War Counseling
Ok, everyone have a seat and get comfortable. I have water and tissues available for everyone, this is a safe place. OK? OK. Lets start easy. How about you? You seem very nice, where are you at right now?

"Me? First, uh. Yeah, well, hello. I'm Canadia. I'm pretty pissed off and I don't know why we have to do this, really. I don't think that you, YOU, have any right to really criticize..."

I'm not here to criticize, I want to hear all of you.

"Sure. Well, I think I have a right to stand tall and be proud, eh? I've been under his shadow for so long and I have every right to assert myself."

"Fuck you, you attacked me"

Ameridine, you'll have your turn. It's Canadia's turn to talk right now

"Fuck that"

"See?! See what I've had to deal with? Ameridine just thinks he's the wonderkind and can do whatever he wants. He's a dick that has no regard for anyone else!"

Do you see how you're words and actions could hurt Ameridine, and cause the same feelings that you feel in him?

"Maybe, but I don't see how that affects what we're talking aboot."

If you understand where Ameridine is coming from and how he feels when you invade him, maybe you can empathize or come to an agreement.

"Excuse me,"

Mongolia, yes?

"I feel like my best days are behind me. I used to pillage and rape and conquer. I think I'm fading into obscurity and no one ever talks to me. You didn't call me first. No one calls. I just sit all day in the home and watch my shows. I want to return to my horseback glory days when I had most of a continent to myself and all the girls looked at me. Sure, nowadays, I could conquer Iceground or whatever-guay but no one would notice. Ameridine has been the big shot for years and I just want to be relevant again."

"See how they gang up?"

But, Ameridine, can you imagine a world where you were thousands of years old and wanted attention, everyone likes a young, strong, handsome country. What happens when you're old and sagging and ineffectual and pathetic

"Excuse me."

I was just trying to make a point.

"I'm not pathetic"

I know.

"I like waffles"

Belgium, let's hear your side of the story.

"I like waffles"

OK, we hear that, but why are you causing pain to Ameridine?

"Corn syrup. I like syrup too. I like playing in it."


Ameridine, have a seat and we'll hear you in a minute. We're trying to hear Belgium.

"I like waffles"

But where does the animosity come from?

"I'd like to make the world into a giant waffle. I want to wear waffle irons on my feet and trample every face I see till everyone is lying lifeless in the streets. I'll pour syrup over everything and devour the world in a sugary feast of reckless abandon. I want to destroy everyone and eat them. I want your spine. I want your trembling panic stricken eyes staring at me as you drown in fathoms of high fructose corn syrup knowing you will die and that I, Belgium, destroyed you and your love ones.
And waffles. I like waffles."

Well. I think this has been a good start. After a few months of therapy, I think this world war can come to a calm and soothing place. There's a lot of emotional work to be done, but I know you can do it!

Instructions for care
- Fill your heart with light, love and chrysanthemums.
- Water daily.
- Never make eye contact.
- Keep away from children.
- Nurture slowly. (and from a distance)
- Feed only peeled grapes and left bank bordeaux.
- When the time is right, let it make its own decisions... but watch carefully.
- Do NOT expose to direct sunlight.
- Lie to the police.
- Sacrifice sleep, comfort, dignity and identity.
- Smile to yourself (slowly, and only where no one can see).
- For God's sake, DON'T LET IT GET OUT!

There are few musical talents today that have rivaled the life and protracted battle and that can match the struggle of the band: Psychomimetic They started from a non-place, somewhere that no one really thought a world renowned power noise act could ever come from. It was a sleepy little town, full of hicks and hippies, both drawn to large trees. MC Misogyny and Zephyr formed an early friendship and hatred for their surroundings. This hatred fueled a lifelong quest to make music that others despised, but could not get away from. The idea of trapping their audience and punishing that same audience for liking their music fueled week long bouts of conversation and drug use. Of course, during that time, the predominance of buddhism, appathy and pauperism conspired to make sure that there were no recordings of the blossoming musical talent. The musical prodigy known as MC Misogyny hailed from a small, beleaguered family. His father was a minister who made him go door to door with the beloved tale of Juses to tell... and a fake broken leg, which his father would heal at every door, via miracle (it started occurring to little MC that the miracles came with equally horribly curses: each time his leg would be healed, God would rend it unusable again just before the next house). Once at home, Misogyny tended his moribund mother (Hymen) and water-headed sister (Simplex) and the happy, but pathetic, dog (tripod) to the best of his ability. One day, the young MC discovered his father giving the holy sacrament (as he called it) to a woman that was not MC's mother. It was underneath the alter at the makeshift church/trailer that his father had set up and begun using as a ministry. The woman (lets call her a girl, really) was singing the praise of Jesus and clutching the collection plate to her bosom. At this, little MC (who was only 15) decided that his life was pious and righteous. More-so than his family, and he collected his wire, his knobs, his aspersions and trekked off into the wild paisley yonder to cast his mark upon the world in a project called Psychomimetic.

