with contemplation.
“What does it even matter?” she asked.
“It’s mine. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“C’mon,” he said, but his pack straps fell from his shoulders, and he hunkered down on the ground and opened his bag; his right hand plunged into the recesses therein and withdrew the jar with his severed left hand. He held the object up, refusing to come up from his open pack, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Take it then.” He shook the jar; its contents sloshed with liquid decay.
I grabbed the thing, held it to skylight; the remains within had congealed and rotted and lumps nearly floated in the brownish liquid which had formed in the base of the container. I shook it and stared for a moment at the miniscule debris which floated alongside the hand; each of its digits had swollen and erupted to expose bone; some had come away in pieces. “Tomorrow,” I said and nodded.
We gathered ourselves and Andrew pulled his pack on again and we moved, Trouble still looked sorry and the boy remained quiet while the girl chattered on with questions while we took through the dying ground in a formation with the dog on point then me then the children.
“What will you do with it?” she asked me.
“Not sure yet.”
Andrew made a noise like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
“You think it will work?” asked Gemma.
“Nothing’s a guarantee. They’re smart—Alukah.”
“Smart enough to figure out a trap?”
I shrugged. “We’ll find out.”
“We could put stakes in a pit.”
“Keep on the lookout for a building. Something with multiple floors.”
With that, we moved on, found a worn, mostly destroyed road and we fell into a travelling quiet and the thought of hunger or thirst arose again, and I pushed it down—though I knew the uneasiness could only last so long before savagery would overtake the human condition; the kids seemed strong enough, but I kept an eye on the dog too. Savagery belonged not only to humans, after all.
The ground of the wastes was harder when it was quiet, and it was flatter further west. The sky—red and full of thin and transparent drifting clouds—seemed an awful sight when stared at for too long; it was the thing which stretched as if to signal there wasn’t an end in any direction, as if to declare we had much more to go till safety. Wanderlust is a thing that I believe I’ve felt before, but under that sky, with those two and the dog, I didn’t feel it at all. It was doom that I felt. Ignorance and doom. And it was all because I was certain I’d made all the wrong mistakes, and it was coming back to me. I was experienced. We should’ve had food and water. Perhaps there was some deep and nasty part inside of me that had intended to sacrifice them along the way. The words of the Alukah might have rung true: You say you make no deals, but I smell it. I think you’d deal.
Surely, I felt differently. Surely.
“Getting darker,” called Andrew as we came to where signposts—worn and bent and barely legible—told us of a place once called Annapolis and the buildings were nearly gone entirely; places, maybe places that were once homes, were leveled—I was briefly caught in imagining what it might’ve been like all those ages ago. As are most places, it was haunted like that and when we came to a long rectangular structure of metal walls—thin walls—we took it as a place for rest for the night.
It once served as an agricultural station, for when we breached its entry, there were a line of dead machines—three in all—cultivators or tillers which stood higher than any of our heads and Gemma asked what they were, and I told her I thought they were for farming. The great rusted bodies stood in quiet shadow as we came through a side passage of the building and the great doors which had once been used to release those machines from the building stood frozen in their frame. I approached the doors, lighting my lantern and motioning for the children to shut the door we’d entered through.
Upon closer inspection, it seemed the doors would roll into the ceiling and the chains which held the doors in place were each secured with rusted padlocks—I removed my prybar from my pack and moved along the wall of doors, giving each old lock a smack with the weapon; each one held in place, seemingly fused there through years of corrosion, and I rounded the cultivators once more, back to the children, near the side door where they’d discovered a rickety stair frame which crawled up the side of the wall to a catwalk; along the catwalk, a levitated box stood at the height of the structure, stilted by metal legs, and we took the stairs slowly with the dog following close behind; the poor mutt was mute save the sound of its own shuffling paws.
The metal stairs creaked under our weight and Gemma held her own lantern high over her head so that the strange shadows of the place grew longer, stranger, and suddenly I felt very sure that something was in the dark with us, but there was no noise except what we made. My eyes scanned the darkness, and I followed the children up the stairs till we met the overhang of the catwalk and I peered into the shadows, the blades of the cultivators—far extended on foldable arms—struck up through the pool of blackness beneath us and I felt so cold there and if it were not for the breath of my fellow travelers, I might have been lost in the dark for longer than intended—lost and frozen and contemplative.
“There’s a room,” said the boy, and he pushed ahead on the hanging passage, and he was the first to the door. “Boxes,” he said plainly.
Upon coming to the place where he stood, Gemma pushed her lantern over the threshold, and I saw what he’d meant as I traced my own lantern to help; the room was crammed with plastic totes and old metal containers of varied sizes. There seemed to be enough empty space to maneuver through the room, but only if one watched their feet while they walked. Carefully.
We moved to the room, and I found a stack of crates to place my lantern then motioned for Gemma to douse hers. In minutes, the place was rearranged so that we could sit comfortably on the floor; crates lined the walls precariously and we breathed heavy from the work done, but we began to unpack and upon watching the children while I rolled a cigarette, I felt a pang of guilt, a terrible summation—all choices in my life had led me here and with them and perhaps it would have been a better world for them without me.
Mentally shrugging this thought away, I lit my cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then withdrew the jar which Andrew had handed over. I held it to the lantern to examine it. The grotesqueness of it hardly phased me and I watched it more curious and hopeful than disgusted.
“I hope it’ll work,” said the boy, “Whatever it is that you plan on doing with it.” He grimaced and maintained a further silence in patting his bedding for fluff. The dog moved to him, and she pushed her forehead against him where he squatted on floor. The boy scratched Trouble’s chin and whispered, “Good girl,” into the top of her head where he’d pushed his own face.
“I’m hungry,” said Gemma; she placed her chin in her arm while watching Andrew with the dog. She sat on her own flat bed there on the floor and stated plainly the thing that I’d hoped to ignore for longer.
“I know.” I took another drag from the cigarette and let the smoke hang over my head. “The dog?”
Andrew recoiled, pulling Trouble closer into his arms.
I smiled. “It was a joke.”
Andrew relaxed, but only a moment before Gemma added, “Maybe.”
The boy narrowed his eyes in the girl’s direction, and she shrugged. “If it’s life or death.”
He didn’t say anything and merely continued stroking Trouble’s coat.
That night, we slept awfully and even in the complete darkness, I felt the cramp of the storage room and the angled shapes of the tools that protruded from the containers on all sides remained permanent well after we’d turned the light off and it felt like those shapes were the teeth of a great creature like we were sitting inside of its mouth, looking out.
Trouble positioned herself partially on my chest, her slow rhythmic breathing brought my thoughts calm and I whispered to her in the dark after I was sure the others were asleep, “I promise it was a joke.” And I brushed the back of her neck with my hand and the animal let go of a long sigh then continued that deep rhythmic breathing.
Still without food or water, the following day was the true indication of the misery to come. Gemma’s stomach growled audibly in waking and Andrew—though he kept his complaints to himself—smacked his lips more often or protruded the tongue in his mouth in a starvation for water. The room, in the daylight which peered through pinpricks of its half-decayed roof, seemed another beast altogether from its nighttime counterpart; it was not so frightening. Again, I admonished myself for the lack of preparation, but there was another thought that brought together a more cohesive feeling; we had a possible plan, a trap for the demon that’d been following us.
We went into the field to the west of the building where there was only dirt beneath our feet in the early sunlight and in the coolness of morning air, I nearly felt like a person. The sun crested the horizon and brought with it a warmth that would quickly become overwhelming—in those few minutes though—it felt good enough. I wished for the shy dew and saw none. The weirdness of holding Andrew’s rotting hand in a jar momentarily caught me and I almost laughed, but refrained and the dog and the children looked on while I held the container up and suddenly, seeing the congealed mass of tissue floating in its own excretions, I was overcome with the urge to run, the urge that nothing would ever be right again in my life, and that I was marked to be that way.
I blinked and tossed the jar to Andrew. “Say goodbye,” I said. He fumbled after it with his right hand and caught it to his chest.
“It’s strange you care so much anyway,” said Gemma, shrugging—her eyes forgave a millisecond of pity and when Andrew looked at her, still holding the jar in his right hand, she smiled and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pants.
“We’ve enough oil, I think,” my voice was raspy from it being early, “Enough for good fire, but if we use it, it’ll mean a few more dark nights on our way.”
“We’re going to set it on fire?” Andrew pondered, keeping his eyes to the contents of the jar. “It worked good enough last time. It’ll work,” I nodded, “I has to, doesn’t it?”
His dry lips creased into a brief smile, and he tossed the jar back to me and I caught it.
“Let’s dig,” I said.
Without much in the way of proper tools, we began at the ground under us with our hands, then taking turns with my prybar till there was a hole in the ground comfortably large enough to conceal a human head and I uncapped the jar and spilled it contents there and we covered it back and I lightly tamped it with my boot. My eyes scanned the outbuilding we’d taken refuge in the night prior and then to the street to the north then to the houses which stood as merely rotted plots of foundation with frames that struck from the ground more as markers than support. “I’ll take up over there across the street when it gets dark. I want you two in that storage room before anything goes off.”
“We can’t help?” asked Gemma.
“You can help by staying out of the way—the mutt too,” I said; the words were harsh, but my feelings were from worry.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we stuck together?” asked the girl.
I shook my head. “You stay in the room and keep quiet. No matter what you hear, you stay quiet and safe.”
“That’ll put you at a bigger risk,” Gemma furrowed her brow at me and shifted around to look out on the houses across the street, “There’s hardly any cover over there.”
The boy nodded, smacked his lips, and rubbed his forearm across his mouth then audibly agreed with her.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, “No matter what you hear happening outside, no matter, you don’t open the door and you don’t scream—don’t make a noise at all. Alright? Even if you hear me calling you, you don’t do it.”
“Pfft,” Gemma crossed her arms and kicked her foot against the ground. The way her eyes seemed hollowed with bruising showed that the irritation would only grow without food. “Alright,” she finally sighed.
Andrew looked much the same as she did in that; he swallowed a dry swallow then stuffed his hand into his pocket and looked away when our eyes matched.
We gathered our light oil. Altogether, it seemed enough; rummaging through the room of the outbuilding we’d earlier taken refuge within, we managed three intact glass containers—the only ones found that wouldn’t leak with liquid; two were bottles and the third was the jar that’d once kept Andrew’s hand. With that work done, we sat with three Molotov cocktails within our huddled circle of the storage room.
“Is it enough?” asked Gemma.
“We’ll see,” I began rolling a cigarette to ignore the hunger and the thirst.
Andrew took to the corner and glanced over his shoulder only a moment before a steady liquid stream could be heard and when he rotated from the wall once the noise was finished and he held a canteen up to his nose, sniffed it and quivered and shook his head.
As the sun pushed on, I scanned the perimeter outside, and they followed. Far south I spied a mass of shadow inching across the horizon and Gemma commented, “What’s that?”
I pushed the binoculars to her and let her gaze through them.
“A fiend—that’s what we called it back in the day anyway. A mutant.”
She held the binoculars up and frowned. “A mutant? So, it was once human?”
“A fiend was once many humans.” I pointed out to the horizon though she couldn’t see me doing so and continued, “If you look at the edges of its shape, you’ll see it’s got limbs galore on it. Sticking up like hairs is what it’ll look like at this distance. Those are arms and legs. It’s got faces too. Many faces.” I shuddered.
“I can barely see any details,” she passed the binoculars to Andrew, and he looked through them, “What’s it do?”
“What?” I asked.
“What’s it do if it catches a person?”
“It pulls people into it. Makes you apart of its mass. Nasty fuckers.”
Andrew removed the lenses from his eyes and held them to his chest and asked, “It won’t mess up your trap, will it?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” I said, “You don’t want to mess with a fiend unless you have to.”
First/Previous
Archive

Yes, I am aware this may not be worth anyones time...bear with me. Especislly you you BIG Texas GUY! Actin all big. Acting all smug! Hiding in the Alamo like most Texans do... living it up with your 5lb bag of tofu jerky, like the soy boy really are... deep inside. Yea, you probably bought that shit with the money you claim to not spend on Jack Daniels HONEY!
I KNOW BETTER! I know what you're really up to with that last 5$
Better known by you as 4.60 euro. Since your so in love with acting like a French PRINCE!
DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU PUT ME THROUGH!
Go ahead, convert that back to 5 USD like a real BIG GUY! AND WHAT DO YOU GET!
YOU GET NOTHIN!
Or atleast thats what you, and the so called customer service that my fiance never contacted thinks! Yea. I bet your like maybe if you did, but ive had enough of what if... You caffine covered RAT! If thats what you even claim to be! Who knows!
Its been nearly two years, schlatt. (Thats right amongst all of the capitalization I [capitalized!] Chose to lower case your name and will from here on out!) Anytime I listen to you. WHICH I USUALLY DONT MIND DOING! However, thats starting to change! Ya wana know why?
Its not because all of the god damn dogs you've made too scared to serve MY country. I could make LIST schlatt. A list... numbering the things you find more important than me!
Its because almost two entire years have passed... and my fiance is still waiting for her sampler that she NEVER RECIEVED!
You know what i do most often schlatt.(god why can't I make your name smaller)

 I WORK SCHLATT 

With my regretful hands! I wake up, shower, and in that shower it's not so bad to hear you just act like you don't give a shit. But on the other side of that wall when I walk out is my fiance.
Do you know that all that good ass work juice you pump my heart leaks out all over my shitty wood floor right when she point it out.
She says,"Is that schlatt, I can't believe he did that to me!?" Anytime she hears your voice. She use to like you shlatt... Shes hot as shit covered in tattoos, beautiful smile... and you took her last 5 USD, the type of currency that we use here in America, and she invested in you schlatt. She wanted those samplers.
I hear about this roughly every other day since. She won't let it go. Why would you take her money. Why make her do this instead of talking to support? Why won't you, without being aware, reach out to ME personally and fix my little shower problem.
Do you know what it's like to come home after standing on a ladder all day just to have someone you consider to be a hero, a friend, a brother just repeatedly stomp on your loved ones bank account!? Not even sprinkle any dust in there?
I hate to say it but if you don't do something soon I may loose it all. We were willing, where were you when she needed you schlatt. Why do I have to hear this every time I try to listen to you. I'm trying to help you! I'm not even asking for a refund, I just need your advice... she doesn't see you the way she did schlatt... and I'm afraid she will never recover.
I will not be gratified by your response. I can continue to imagine you as some sort of dog stomping ghost if i need to. You have a responsiblity here. She WAS your fan. Can you help a helpess homie out with a solution here or what.
BECAUSE IF YOU CAN NOT I'M GOING TO HAVE TO SEE IF TUCKER OR TED HAVE ANY DUST FOR SALE!
IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT US TO DRINK. I see no other option. Bring her back, don't put Teds fucking dust in my mouth BRO! Just do something. Please! Before it's all over. I have four step children that are going to be drinking the dust off of these guys dude. Its just not right what you have done to me. Sometimes you can try your best and all you have is smog flavored dust. However, Tucker's has a rather robust high note. So idk may just have to drink his dust i guess... until i jump off a bridge into normal water. With no tits... no juice... no hope.
No hope guys! No hope and no dust!
I don't want to hear it again!

The dream: I was making my way down a arid, mountainous, high altitude, path. The path was lined with jagged rocks strewn with the remnants of war - unexploded ordinance, helmets and clothes of long dead soldiers. There were a handful of trucks making their way down along with some on foot. I was running and jumping from truck to truck. At the end of this path I encountered a pond blocking the entrance to a cave. Groups of disheveled, tortured people gathered around, afraid to cross the pond. The pond was putrid, black, sewage-like muck. I entered and crossed the pond and made my way in to the darkness of the cave. After traveling in the dark for some time I encountered a beautiful woman dressed in all white standing next to an ornately decorated fountain embedded in the rock wall of the cave delivering crisp water. The woman handed me a crystal glass - I filled the cup and drank the water.
After waking up from this dream I had a strong feeling that this was incredibly important. I have never had a meaningful response to a dream before or since. However, at the time, I had no idea what it meant. About 6 months after the dream I began an introspective journey. Lots of reading, therapeutic psychedelic journeys, men's retreats, etc. In the book Iron John, there is a passage: "If the young man steals the key and climbs on the shoulders of this being, three things will change: the wound, rather than being regarded as bad luck, will be seen as a gift. Second, the sacred or secret water - whatever that is - will appear..." (P. 38) This struck me as the sacred water made me think of this dream. Was this my anima presenting the sacred water? I can't find it now but I recall having also read Jung mentioning Anima dreams when the time is right?
I'm very interested in your take regarding this dream and its interpretation.