This is what my music does.

I need realistic notions of concepts. Please. Please stop trying to change reality. Try to stagnate flights of fancy into a coherent and regular system of thought (albeit, impossible). Don't just think of something impossible and stop at the basic framework... build it into a large and complex impossibility, spend the time and energy that will make ordinary people think you are crazy. Only then will people take note and start to question their own disbelief.

The New One
The New One (TNO) was behind a dumpster injecting something into himself... he didn't know particularly what the chemical makeup was, but was impressed by the results. while nodding a little at a dirty brick wall his gaze fell downwards. The image of the homeless man he'd just killed did not register at all.

"Just a conglomeration of colors, contours and weird dripping sounds."

TNO had never felt any sort of obligation to those around him, actually felt quite the opposite... the only compassion he felt was to end the idiocy and ignorant happiness of those who didn't know any better. "Fuck them up before they realized their life is a joke" was tattooed on his tongue.

A slow nausea crept up his oesophagus while he stared at the lifeless bum under his unzipped pants. A relieving and calming flow of bile escaped him and onto the body, still warm. An artifact of old drug making techniques, the nausea, just another bump in the road to perfection.

".... hey.... ....wrknl..... top...." There were screams now, outside of TNO's mind. After vomitting he raised his head and looked up the alley. Gendarmes were pointing weapons at him... saying something. Probably something hostile.

"OK," he said, slowly standing, "I'm ready to die... shoot whenever you want."

At that moment a flood of warmth drained over his scalp and down his back. TNO thought this must be the hail of bullets he'd been waiting for since he first discovered what bullets were and knew he'd die from them. But no. This was something strange. A white light opened inside him and he felt god's touch upon his life. The gendarmes stopped, whether it was a software bug or divine intervention will never be known.

TNO had a brief conversation with the creator, destroyer and sustainer of everything that ever could be.

"Forgiveness is the ultimate communion."


"To be forgiven, you must sin."


"The more you sin, the more you can be forgiven."


"Destroy as much as possible. Convince others to do the same. Only then can one attain a higher forgiveness and bathe in the light of perfection that is the voice and presence of god."


Phenson and Hedgeworm Shoot the Proverbial Shit
Hedgeworm and Phenson struck an immediate friendship and trust seeing an innate hatred and callous disregard for the human spirit combined with a certain inextinguishable joy in life and action. They spent many nights in Hedgeworm's worn mobile carnival office sharing 300 year old scotch and reminiscing about old times, cons perfectly executed, national policies snuck past a wary populace. "I once absconded with Astanasia, an Eastainarian prince's 4 year old daughter after winning her at a game of 7 card monte," Hedgeworm regales, "he was furious, sent out the internatiomutual gendarmes calling me a kidnapper and a fraud. The kidnapper moniker hurt, I'm not in it for the ransom, I never was in it for the money... I'm in it for the art and the purity of the carnival. The girl was practically born to be a contortionist - she fills tents with slack-jawed ignoramuses, can fold herself into a paper aeroplane and glide over peoples' heads, she can take her arms off and juggle them with her feet. I can't return to plundering the yokels of Eastainaria again without immediate arrest, but it was worth it, she'll never leave the carnival, it's in her blood... I could spot that when we sat down at the card table. She got "Fuck Eastainarian Royalty" tattooed on the inside of her lower lip, totally renounced the royal lifestyle. Of course she had to get a lip enlargement so the tattoo could fit, she's that committed to the carny lifestyle."

Phenson: "I remember getting the memo from the gendarmes about you... 'Arrest immediately and with extreme prejudice -- violence in arrest mandatory.' I filed it with all the other International Men and Women of Crime That Don't Affect Me In the Slightest (IMWCTDAMIS) files. That dossier is pretty big now. I should track some of the others down... like Phillip Fillsten, knuckle smuggler. He'd had this huge network of corrupt doctors and front agencies dedicated to taking the knuckles of the well off when they came in for Life-Enhancement surgery. He claimed it was all moral since he gave them a small discount as a bill line item on page 34 of his invoice. He had perfect timing, just as the well-to-do were noticing, 2-3 weeks later, that they were missing a few knuckles, he'd have boarded up his front agencies and set up shop in another country. All the while he was exporting these grade A knuckles (he really had an eye for quality knuckles) to backwoods countries that were suffering from congenital knuckle affliction birth defects stemming from medical waste of companies that had moved there for cheap labour and lax emission standards. He'd sell them like hot cakes, the peasants considered him a robin-hood. Of course, unbeknown to the peasants, he also had substantial holdings in the companies that were emitting the knuckle-eroding chemicals (dioxy-robognosticistic-redux-12 and fulmigranite-semyphore-upthine) and that those chemicals actually weren't totally necessary to their workings, but they produced them anyway."