First/Previous
Gemma was right about the sky’s open night, and I could sympathize with her recollection of the beauty, but for me it must’ve been a greater tragedy—the young woman had only ever enjoyed the stars in the pits of Golgotha; I could, long before, drink in the sky at leisure. Cruel memories.
The night the Rednecks died was one of viscera, but before that it was coolness on the breeze, a warmth by the fires while John played his guitar and we had only just taken two dozen kegs of lager (personal reserves) from the Atlanta despot—the man that kept his subjects as slaves and not a person among the camp was left without budding intoxication. No matter the age, everyone was invited to be merry; if it was that children too faced the plight of a bad world, then so too should they reap the moments of plenty—or so the camp figured.
John had taken a group by the fires where wagons were drawn in interlocking semicircles for cover and Jackson sat beside the picker. Jackson was a man which normally preferred quiet reflection over boisterous singing and nearly never wore the band on his throat, and yet there he was belting out the chorus at the top of his lungs, tankard in hand, red cloth blazed around his neck—it was a contagion and those drunk enough for easier embarrassment sang proudly along:
“There is power, there is power in a band of working folk!
When we stand hand in hand,
That’s a power, that’s the power,
That must rule in every land!”
I’d taken to the outlying shadows with my back pressed against the gas-powered caleche, my own tankard in hand. I loved the warmth of that great big family, truly, but even in those days—and maybe it was that queer youthfulness which longed for individualism that made me that way then—I remained as distanced as possible when I could. I sipped the lager, it was a fine drink and my brother Billy, nearly as old as I was when I’d first taken up in the infantry, swaggered to stand beside me just as quiet for minutes and we looked at the stars and he asked me what it was like to kill a man.
“Is it hard?” he asked.
I nodded, “Sometimes.”
“Killing monsters ain’t so bad. Don’t know if I could do it to a person.”
“You could if they meant to kill you; or if they meant to do it to someone you cared about,” I promised him. In those days, spry, energized, I held no time for staring into abysses; though I still wasn’t a man fully, I pretended as one. It was about family, and it was about doing what was right—what’s right seemed to change, or I changed. The world felt stark with good and evil and even later I’d feel that sentiment well up in me, but if that’s true, I know I stand more on the latter and so I intentionally obfuscated it—this I know. If not, it might be too much to bear. I was required to lie to myself and even in knowing I lied, it was better.
Billy tugged on the red kerchief around his throat and asked me how it looked on him.
“Looks good,” I said.
“Don’t think I look stupid at all?”
I smiled over my drink, “You always look stupid.” I sipped. “The neckwear’s fine.”
“Give me a break,” said Billy; he investigated his own cup, gave it a swish with his wrist, watching its contents swirl. “Aren’t you ever afraid you’ll die?”
“Sometimes—nights like this—I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Really?” my brother asked.
“There’s always a chance of it. Every moment, I guess.”
He smiled. “I wish I had that confidence.”
“You’ll get it,” I returned his smile; it was true that he would gain the fighting spirit. It came to us all with time and reminiscing on the early days, I recall the grit and the hatred—there was learning there too though. Besides, I’d seen the squalors of a stationary man. The stagnation of a place, an unmoving home.
John put his guitar away and laughter erupted from the crowd from something said and Sibylle, cowboy hat cocked funny, traipsed across the camp to the open keg for a refill; the man there, tending the cylinders, was a man named Tandy (a foreigner and one unknown besides the way he smoked a skunk pipe and told wild stories). My mother leaned over while Tandy opened the spigot mouth on the keg, and she froze there, and I could see her there cut out forever against the light of the fires; I watched, and it came so suddenly that I couldn’t be sure what’d happened at all. It was so sudden that I couldn’t find my weapon and I couldn’t find even the courage to fight because in those moments it wasn’t courage I needed, it was grounds to understand.
Sibylle came apart in two pieces immediately, torn completely through and dust erupted as her legs struck the ground while her torso spun through the air like a top, a trail of liquid trailed after, caught in the blue of night so it shone as black; she couldn’t scream. Tandy was a statue. Before anyone could react, more flesh, other bodies, went up and there was all manner of limbs which filled the ground, and it is astounding how quickly a red mist forms across the ground during a massacre. Perhaps the wails of my comrades started before, perhaps others fell before Sibylle, but I could not comprehend the goings-on till I saw her drop the way she did.
Frail human screams rose on the night; I slammed to the ground, tankard gone away and hands scrambling in the dirt; I reached up blindly and yanked Billy to my level and his expression was one of innocence, panic, tears even. Glancing around, I saw the demons bolt from the pitch-black darkness on the edges of camp, mutants taking the fore while greater creatures lurked further back, some hurled whips of gliding metal which writhed over their heads when they stretched them out for a strike—alien—and they sliced directly through soft human bodies. Not even a cry escaped me, but Billy let go with it and I slapped my cupped hand over his mouth hard to hold the screams. His voice would not have been alone anyway, not alongside that startling cacophony. Amidst the cries of people, there were the cries of horses, of our hounds.
We rolled across the ground, slipped beneath the raised body of the gas-powered caleche, remained quiet in the dark, peeked out between the wheels.
“What’s happening?” Billy whispered through my fingers; I removed my hand from him and caught a glimpse of him framed in a square of firelight through the wheels—we lay there on our bellies and the left side of his face was glazed with dirt where I’d pulled him down.
“Shh,” I told him, “Shh, please. Please.” Not another word came while I pleaded with him, pleaded with the world to make this all a nightmare.
Through the haze and the running silhouettes painted black, I saw what might have been Jackson; he stumbled and in the moment that it took me to gasp, his head was gone from his body, his torso slid on as he collapsed, came to rest mere feet from the motor wagon. I told myself that it wasn’t him, but it probably was.
Some mutants lumbered through the camp like animated corpses, some leapt with wild energy or sprayed noxious fumes which lingered in the air; others still were amalgams of humanlike limbs themselves—fiends—exhausting terrible sounds, producing smells of sulfur, glistening with whatever liquids excreted from their oblong alien orifices. Demons ran amok, chanted in devil tongued languages, laughed madly at the destruction—others still, those which displayed some greater intelligence, broke into a song I could never hope or want to replicate; it seemed a unified damnation.
“Please,” I repeated in a whimper and Billy hushed me this time and I realized we were holding hands, squeezing for dear life as figures walked the camp, speared those half-alive, elected others for twisted carnality.
In darkness, in fright plainly, we scuttled from the recess of our hiding place, kept quiet, held to each other, and went into the wasteland where nothing was—every shadow was a potential threat, every second could’ve been the last. We were holding hands; then we weren’t.
Only a glance—that’s all I afforded my brother and nothing more—what a joke of a person I am! What a coward I was. Always.
Something got him in the dark and instead of dying alongside those I cared about, I went on, heartbeat driving me till it was all that I heard in my ears and my muscles ached and my chest heaved and sweat covered me, chilled me in the breeze of the night—it was only once I’d accepted the dark completely, crawled into a hollowed space of rocks along a squat ridge that I watched the demolished camp; it seemed no larger than a spark, but the creatures, fiends and others continued their war cries; never before had I witnessed demons participate in such an attack.
I watched till the sun came, till the fires became smoke, then I watched the band of hell creatures disband. The smell of sulfur remained in the air—copper too—and I stumbled back to the camp in a dreamlike daze, totally unbelieving of the things I saw. Among those dead on the ground, I could recognize none; among those piked from rear to shoulder, standing like morbid scarecrows where they’d been steadied against the ground, I could not want to recognize.
Many of the wagons were overturned, including the gas-powered caleche and I went to it; the metal of its body was warped but I fell to the ground by it and pushed my back against the exposed undercarriage, remained frozen there while examining the bodies, the terrible strips of skin which rested places like wet sheets of paper, the piles of bones removed and smashed and piled.
I cried so deeply that oxygen became a memory, and the shakes couldn’t be contained.
It was like that for so long, knees pulled up, face pushed between, and the wails came unafraid of whatever attention they might garner; there was no rationale, but I imagine if there had been, I would’ve welcomed death in that misery. It was a deep wound that not even my own cowardice would overcome for the sake of survival.
Unaware of my surroundings, not wanting to look up from the ground between my legs, the noise which had started out as imaginary became real and I raised my head then to listen better and wipe my sore eyes; it was the sound of clip-clop horse hooves and I mildly wondered if any of the animals had been spared. I stood and pivoted around the dead camp and there it was, a man on a painted horse with golden hair; he leisurely drove the mount through the place, maneuvering around pools of blood, clumps of body parts and upon seeing me, he smiled and offered a languid wave, keeping one of his gloved hands on the reins.
The man wore white and swished his hair back upon arriving directly in front of me. Ahoy, he offered kindly, Did you happen to see the other riders?
I shook my head, feeling numb.
Ah, he said, I could have sworn four other riders, at least, passed me on my way. His gray eyes examined the carnage. Shame. He shook his head. You are?
“H-harlan.”
He nodded and nearly offered an expression of genuine condolence before descending from the horse; the animal gave a gentle grunt and wandered away from its master to inspect a nearby group of the dead. The man offered his hand, and I took it in a shake. Mephisto, said the man. He flashed a smile again before his face grew serious. I’ve come to you to deal.
I shot him a questioning look, one of bafflement.
I heard your calls from far off. He nodded, removed a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped it down his face. Hot out. He shrugged then replaced the cloth in his pocket. This, he motioned to the disarray of vehicles, of bodies, I can’t fix all this—it’s too much—but there’s a person you love, I know. I could bring them back.
“Doctor?” In retrospect it was such a naïve question.
He shook his head.
“Angel?”
He grinned and nodded, Sure.
“Demon?”
Undoubtedly. His eyes—pits of gray in that radiant face—nearly expressed solemness; he daintily shook the hair from his face and looked at his steed which sniffed a corpse. What’s the word, Harlan? There are others calling and I must be on my way soon—I can’t dally. There was a sharpness to the words. Can’t dally. We must convene soon, or I’ll mosey on.
I snorted back the clog in my nose from the tears and wiped my eyes with my sleeves. “Okay.”
Deal?
I nodded, “Deal.”
Sleep tonight, said Mephisto, Sleep and you’ll be rewarded in the morning.
“You said it’s a deal.”
He nodded and scanned the carnage before we matched gazes and then he said, Yes?
“What is it you want from me?”
Nothing you need now. He called the horse, and it came, and he swept his feet quickly from the ground and settled into position atop the animal. Sleep, Harlan. You won’t be bothered. There are worse things still over the horizon.
I watched him go till he disappeared and once he was gone, I couldn’t cry anymore and instead rummaged through the wagons for what I might carry; along the way I found John, face twisted but corpse intact. The body from the previous night that I’d guessed was Jackson couldn’t be determined but I found him nowhere else. I slid Sibylle’s holster from her hips, fell hard onto the ground and found that I could sob more. I took her cowboy hat, placed it on my head and held her pistol in one hand and the belt holster dangled from the other while I searched the other bodies; there were so many, but I could not find Billy.
Waiting for darkness, I took the spot where I rested, back against the caleche’s undercarriage, watched the sky and felt the gun in my hand; it was heavy. I put it to my head, closed my eyes, and whispered affirmations to myself then I put the pistol between my splayed legs, watched it still in the dirt, and pulled the hat down over my eyes but it did little for the smell. Though the brim of the hat cut the sky out, I watched the ground and saw circling shadows form overhead and heard calls of turkey vultures; they came to pick over the bodies. I withdrew my knees to my chest there again and laid my forearm across them and bit into my arm while closing my eyes. I had thought I was a man and for a time, maybe I was, but there in that miserable pit of despair I became a child again and if I’d become more delirious, I’m sure I might’ve called out for Jackson like it was a bad dream.
Into a fading stupor of sleep in the sun I went and when I awoke again it was dark and chilly and I was tired and hungry but too sick to eat and hardly strong enough to move; I looked at the gun and put it into its holster and left it there by the caleche. In the light of the moon and stars, I moved to gather a bolt of canvas; I unfurled the fabric and created a leaning shelter against the overturned vehicle and crawled into it. There was a hole in the canvas, and I peeked out at the stars.
Weeping came again, but not so uproarious; I was stuck there letting go of whimpers, lying on my back, feeling the tears trace in lines from the outer corners of my eyes to collect along my earlobes. In time, I fell to sleep again on the hard ground because the mourning had taken all else from me.
A pinpoint of sunlight broke my eyelids and I jerked awake and reached for the holster, but it was gone. So was the hat. I crawled from the leaning shelter and there he was.
Billy stood plainly among the dried, congealed blood-soaked field and he looked on to the horizon and all shadows were long in the midday sun which hung up there in a soft blue sky. Whether it be a dream or a spell, I couldn’t care—I charged to him and spun him so he faced me and though his face was plain and expressionless, I wrapped him into a forceful hug. He placed his hands on my back and gave a gentle squeeze; when I pulled from him, my hands on his shoulders, I saw he held Sibylle’s hat in his left hand, pinched by the brim; he’d already tugged her holster belt around his hips—he could have it all. I shook while holding him then let go to wipe my face.
“You’re alive,” I nodded.
He nodded without speaking then looked at the hat in his hand and placed it on his head and firmly pressed it down.
“Billy! Hell, you’re alive!”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward for a moment then he nodded again. “Yeah.” His eyes curiously searched our surroundings like he meant to take each detail in forever.
I slapped him on the shoulder and almost squealed. “Goddammit.” I wiped my eyes again and could do little to keep the excitement from exploding from me. “Oh, we should go. We should go on and get somewhere safe.”
He nodded toward the horizon, “’Lanta?”
“Sure.”
We packed and it was a like an ethereal phantom remained among us beside the quiet dead; turkey vultures cawed to break the silence, pecked where they pleased on the bodies, and I couldn’t want to fight them. I kept sidelong eyes on Billy with the ever-present worry that he’d vanish. Perhaps he was the phantom.
From the rear of the caleche, I removed a few sentimental books Jackson liked, essential cookware, and sparse rations for the trek. The last thing I grabbed was my shotgun and a bit of ammo.
As we set from the dead place, the terrible silhouettes that were cut from there on the horizon behind us grew in my mind with every backward glance—I wanted to fall to pieces, but I saw Billy walk alongside me and although contented is not the right word, it is the nearest. The steps of our boots were all that was heard because I could not fathom to pierce the space between us with words for fear that it would all end. It was a dream, surely. I’d lost my mind. With my hands thumbed into the straps of my pack, I saw I my hands still shook, and they would shake a lot longer—years and with memories too. The crunch of earth underfoot became a rhythm and instead of looking at my brother, I watched his shadow on the ground.
“Everyone’s dead?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” I repeated.
“How ain’t I? How ain’t you?”
To say that it was luck would’ve been too morbid. Instead of saying anything, I shrugged, kicked a loose stone, watched my feet some more, and felt a queasiness come over me. For the moment, the immeasurable deaths of those I’d left behind were forgotten in the company of my brother and a sickness welled up inside of me so suddenly that I felt that I’d fall to pieces at the slightest provocation. Finally, I did speak again, but only after steeling myself to the troubles, “Yeah, how are you alive?”
Billy shrugged at me then stumbled up a hill which overlooked trash wood wilderness where sticks lay twisted and bare and further on the sight of Atlanta was visible and I cupped a hand across my brow and Billy did the same and we looked on at the shadows of the place out there where strings of smoke rose from the skyline as a signature for the desolation of the city; it was dead. I felt it in my bones.
My hands were light while my head was heavy, my throat was dry, and the entire world seized in moments of stillness or perhaps it was my own vision which construed the world in that way; I took to the small hill which Billy had climbed and sat there and stared at the place between my feet to steady myself.
“Fire,” said Billy.
I nodded and nearly choked.
Leviathan—till then I had no belief in dragons—glided over the broken city, its winged shadow little seen but its voice was deep across the scene, letting go of roars which shook the ground. We hid among the trash wood and moved down the hill and watched the creature thrash in the air as if it was angry for its abominable life. Whatever millennia it spent in the pits of hell seemingly thrust upon it a love of destruction and pain.
My brother moved with a more assured stride and kept a cool distance and upon fleeing from the wreckage, from the outlying area of Atlanta and the place we’d left our family, he spoke little and watched me strangely whenever I took to melancholic fatiguing. We lit no fires for fear of what it could draw from the night so in the dark I’d see him watching some far-off place, maybe seeing through the reality which surrounded us, and he’d snap from it, catch my eye, and disappear for minutes to scan the perimeter of whatever place we stayed. Being alongside my resurrected brother was lonelier than I could bear, and I hoped he’d disappear for good or that I could work up the courage to end my own life. It was like purgatory explained in books and for a time, it felt endless; upon witnessing the destruction of Atlanta, we pushed to Marrietta, and it was much the same. As was Chatanooga, Nashville, Knoxville, Louisville, Charlotte. The ocean had risen so that Fayetville was gone underwater, and the Florida leg disappeared completely as far as I’m aware. I understood later that Memphis was overlooked and more places further west were alive too, but when we’d exhausted the south, we moved north and found strongholds of families or traders or even small groupings of civilization, but by and large we found nothing much in the two years that we hoofed it from place to place; it was my doing mostly—I wanted to find a place untouched by the mayhem in the area my family had once patrolled.
In retrospect, I am certain that Billy only stayed by my side for convenience; there wasn’t any of my brother left in the man that was my travelling companion for that time. He was a ghost of a person and Mephisto had preyed upon my desire in the worst moment of weakness in my life. There were nights—maybe we’d taken up in a natural alcove for shelter or we’d locked ourselves in some ancient structure for sleep—I’d watch Billy lay where he was, Sibylle’s hat and holster lying beside him, and I’d think of putting him down but he’d stir and in a brief shadow I’d see my brother as he’d been and withdraw to bury my face in fake sleep to be met with images of the night the demons attacked where I’d shake, sweat, and bite my lips so hard I’d drink blood.
Two years we marched around the Appalachians and in that time, I felt myself wither and disconnect.
Upon moving further north we met Indianapolis—that’s what it was called back then—and it was run by an older woman called Lady Lazarus; I reckon her father, affluent and dead, was a fan of Plath. Indianapolis was fortified more than most with its high walls, and its wall men, and its underground facilities which produced substantial ammunition. We—me and Billy’s revenant—were travelling with a group of traders we’d taken up with from out west; they called themselves wizards and although they seemed of the occult, their spirits discounted whatever suspicions I might’ve had of them.
I remember first pushing through that big gate; the town kept with it an indisputable malaise and though we were greeted at the gate by the leader Lady Lazarus—her brothers came along with her—and her jovial demeanor carried a certain infectious quality, I could not help but notice that the regular denizens maintained a healthy distance from their leader (the guards which followed the Lady everywhere probably had something to do with this).
Lady Lazarus touched each of our hands in greeting with enthusiasm and I could not help but notice how soft they were, how vibrant her eyes were, how much she smiled, and how beautiful she was given her age; already her head was fully gray.
Upon meeting each of us, going through the wizard traders first, she came to me, and Billy and she shook my hand then pivoted to Billy.
“Welcome. You can call me Lady.”
Billy caught her hand in his, held it longer than she’d intended so that they held eye contact, and he smiled broadly, tipped the cowboy hat on his head back to expose his smooth forehead and said, “And you can call me Maron, mam. You are quite a sight for a tired man.”
Though Maron—as he’d named himself—was more boy than man, Lady took a disturbed liking to him immediately and we prolonged our stay in Indianapolis after the wizards departed to head west.
Under the rule of Lady, Indianapolis was a theocracy, with her addressing the huddled masses at the steps of her grand abode, she’d preach for hours on sin and strife and quote her favorite passages; though reminiscent of my time with the Rednecks, I never found any truth or sincerity or freedom in her teaching—hers was more trouble, brimstone, fire and I’d had enough of that for a lifetime. Public execution was common. As was torture.
Maron distanced himself further from me, but I remained to keep an eye on him—it was not sentimentality but rather I existed without purpose and conjured some from watching my brother.
Often, Lady invited Maron to her private rooms and though the rumors and speculation ran the full spectrum of perverse speculation, every denizen feigned ignorance at her pregnancy.
Upon giving birth, the infant was malformed with two heads—her brothers took this as an omen and killed the child, put their leader in the stocks for months, and stripped her of dignity while the denizens did to her what they pleased.
Maron rose through the wall men while Lady’s brothers assumed control of Indianapolis and called themselves Bosses; in the time since Lady’s reign, the place was renamed to Golgotha for its closeness to a messiah.
I went west but always found myself drawn back to Golgotha because of some emptiness in me. It was only with Suzanne that I wanted something more and knowing them, I almost believed in a world like the one that children dream about. The world that Gemma and Andrew chased after when they left home, like the one Aggie talked about in her mother’s books. There’s a hopelessness in me that I’ll never be rid of. In the interim between our initial arrival to Golgotha and that flight from that terrible city, I cannot know how many people I sacrificed in convening with demons because I refuse to know because the number would destroy me. That is the worst of it; I do not even have courage enough to face myself or the actions of my past in any substantive way.
Mephisto tainted me so that I could speak with his kind as a dealmaker and the disease grew.
Billy or Maron or whatever he is should have been reaped long ago or better, I should never have brought that abomination alive. Such a cruel world where a deep longing like that can be inverted, weaponized. Me and him should both die; me and him should have died a long time ago.
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Read the full interview at https://edgeworth.blog/2024/04/27/me-a-doll-interview/
PUG: Jompiy are quite a lot like Damien Hirst’s spin paintings.
EJ: I liked his figurative paintings that Tate didn’t include any of, in that solo show that had virtually everything else he’d ever done. I think Tate will be showing Heckel’s Horse before long.
PUG: What makes you think that?
EJ: It would be poetic. Darth Vadar comes to his senses and everyone’s rescue. There’ll probably be some new maverick Director that comes along and wants to make an easy name for herself.
PUG: How about a Heckel’s Horse Jr. show there instead? I liked the Heckel’s Horse Jr. book.
EJ: Thanks. They’re currently available to all our Fan Club members on Tiers 2 and 3. If someone was interested in finding out more, all they’d have to do is simply visit https://blackivory.org/fan-club/
PUG: Is there anything planned for Heckel’s Horse?
EJ: As far as I can tell, it’s on the back burner till whoever’s in charge decides the time’s right for a show. Billy’s been trying to push things along for years, pretty much since we started doing them.
PUG: You need this new Tate Director.
EJ: We need someone to forcibly step in with the interest, clout and balls to act irrespective of any commercial consequence or fretting what the art world and its clientele think. Like some benevolent Stuckist ex-hedge fund manager who says “Let’s do a show because of all that stuff in the Stuckism manifesto.”
PUG: Like a hostile takeover. Might Heckel’s Horse Jr. being published speed things along for Heckel’s Horse?
EJ: Apparantly the opposite. It might put them off, but whatever. It shouldn’t be all beholden to any audience thing. There needs to be a punk movement in Contemporary Art. Like Black Ivory but slightly more influential. None of this prissy “We’re not allowed to do this, we’re not allowed to do that. The clients might not like this, the clients might not like that.” I don’t know anything about how the art world functions but there’s an obvious staleness and near-universal obedience to it. Then you get things like Stuckism or our semi-Stuckist-splinter-group Black Ivory that, like opt out of the audience as target idea. That are happy to be a disgrace. I think they asked the bass player from the Manics what it was like walking around dressed up in their band gear, round their local working-class mining village in skirts and makeup, and he says “We just wanted to be hated.” I like that about Stuckism and the seemingly repellent and toe-curling bridge-burning stuff we do. The term “target audience” is business talk for a reason. Target audiences are for things like Persil Automatic, not artists. Artists worrying about this stuff is just depressing and I guess is all counter-productive to what they’re after anyway.
PUG: How would it be counter-productive?
EJ: Because it’s like some saggy-headed donkey that’s given up. Part of the shuffling crowd, which is shame if your art isn’t. Not believing in yourself. That’s how it all looks to me anyway. When I see photos of Stuckists prancing around in clown costumes outside Tate it’s so appealing. They’re building walls between themselves and the people everyone else is so desperate to be approved by.
PUG: So can Black Ivory save Contemporary Art?
EJ: We’ll stack a load of six footer Heckel’s Horse Jr. paintings against the walls. A few in the front room with the sofas, tables and chairs and whatnot. I’ll be walking round with a full teapot. Invite some friends round and do it as Stuckism would do it. Leave the evidence on our YouTube channel as Van Goghian proof for future generations that today’s Contemporary Art wasn’t just the text book stuff.
PUG: Stuckism was quite punk influenced but the art world’s still largely what it was beforehand.
EJ: Stuckism bothered. Like leading a horse to water. It’s like even the anti-establishment are only considered successful when the establishment accept them. The Other Muswell Hill Stuckists should do a manifesto about it. Stuckism‘s not for our benefit, it’s for yours. Our “failures” are your problem. We’re waking up and painting either way. We don’t need the art world. We don’t need the Turner Prize to show us what a decent painting looks like. I’m only talking about it not shaking up the artworld obviously, not the work or anything important, but like we’ve both done loads of Stuckist Turner Prize demos, published a Stuckist Turner Prize manifesto, as far as I know, the Turner Prize is still going strong. So what? Did the demos fail? Are our paintings worse now? If nothing else, it’s nice to get out the house. I like the Turner Prize demos because it’s like getting bashed on both sides. By the establishment and the hipsters. Usually it’s like, choose a team: brand A or brand B and kid yourself there’s a difference. The establishment think they’re winning and the hipsters think they’re cool and anti-establishment. Stuckism chooses neither, which I see as the only real anti-establishment. Stuckism‘s failures, if anything, proove its success becuase punk succeeded in it’s non-musical objectives, it became chart music. No chance of Stuckism falling for that one. How’s that for a theory? Failure isn’t failure. Failure’s success because failure’s longevity and success is failure. Stuckism‘s a roaring failure.
PUG: A new punk Tate for Heckel’s Horse.
EJ: I did some assistant work for Jimmy Cauty years ago, on these glittery riot shields. I think around 2016. The tracksuit bottoms still have the gold glitter and PVA stuck to them. I can’t remember if I was talking about Heckel’s Horse or something else, but Billy and I couldn’t have done too many by then. It might have been something else, but I tell Jimmy we’ve done all this work and nothing’s getting published, and he says ‘So, when’s the bonfire?’ The man who burned a million pounds. Ten years later, he we are, same situation. Thankfully, as far as I’m aware, still no bonfire. So overall, things are going great for Heckel’s Horse. All the paintings are still probably in existence.
PUG: Just a lot more of them now.
EJ: I’ve got this image of Heckel’s Horse paintings being taken at night to some secret billionaires island off the South Kent coast and chucked on a blazing fire with a load of men in white suits standing round drinking champagne, each with a cigar between their teeth going ‘Ha! Ha! Fuck you Edgeworth!’
PUG: Then there’d just be the Heckel’s Horse Jr.’s left and you could sell them for millions.
EJ: You’re a genius.
PUG: All those paintings will end up in a show at some point.
EJ: It’s been eleven years. Could be another twenty, thirty. I had this paranoia, they’d pretend they were by Billy and cut my name out. If Billy and I aren’t around. Even if I’m still around, who’s going to listen to me?
PUG: Do you reckon?
EJ: I don’t even know who it was, but some lying fart-face decided it would be alright to pretend these monoprints Billy and I collaborated on would be better sold off as ‘by Billy Childish’ and not by both of us. So that’s what happened. Like a click of the fingers, “Bye bye Edgeworth.” Pretty unimpressive, I thought.
PUG: Didn’t you say anything?
EJ: No, what’s going to happen? Better to say nothing then moan about it ten years later. The way I see it, I’m not the one lying so it’s not my problem. Do you know what I mean? It shouldn’t be on me to object if they’re doing it on purpose.
PUG: So it’s not like Damien Hirst and his assistant’s painting butterflies.
EJ: No. It’s sort of, not wanting to flatter the people that erased my attribution with the idea they’re worth bothering with. Because it’s not like I was upset or felt hard done by. It was just disillusionment in one thing, addressed by the creation of another, Black Ivory Printmaking & Audio Club. If anything it’s a net positve. “So that’s the kind of people you really are. What a fantastic opportunity!”
Damien Hirst’s different. It’s all declared and everyone knows the deal. There’s nothing dodgy about it. It’s not like some slippery gallerist-type shifts the goalposts after the works done, like they’ve got some licence to change the truth. The buyers know what they’re buying, the artists know what they’re doing. These monoprints were a thick painterly transfer technique I came up with and haven’t seen anywhere else. Until I see any that look similar, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a type of monoprint of my invention. And they think they can just sign that away from me. If people see mine now, the ones I did independently using the same technique, they’ll probably think I copied it from Billy, which I think’s quite a liberty. “Taking Berty’s.” as we said at school.
PUG: Didn’t they ask you about it first?
EJ: No, I just get emailed after with some apparent excuse. If you’re some no-name pushover like me, I guess they think it’s alright. It might all have been a lot more innocent than it looked from my end, but if they’re like this with some few hundred quid monoprints, what’s it going to be like with all these crates of 6ft paintings that are worth a fortune? Not exactly reassuring to think of Heckel’s Horse in these people’s hands.
PUG: Welcome to the art world.
EJ: It might end up for the best. A lot of why I started doing Heckel’s Horse Jr. was to get the Heckel’s Horse story out the door. A lots been done already. Billy and I want to get Heckel’s Horse paintings in front of people. Billy‘s spoken about it in interviews that I’ve super-glue-referenced into the Billy Childish wikipedia page. L-13 have done a load of prints. Things are going pretty well. The less behind-the-scenes Heckel’s Horse is, the harder I guess it is for the truth to get fudged later. Especially if Billy and I aren’t around by the time anything happens.
PUG: You’ve always got Jompiy.
EJ: Yeah, my solid backup plan. I don’t need to worry about Jompiy getting nicked.
Read the full interview at https://edgeworth.blog/2024/04/27/me-a-doll-interview/
https://youtu.be/aWN2dAleE14

Looking for someone to have a fun conversation with tonight and maybe something more if things click. Around my age, good sense of humor, and a quick wit are big pluses.
A little about me: Music is my first love and I listen to a wide variety. I love swapping songs and exploring musical connections. I go see live music and stand up comedy whenever I can. I'm a pretty big sports fan and always down to talk shit. I love going out with friends and do pub quiz once a week and also play in a dart league. I game when I have the time and play a little bit of everything. I don't watch a ton of TV but when I do I'll binge a whole series in a day or two and love talking about it. I keep up with the news, politics, and general pop culture and appreciate other people who do.
If you think we'd get along send me a chat.

I wish you all a fellowship enriched BABYMETAL weekend!
It is BABYMETAL goodies time again! ...and BLACK BABYMETAL Friday!
I encourage you all to put almost all of the super-cute/fun/cool stuff, awesome moments, favourite pics+animations+vids++, curiosities, fan art, fan stories, covers, reactions, mash-ups, memes and similar non-news goodies in comments here or in one of the specialized weekly goodies threads, so we do not clutter up the main submissions list, especially when it is not new ...or it is "typical goodies thread material".
If you have trouble narrowing down on a goodie to submit this week from the near infinite amount of awesome/great goodies available from BABYMETAL and The One, you can seek inspiration in the goodies theme of this weekend which is: Soul and Inspiration -- so you are hereby encouraged to submit BABYMETAL stuff that are very inspiring/uplifting/energizing or soulful/emotional/touching.
Off-theme goodies are of course also, as usual, just as welcome!
Share and Enjoy!
Sincerely, JalmarY
Links to additional info and goodies:

• If you want a more detailed description of this weeks goodies theme, you will have to visit the 2024 Master Goodies Thread. Same if you are a relatively new readecontributor wanting a full introduction to the Goodies Threads or an experienced readecontributor wanting a clarification or a refresh.
  
• And as usual: Here are the previous goodies thread and the latest Su Sunday, Moa Monday, Yui Tuesday, Momo Thursday and Kami Wednesday (not this week) specialized goodies threads, in case you want to check them for late additions or have not already read them.
  
• Previous Goodies Threads this year are: 517 516 515 514 513 512 511 510 509 508 507 506 505 504 503 502 501 500 499 ...but for even earlier Goodies Threads, you must go via the current Master Goodies Thread so we can limit clutter in these weekly threads...
  

This is to anyone who is so fixated on the point if Yasuke was or wasn't an actual Samurai in the past. What if I told you it didn't matter at all? In your pursuit of "historical accuracy" I'd like to highlight several instances where Assassins' creed allegedly followed history to a T. This is to highlight why it's unjustified in the first place. Assassin's creed has always been historical fiction. Anyone arguing against that is either unfamiliar with the series or is intentionally arguing in bad faith.

• Do you all remember that time in history it was recorded there was a civilization before ours?
• That time the civilization before ours created humanity in their advanced technology and created us in their image. Pretty sure that's how the bible depicted it. Also how we were created to be utilized as a working force to make their lives easier.
• That time humanity acquired a magical artifact that allowed us to free ourselves from our would be owners. Was that one in genesis?
• When a solar flare messed up the planet wiping out most of civilization. Causing the former advanced civilization having to mingle with our own race to survive. Also those descendants were gifted with magical, psychic powers, because we all know psychics are real.
• That time a single man toppled the assassin's brotherhood bringing an end to a mad man's tyranny.
• That time when Lorenzo Medici's assassination attempt was thwarted by Ezio, it's so inspiring that a fictional character was able to transcend past his written limitations to alter the course of real history.
• That time the Knights Templars weren't all eradicated in france, became the free masons, and to this day still operate under the guise of a real company known as Abstergo.
• That time a Native American turned Assassin saved George Washington's life, fought alongside the colonies, and helped construct America.
• Forgive me for these examples as they aren't as commonly known in the community unless you're familiar with some of the written work: The time Lyndon B Johnson orchestrated the JFK assassination to stop a coordinated effort with the russians to get to the moon where a piece of eden resided, the fact that MLK was an Assassin, and the many other alterations made to over exaggerate past figures in history to make for better entertainment.
• Let's not forget this synopsis of the very first game. That there's a literal device, that can be found today, that takes DNA strands and make you relive your ancestor's past life in VR Chat. Whose excited for the Meta Verse expansion that just dropped?

The point of all of that is to highlight a simple truth. The Assassin's creed franchise has ALWAYS deviated from historical accuracy for better storytelling, even fabricating things that simply didn't happen at all, and seemingly before this event no one cared. Because of the mantra, history is written by the winners; the Assassins' are an underground society whose tenant is "hidden in plain sight." Meaning the "truth" in AC is under the ruse that history had been interpreted incorrectly. That there are things we in modern civilization, what we've been told, doesn't necessarily mean it's the real truth. Why do you think the synopsis of the first game is to use the genetic material, to use your ancestor's past lives, to find out said "truths."
All of that is fine because it's HISTORICAL FICTION. By demanding only historical accuracy you take the fiction out and are left with only history.
So who cares if Yasuke was or wasn't an official samurai? When they can just easily masquerade it as his impact was minimized in recorded history because the nature of the plot, hiding in plain sight. As for the complaint about not having an Asian male playing the lead part maybe there is some merit to the claim; however, real fans of the series knew we had waited a long time for a game in Japan, when we first learned of a female Japanese assassin years back. Now it's somehow a problem that it's a female woman of japanese origin playing one of two protagonist of this story? We also had examples of other characters taking the lead role, even if momentarily, like DLC in black flag I believe; where we took the role of a man fighting against slavers during the slave trade.
Now Asmon is completely right to criticize the price point of this title. I completely agree with that stance and should other gamers, but let's not rally behind a lie that Assassin's creed has always "prided itself on historical accuracy" or any deviations of such is somehow a new foreign concept to the IP. It's not genuine, it's stupid, and highlights an even bigger issue that critics of those critiquing the game are going to latch onto. How the AC fandom had no quarrels with history being altered in the past, up until it was time for history to deviate to favor a black man.
I know we are tired of AAA titles doing these bait and switches. However, attacking this franchise for doing it isn't the win you think it is especially with all I've highlighted. Please, if you want to fight back do so on the context of the pricing and leave the insignificant changes to history, in an IP based off of Historical fiction, alone. Also fun fact, before it's said, yes I WAS an AC fanboy back in the day. Loved the games because I adore historical fiction and it was nice to see interpretations of what if's or what could have been. That's the enjoyment i got from the title, what I imagine a lot of people got out of it, and the writing quality seriously dropped in later titles. I hadn't played an AC title sense Syndicate. (Heard some of them actually got good, i'll take your word for it.)
But thanks for coming to my ted talk. I'm not expecting any real conversations about this or the points I made. Mostly because you all are so wrapped up in being angry to even attempt to reason too. Maybe in a few months people will come back, see this, and realize that maybe it wasn't the end of the world like they suspected. At least let the game come out, see for yourself, then make a choice if it's good story telling or not.

I’ve been playing for over a year now, together with my girlfriend. She uses stealth gauss rifle build I’m using PA with .50 cal. The first 20 levels were a bit hard since I had to teach her about the game and everything and our chars had no build and ran with random weapons. After lvl 20 when we started receiving some useful perk cards towards our builds and getting proper weapons for it. Game started getting extremely easy. I would wait and let her do her thing in stealth and when the shit hits the fan I run up and finish the job.
Now we’re at a point where it feels like zones have far less enemies than it should. My girl one shots practically everything she shots and nobody does enough damage to kill me.
I’ve never had the best armor or weapons either. I used hellcat, now I use T60 with random legendries just because I got several paint plans for it. I never used food or chems. I don’t even boost my stats with camp items. I have like only 2x mutations for jump and run speed. And me and my gf do complete expeditions / daily ops under 8mins duo. It just feels there’s no content where I even consider getting that t65 or even try to grind for overeaters legendries.
PA cores feels like they never ever lose charge aswell. I would like PA feel more like a tank and sometimes inconvienient to use. Ranther than it just being regular op armour.
Food / water / stimpaks / radaway etc. It feels even illegal to get those on the events constantly, because it eliminates usefulness of camp items or player vendors or even crafting. I constantly just empty my inventory into vault 76 donation box, just full of stims, radaways, purified water and random ammo and grenades.
The bosses and expeditions feel extremely easy, no puzzles no boss phases, there’s nothing that you need to dodge so you would get oneshoted. Just standing and shooting.

~Industrial couplings market~ is anticipated to grow at a considerable CAGR of 4.5% during the forecast period. The rising industrialization and adoption of the Industry 4.0 revolution across the globe have created the demand for an industrial coupling market. The high demand for industrial coupling from the end-user industry is a key factor driving the growth of the global industrial couplings market. To meet the growing demand for industrial couplings key players are expanding their production facilities. For instance, in July 2023, R+W, a global brand of precision couplings for motion control and automation systems, opened a new US-based manufacturing facility with expanded machining capabilities and assembly operations for its precision couplings and line shafts. The company relocated into the 30,000-square-foot facility in West Chicago, IL in late 2022, and is currently ramping up to produce the majority of its precision bellows couplings, elastomer couplings, and line shafts for the North American market.
Get Free Sample link @ https://www.omrglobal.com/request-sample/industrial-couplings-market
The global industrial couplings market is further segmented based on geography, including North America (the US and Canada), Europe (Italy, Spain, Germany, France, and others), Asia-Pacific (India, China, Japan, South Korea, and others), and the Rest of the World (the Middle East & Africa and Latin America). Among these, Asia-Pacific is estimated to be the fastest-growing region owing to the growing industrialization in emerging economies such as India & China. Government initiatives, such as the 'Make in India' and ‘Made in China’ programs, have further strengthened the place of the region in the industrial coupling market. The growing automobile industry is further driving the demand for the industrial coupling market.?
full report of Industrial Couplings Market available @ https://www.omrglobal.com/industry-reports/industrial-couplings-market
· Market Coverage
· Market number available for – 2024-2031
· Base year- 2024
· Forecast period- 2024-2031
· Segment Covered- By Source, By Product Type, By Applications
· Competitive Landscape- Archer Daniels Midland Co., Ingredion Inc., Kerry Group Plc, Cargill
· Inc., and others
Market Segmentation
Global Industrial Couplings Market by Type
o Flexible Coupling
o Rigid Coupling
Global Industrial Couplings Market by End-User
o Automotive
o Healthcare
o Aerospace & Defense
o Oil and Gas
o Metal and Mining
o Other
Regional Analysis
o North America
o United States
o Canada
o Europe
o UK
o Germany
o Italy
o Spain
o France
o Rest of Europe
o Asia-Pacific
o China
o India
o Japan
o South Korea
o Rest of Asia-Pacific
o Rest of the World
Company Profiles
o Baldor Electric (ABB Ltd)
o Colossus
o Daido Precision Industries Ltd.
o Dandong Colossus Group Co. Ltd.
o Dhara Industries
o Elegant Engineering Corp.
o Emerson Electric Co.
o Industrial Clutch Parts Ltd.
o John Crane Ltd.
o KK Foundry
o KTR Systems
o Nishi Enterprise
o Premium Energy Transmission Ltd.
o Rexnord Corp.
o Sedan Engineering Enterprises
o Shri Umiya Industries
o Tsubakimoto Chain
o Summit Tools Corp.
o SuperMech Industries
o Utkur Iron & Steel Industries
o Wiperdrive Industries
The Report Covers

• Market value data analysis of 2022 and forecast to 2030.
• Annualized market revenues ($ million) for each market segment.
• Country-wise analysis of major geographical regions.
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• Analysis of business strategies by identifying the key market segments positioned for strong growth in the future.
• Analysis of market-entry and market expansion strategies.
• Competitive strategies by identifying ‘who-stands-where’ in the market.

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About Orion Market Research Orion Market Research (OMR) is a market research and consulting company known for its crisp and concise reports. The company is equipped with an experienced team of analysts and consultants. OMR offers quality syndicated research reports, customized research reports, consulting and other research-based services. The company also offer Digital Marketing services through its subsidiary OMR Digital and Software development and Consulting Services through another subsidiary Encanto Technologies.
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Company Name: Orion Market Research
Contact Person: Mr. Anurag Tiwari
Email: [info@omrglobal.com](mailto:info@omrglobal.com)
Contact no: +91 780-304-0404

(was forced to repost because a commenter tried to derail the conversation to bash Leigh-Anne and turn the conversation to something that it isn’t supposed to be)
Being from a Southern state, growing up, I often recognized behaviors being geared against my few Black and non-white friends.
I have often seen on/through this sub (before and after I joined Reddit) what some may call “micro aggressions” and denials about what Leigh-Anne has faced throughout her career in Little Mix and in the UK. Where I come from, it’s about 90% white. The UK I believe, is about 80% white. While I wouldn’t know first hand, politically, I can see the realities of racism having been a fan of Leigh-Anne’s and Jade’s for a while now. Now, before anyone gets a lil too ahead of themselves, Perrie’s also one of my favorites and frankly, I can’t really choose between the 3 and my favorite usually flip flops. But for now, I’ve been paying a little more attention to our girl Leigh than Perrie.
Now, from what I’ve seen, Leigh-Anne may not have found the best words to put it but she has never once implied that LM’s fans were racist but that her identity might have influenced how fans perceived her. I remember in her documentary how Keisha Buchanan from the Sugababes explained how she was always put down with racist/prejudiced stereotypes and tropes being the only Black member. I could see how this could have happened to Leigh-Anne too with how I’ve seen “non-Leigh stans” speak on her vocals, her character, just about anything Leigh does, really.
Now, as a lefty in a pretty right wing area of a Southern state, I don’t know if anyone else pays attention to this stuff but what conservatives & libertarians have been saying about people of color has been abhorrent. They will call mixed or biracial people “mutants” and claim that they’re the reason for all of society’s issues, they will push racist stereotypes against people of color if you’ve been paying attention to the recent “DEI” dog whistles going back to what they’d say about affirmative action. (edit: these attitudes may have been imposed onto Leigh and Jade as well by like minded and/or unaware individuals with or without knowing it)
I don’t know how else to explain it but the fact that the market Leigh-Anne has come from is predominantly white may explain how she’s been treated in the past and even up to now. Bless y’all. I hope her team brings her out the UK soon and I hope all our girls thrive and flourish in the future.

Note: Eugene has wings in this fanepisode as well, that's still a theory - as is his mom's suffering a marriage crisis in season 2, based on a disagreement they may have over Eugene having been allowed to put himself in danger by the end of season 1 (don't worry, this theory also involves that they never actually divorce and reconcile at some point - and that there was far more to this argument than he thought, but that's saved for next chapter ;) Enjoy this one first :)
Cut to Vincent looking at a mural Xavier painted. Latter stands next to him, tapping his foot a little.
Vincent: Very nice. Though a little derivative of early Frida Kahlo, don’t you think?
Xavier: Why are you here?
Vincent: I did tell you it’s parent day.
Xavier: You never show up for parent day. So … (has to fight to keep going) … so could we just get it over with?
Vincent: (looks at him, unfazed, but cool) Alright, let’s cut the formalities.
He steps towards Xavier and fetches three little envelopes from the front pocket of his jacket. Xavier opens them – it’s flyers for other private schools. He freezes again.
Vincent: (pointing to one) This one’s in northern China. A rather militaristic school, but excellent teachers. And of course, Eton. (he points to another) You like black clothing now, I've heard.
Xavier: (stares at the flyers)
Vincent: I’ve sent your grades to each of them. They’d be happy to take you. By tomorrow even.
Xavier: (looks at him, half angry)
Vincent: You’re breaking school rules like an idiot. That is bothersome, Exavier. Very much so.
Xavier: (looks down at the flyers again, huffing a bit)
Vincent: It’s up to you. I don’t need you to be educated in America. But your friends do, right? And … (he leans over, looking at the flyers) … these aren’t the only schools on the list. And a few of them have rather insufficient internet.
Xavier looks at him, glaring, but not saying anything. Vincent observes him, completely unfazed still.
Vincent: Would you like to find out how many friends you’d have left after a few months?
Xavier: (slightly huffs, still not saying anything)
Vincent: Have I made myself clear?
Xavier: (looks down, nodding)
Vincent: (smiles) Excellent. (he pats his shoulder and walks away, leaving him standing there and looking at the flyers in quiet anger)
Cut to Enid’s parents sitting about. Her mother seems a little gloomy. Enid reaches them, her father smiling at her.
Enid: Sorry I’m late, I talked to Ajax mom’s.
Esther: Hm.
Enid: (notices her look) I … I may spend spring break with them soon.
Esther: (looks at her disapprovingly)
Enid: (meeting her look bravely) They’d love to have me.
Esther: (after another moment of glaring) Aren’t you spending a little too much time with that boy?
Enid: (sighs) Why? He’s my boyfriend.
Esther: There are more important things.
Enid: (looking down) I spend enough time still with other people. You may have heard.
Esther: I have. (she puts down her food)
Enid: (sighing again) Mom listen – I know it’s school rules but … we’re not hurting anyone, the opposite even, and I-
Esther: I don’t care about school rules – nothing should be in the way of a wolf, dear. But your company…
Enid: (looks at her)
Esther: I talked to your wolf advisor. She said you’ve started to spend your wolfed out nights not with the other wolves, but – those other kids.
Enid: (chuckles bewildered) Other kids.
Esther: A fair bunch of weaklings, my dear. Runt of the litter, let’s be honest.
Enid: (stares at her)
Esther: And it’s nice that you care for them, but do that in your free time. (she leans forward) The full moon is for wolves. You need to bond with the pack.
Enid: I tried. They’re not for me.
Esther: (shakes her head a little at her) I don’t think you tried hard enough. Wolf nights aren’t times to be a chooser. Or difficult, Enid. You need to adjust to your position. Maybe that’s what you didn’t like.
Murray looks at his wife, uncomfortable.
Enid: I don’t like hierarchies, it’s true.
Esther: (sighs) Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.
Enid glares at her, then looks into the middle distance for a moment, then down – then starts chuckling.
Esther: What?
Enid: (smiles at her – then gets up and walks away – a few meters off, she turns) Wow. Sixteen years and you finally said something I can use.
They exchange a look, her mother’s face changing a little while Enid seems near tears. Her father sighs, looking down. Enid looks at her mother defiantly, then stomps away.
Cut to the pond. Pugsley is sitting around all alone, staring at the water. He goes to fetch something from his bag and pulls out a grenade. He pulls the pin and throws it, but before it can reach the water, someone flies in and kicks it to the side, where it explodes. Pugsley stares at Eugene, who raises an eyebrow at him.
Eugene: Now that’s not very nice.
Puglsey: Wasn’t supposed to be?
Eugene: (chuckles) So… what’s a kid who wouldn’t chose boarding school over home doing here?
Puglsey: (stares at him)
Eugene: (flies over and sits down next to him, looking at him attentively)
Pugsley: (shrugs) I wasn’t in the mood for my parent’s cheerfest for my sister today.
Eugene: Must be hard.
Pugsley: I can handle. One day I’ll show them all.
Eugene: (smiles a little at this, kinda getting it)
Pugsley: What about you?
Eugene: Me?
Pugsley: I may or may not have heard that your moms are about as insufferably loving as mine. So what brings?
Eugene: (sighs) I guess it’s that … I may have to check who of the two is more loving or something soon …
Pugsley: Rough.
Eugene: (shrugs) It’s fine. (quietly) We’re like other families, right?
Pugsley: (looks at him for a long moment)
They sit in silence for another one, then he fetches something from his bag. Cut to Eugene’s face – he flinches when he suddenly hears another grenade explosion nearby. He turns to Pugsley, who has thrown it.
Eugene: Dude! (holds his chest a little)
Pugsley: Explosions usually make me feel better.
Eugene: (stares at him – then bursts into giggles)
Pugsley: (smirks)
Eugene: You’re so like your sister.
Pugsley’s expression drops. He looks at him surprised - but not in a bad way.
Eugene: (shrugs) Little more fun maybe.
Pugsley stares at him with a little smile. Bewildered. Eugene wants to say something more, but in this moment, his mom calls him. He sighs, turning to them in the distance. Eugene sighs.
Eugene: Well, here goes. (he gets up)
Pugsley: Try not to fly into their faces.
Eugene: (chuckles, then walks down the dock) See ya, Pugs.
Pugsley: See ya… (he looks at him, furrowing his brows) ... what was it again?
Eugene: (smirks, walking backwards) My friends call me U. (he points fingerguns at him, then does a half a backflip into the air and flies over to his moms. As he does, the camera cuts to his face – he starts cringing at himself.)
Pugsley: (smiles, turns away again, staring back at the pond) U.

Hey, hi, hello.
I’ve been posting on and off for a few years now and I’m sure some of you are sick of seeing me. Oh well, we’re in this sub for one reason and one reason only: to find a connection and possibly a happy ending.
I’ve been told I’m too picky and too open about myself; I don’t think Im either of these things. We all have different tastes and expectations from other people and that’s fine. And yes, I am very open about who I am, shouldn’t we all be? Would save us some disappointment.
I did try numerous dating sites and chatrooms but to no avail; those whove been in the same situation know what’s that like. I have a fair share of horror stories from dating apps and who knows, one day I could share these with you!!
Before I move onto the spiel about myself and how much of a catch I am please read below:
About you:
-living the UK/Europe/US (max of 6h time difference)
-a straight man
-a homebody, with the occasional want to go out and do things
-aged 29 – 48 (I will not reply if you’re not within the age bracket)
-speak English (for communication purposes duh)
-child free (and must want to remain this way)
-MONOGAMOUS
-NO PREFERENCE HEIGHT OR BODY WISE, I’m all about a nice face
-impeccable basic personal hygiene (not expecting you smelling like your local perfume store)
-no addictions (ie excessive alcohol use, smoking and any type of illegal drugs)
-respectful, loyal, funny, affectionate, caring, loving and patient (a lot of it needed with me).
-will not demand any personal content (if you know what I eamn)
-in full time employment (if we are long distance, how else are you going to fund your travels?)
But beyond all that I’m after a best friend. Someone who will have my back until the end. Someone who will accept me for who I am and wouldn’t want to change me (I can offer the same back). Someone who will enter my life and assume the role of my partner (eventually) and join me on this rather bizarre journey called life. Don’t give up on me and I wont give up on you.
I will not respond to any messages along the lines of ‘hru’. ‘hi’.
Once again, no budging on the age or location.
If your profile contains anything inappropriate, I won’t respond either.
I think I made myself more than clear.
Just one more thing, I promise!!!!
This is not to get any attention or sympathy or help; more of a prewarning. I have met a lot of amazing people on here who got their hopes up about me and once things didn’t seem to be as amazing as this image, they had of me they left.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 12, as well as severe anxiety (no self-diagnosis here, by an actual professional). I take meds for it but some days are worse than the others. I’m also on the waiting list to get help, but like me you’re in the UK you’ll know what this is like (no issues with the NHS, they’re amazing; just overworked and understaffed). I can’t afford to go privately. At this moment in time,I am about 2 years away from seeing someone.
I suffer from fibromyalgia (if you don’t know what this is, just google it) in late 2019 after ruling everything out. I have days when I’m extremely exhausted and in a lot of pain. I still go to work and try to go on about my life as much as possible but please bear that in mind.
Ive been taking all sorts of meds too, including painkillers to control the pain.
Please don’t see me as someone hopeless or feel sorry for me. This is not the point of this confession.
My name is Anita and I’m a 29yo Eastern European woman, living in the UK just outside of Bristol. I’ve been here for the last 17 years and I consider myself England my home. I’m not considering moving back at any point in my life (however I’ll move elsewhere for the right reasons and right person). I will share my exact location once we’re acquainted a bit more.
I’m 6ft tall (yes I am this tall and I’m aware that it’s way too tall for a woman) and. weight approx 13st or 200lbs (my weight keeps fluctuating a lot and no, I’m not looking for any tips to lose weight). I dye my hair red but it’s more like ginger these days. I have green eyes (they’re useless as I wear glasses) and I wear a lot of black eyeliner lol. I guess you could say I’m kinda emo/goth?
An extreme introvert since I was a young one (definitely not shy, in fact I can get a bit volatile when it comes to standing up for myself). I don’t need to get out of my shell, so none of that please. I like my own company as well as my loved ones; and leaving the house only for work and groceries suits me well.
I’m a vegetarian (not a deal breaker if you’re not; your choice is to eat meat and mine isn’t. Respect it and you shall receive the same back). I think it’s time for everyone live and let others live too.
Tea, coffee and snack addict! (I love herbal tea with no sugar or milk; coffee wise I like a good cap or a caramel macchiato as a treat. Snack wise anything goes really. Fruit, crisps, cake and sweets!)
Bookworm (I haven’t read in a long time, I love books I promise. Just haven’t had much time lately. I have a stack of them which is growing. I need to finally find some time and immerse myself in one of many crime novels I have).
Apolitical (now, I read the news everyday but I do not support any of the parties. They don’t care about you or me, sorry to break this to you).
Animal lover (I have 4 rescued cats two boys and two girls aged between 10-11 who are my absolute life. In total, my mum and I have rescued about 60 cats in the last 10 years. We found them safe and loving homes but for some of them unfortunately it was too late).
No addictions here (I don’t drink or smoke; although I like my vapes a lot).
In my spare time (whatever I get of it) I like to go for walks, listen to music and podcasts, nap, watch tv, chill with my mum and cats, go shopping and grab a coffee with my ma, visit my brother in London, over eat, over think and read books.
I don’t really have any hobbies.
I don’t game religiously but I do enjoy sims 4 (someone told me that isn’t gaming although I’d say it’s a computer game so clues in the name but what do I know, right?) I don’t watch anime either, tried once and couldn’t get into it.
As you can tell, I’m just a relatively unremarkable human being, trying to find her place in this world. And I’m happy about that, being in the limelight is the last thing I know.
With that being said, if you managed to get through my ramblings and they somewhat resonated with you, shoot me a message.
Message me with your name, age and location and what caught your eye about my post. Don’t have to send me your picture right away; I won’t send mine until I’m comfortable enough. To show that you have read, end your message with ‘toodlepip’.
I will respond as soon as I can but please note that there might be delays in messaging back due to well… life being life I suppose.
And if you didn’t like what you read… well then scroll along, no need to let me know about this in the comments or to message me to call me names. It’s nice to be nice.
Thank you for reading this and looking forward to seeing some messages. If not, best of luck in your search!!!

Until I started subtitling the audiobook, I never considered reading the English version of LOTM. To my surprise, the quality of the English translation seems somewhat 'disrespectful' to the original book. With the money Qidian made from it, they should have hired at least one English literature graduate, if not three English literature professors, to proofread it.
Even though I'm not a native English speaker, I couldn't resist the urge to translate some parts in my own way. One thing led to another, and now I have a brand new translation of Chapter One.
Now, I have a question for my fellow fans of LTOM:

• Do you think this is a much better translation that you would like to wait and use it for subtitling LOTM's audiobooks? Or
• Do you feel the difference is so minimal that you'd prefer me to use the original translation so I can release subtitled audiobooks faster?

Here is another thread of mine discussing subtitling LOTM's audiobooks: https://www.reddit.com/LordofTheMysteries/comments/1csz252/dramatized_audiobooks_with_english_subtitles/, in case you're interested.

Ouch!
Ow…ouch!
Ow…my head is killing me!
The fantastic yet surreal dream surrounded by whispering and murmuring shattered away instantly, Zhou Mingrui who was sound asleep felt an abrupt throbbing pain deep inside his head, as if his head were ruthlessly clubbed. No, it felt more like something sharp penetrated his temple, followed by twisting and stirring.
Feeling disoriented, Zhou Mingrui wanted to turn around, clutch his head, or sit up. Yet, unable to move his hands or feet, he felt like he had lost all control over his body.
Looks like I’m still in some sort of dream, didn’t really wake up… Moments later, I might even think I'm fully awake, only to realize I'm still asleep… Familiar with such experiences, Zhou Mingrui tried desperately to concentrate, hoping to break free from the grip of darkness and disorientation.
However, trapped between wakefulness and sleep, the willpower was as elusive as smoke, difficult to control and concentrate. Despite his efforts, his thoughts kept wandering wildly, with all sorts of ideas coming and going.
How could I suddenly have a headache out of nowhere in the middle of the night?
Especially one which hurts so badly!
Could it be something like a cerebral hemorrhage?
Damn, am I going to die at such a young age?
Wake up! Wake UP!
Huh? Doesn't feel as painful now? Although it still feels like a blunt knife is cutting through my brains…
Sure thing is, I won’t be able to fall asleep any more. How am I supposed to show up for work tomorrow?
Why even bother going to work? This is a legitimate headache, perfect for time off! And no need to worry about the manager's grumblings.
Put it this way, it’s not so bad after all. Yea, free time off for me!
In between the waves of throbbing pain, Zhou Mingrui gradually accumulated a sense of elusive strength. Finally, with a determined effort, he straightened his back and opened his eyes, breaking free from the state of half-sleep and half-wake.
His vision was blurry at first, then tinged with a faint crimson hue. In his line of sight, Zhou Mingrui saw a sturdy wooden desk, upon which lay an open notebook. The papers were rough and yellowed. Where the title supposed to be, there was a sentence written in strange characters, with eye-catching thick, dark ink that seemed ready to drip.
To the left of the notebook, along the edge of the desk, was a stack of seven or eight neatly arranged books. On the wall to their right, were grayish-white pipes inset into the wall, with wall lamps at their ends.
The lamps had a classical Western style, about half the size of an adult's head. It featured a transparent inner layer made of glass and an exterior grid made of black metal.
Diagonally beneath the unlit lamp, was a black ink bottle shrouded in a pale red glow.
On its embossed surface was a blurry angel figure.
In front of the ink bottle and to the right of the notebook, lay a dark-colored pen with a fully circular body. Its tip shimmered with a faint glint while its cap rested right beside a brass revolver.
A gun?
A revolver?
Zhou Mingrui was completely taken aback. Everything in front of him felt absolutely alien, nothing looked like his own room.
Shocked and confused, he came to the realization that the desk, the notebook, the ink bottle, and the revolve were all coated with a layer of crimson “veil” from the light shining through the window.
Without realizing what he was doing, he raised his head, looking up bit by bit.
In the midair, beyond the heavy smooth darkness, hung a crimson full moon, glowing silently.
Hiss… Zhou Mingrui felt inexplicably horrified, as he stood up abruptly. However, before he could fully straighten his knees, a throbbing pain struck his head, draining all his strength. He fell, with his buttocks slammed heavily back onto the burly wood chair.
The pain didn’t stop him for a moment. Zhou Mingrui popped up, turned around in a fluster, and began examining his surroundings.
The room was not big, with a brown door on both of his sides. Against the wall in front of him, was a wooden bunk bed. Between the bed and the door to the left was a cabinet with two opposing doors and five drawers beneath them.
Next to the cabinet was a pipe of the same grayish-white, inset into the wall at the height of a person. What distinct it is that it connected to a strange looking mechanical device, which had a few of gears and bearings exposed here and there.
Items resembling coal stoves, sat in the right corner of the room near the desk, along with some kitchenware such as soup pots and iron pans.
Through the right door, was a dressing mirror with a couple of cracks, standing on a wooden base emboss with simple plain patterns.
While looking around, Zhou Mingrui noticed himself in the mirror, the present him.
Dark hair, brown eyes, wearing a linen shirt, slim, average-looking features and a rather deep outline…
Hiss… Zhou Mingrui grasped the situation immediately as many helpless and confused thoughts surfaced in his mind.
The revolver, the classical European style decorations, as well as the crimson moon that looked nothing like Earth's moon—all of them were screaming the exact same thing.
Who am I?
C-could I have transmigrated?
Zhou Mingrui's mouth slowly opened wider and wider, bit by bit.
He had grown up reading web novels, even fantasized about such scenes from time to time. However, the fantasy was incredibly difficult to accept now that he found himself in one.
Classic "Talk? Yes, yes! Action? No, no!", isn’t it?
In less than a minute, Zhou Mingrui had already started to sarcastically critique, attempting to make the best of whatever situation he found himself in.
But for the throbbing headache forcing him to think fast and sharply, he would for sure be convinced that he was dreaming.
Easy, easy, easy…taking deep breaths, Zhou Mingrui was trying really hard to make himself to calm down.
Just as his mind and body began to relax, pieces of memories started to flush, slowly flooding into his consciousness.
Klein Moretti.
A citizen of the City of Tingen, Awwa County, Loen Kingdom in the Northern Continent
Recently graduated from the Department of History at Khoy University…
His father was a sergeant of the Imperial Army, who had sacrificed his life during a colonial ware with the Southern Continent. His bereavement allowance made it possible for Klein to study at a private literature school, paving the way for his admission into university…
His mother was a devotee of the Evernight Goddess, who passed away the year Klein passed the entrance examinations to Khoy University…
He also had an elder brother and a younger sister, living together in a two-bedroom apartment.
Their family was far from wealthy, and its financial situation could even be described as somewhat strained.
Currently, the family was supported solely by the elder brother who worked as a clerk at an import and export company …
As a college graduate majored in history, Klein was proficient in the ancient language of Feysac, considering the origin of all languages in the Northern Continent, as well as the language of Hermes, which was commonly found in ancient mausoleums and often associated with sacrificial scenes and praying rituals.
Hermes?!
Zhou Mingrui's mind started to race as he reached out to rub his throbbing temples.
He cast his gaze toward the desk at the opened notebook, but to realize that the strange looking characters on the yellowed paper started to look somewhat familiar, then increasingly recognizable, and finally comprehensible.
It was a statement written in Hermes!
The thick, dark ink, seemingly ready to drip, read:
“Everyone will die including me myself!”
Hiss! Zhou Mingrui felt inexplicably horrified. He instinctively leaned back, attempting to escape away from the notebook, and the ominous statement on it.
Being so weak, he almost fell down, but managed to extend his hands in a fluster to grasp the edge of the desk.
He felt that air around him air started to roar, filled with faint whispering and murmurings. It felt just like listening to horror stories told by elders when he was young.
He shook his head, telling himself that all these were nothing but an illusion. Getting back onto his feet, he looked away from the notebook while still breathing heavily.
This time, his sight landed on the shimmering brass revolver, immediately realizing something unexplainable.
With Klein's social status, in what universe he would have the money or access to buy a revolver?!
Zhou Mingrui couldn't help but furrow his brow. Deeply puzzled, his eyes were caught by a reddish handprint at the edge of the desk, which was even darker than the moonlight, as well as thicker than the “veil”.
It was a bloody handprint!
A bloody handprint?
Zhou Mingrui instinctly flipped his right hand, that was pushing against the edge of the desk. Looking at it, he saw his palm and fingers covered in blood.
In the meaning time, the throbbing pain was getting a little bit better, yet didn’t go away, binding him like one tie after another.
Did I smash and injure my head? Zhou Mingrui guessed as he turned around, walking towards the cracked dressing mirror. After just a few of steps, a medium build figure of dark hair and brown eyes appeared clearly in front of him. The person had a distinct scholarly air to him.
Is this the present me?
Klein Moretti?
Zhou Mingrui was stunned. The poor lighting of the night obscured his vision, preventing him from clearly discerning something he had noticed. He continued forward until he was just a step away from colliding with the mirror.
Illumined by the crimson veil-like moonlight, he turned his head and began to examine the side of his forehead. A clear reflection appeared in the mirror. There, no his temple, was a grotesque wound with burn marks around the edges, blood staining the surrounding area. Grayish-white brain matter was slowly seeping out from within.