"That's funny, Kenny The Knucklier probably bought a pallet of knuckles from old Phillip, he had them installed everywhere... he can hold a book and turn the pages with his nose. One of the finest non-congenital freaks I own... or rather... employ. He had his spine removed so he can bend backwards and stick his head through the hole he carved in his chest. A real crowd pleaser, that one."

"That's the crux of our difference, and it is an important one. I've been thinking about this, we both abhor the populace at large, their simpering reptilian brain driven actions and primate compulsions. You exploit their capacity for irrational hope... that they really will be able to get a tossed ring around an empty beer bottle and win some big fluffy animal-doll-thing for their target of admiration in the desperate hope that the show of their ring tossing prowess will get them sexual gratification. Or that they will be able to out manoeuvre the shell game practitioner and double their hard earned votes in what is essentially a rigged game of (not-even) chance."

"... While you have used their irrational fear of change, those different from them, and vague, official sounding threat grades. In your national pogroms and mandatory military service, you've completely subjugated the entire populace from a relatively peaceful ignorant mass of idiots to a terror drenched mob of paranoiacs that would rival a race of schizophrenic wildebeests in violence and outright distrust. You've so cowed them that they've let you force them into a 45 o'clock mandatory curfew that some citizens are insisting is too lenient. Your policies of self aggrandizement and outright thievery in the name of moral justice were master-strokes of political infamy. My hat is off to you, sir."

"But how can the same people hold such irrational notions of hope and fear at the same time? Their capacity for cognitive dissonance never ceases to impress me, how much wilful ignorance must these 'people' practice in order to not implode from the sheer logical incongruity?"

"That, my friend, is the question of the universe. I'm not bothered by it, I just exploit it."

"I guess I may be too bothered by it, it's most of the reason I abdicated my dictatorship... show me again this 7 card monte thing, I think I've almost got it..."

And on they drink into the night. Hedgeworm learning about various classified socio-national-political intrigue, and Phenson learning how to live as a Carney and meeting with the fantastic underworld or illegal-smuggler-con-artist intrigue.

The Diary of Man: Frank
"Dear Diary: Uh, I guess it was inevitable. Living on the Canadian border and watching the slow, deathly walk of those pale and vindictive beings pace along the international zone while staring at our health and well-being. They've always wanted to attack, to own our bounty and sun and comfort. The Canadians attacked 2 days ago. I should have seen it coming... they had been manufacturing snow storms for a week in the middle of Januember, I thought it was just strange weather. No, it was a preparation for their Snow-Mobile-White-Berets and Polar Bear Mounted Divisions. They blitzed across the desolate wheat fields, freezing everything in their path.

Martha, the children and I are hiding in our storm cellar's panic house's guest boudoir. It's only a matter of time before the caviare and champaign run out and we'll be forced to eat each other, or spam. I think little Tina is going to be the first eaten, no one really likes her... but I'm diverging from the point. Canadian thugs are clomping around in our proud Ameridinian home and we have to keep the volume down on our pre-recorded videos of "The Baritones," so they don't know we're down here. We're on Season 4 where Teddy gets suspicious of his left-hand man, Leroy. Don't tell me how it ends.

Anyway, Diary, I have to get going... the other kids are looking at Tina with that ravenous look again. Here's hoping that, someday, this diary sheds some light on the horrific Canadian invasion of Aught-74.

TTYL :)"

The Lawyist Weighs In
S. adjusted his hair slightly, "I get lost in reflections," almost to himself, "I find myself losing hours staring at myself. Not because I think I'm beautiful or anything, don't get me wrong. I just... the contours and angles of my face are strange to the point of fascination. Most people don't notice because they don't spend enough time to really SEE it, but once they've spent an hour or two staring at me, they can't stop."

"I did ask you here for some law advice," Timothy was already regretting calling his lawyist, these consultations were never productive.

"Of course. You said that some person, perhaps a foreign operative, offered you... something?" S. moved his head but not his eyes from the mirror behind Timothy's desk.

"Sort of. I came in and saw that someone had intruded and absconded. I'm very particular about my files and there are very tender, secretive sorts of things in my business. Potential state secrets in particular if you believe in somnambulant projection. These are the things this, eh, gentleman was interested in. He approached me afterward on Main Street."

"And that is when he offered...? What exactly? Money? Votes?" S.'s gaze was veering toward the mirror again.

"Not exactly. He mentioned that I have access to things that could make life very interesting for him and me both. He... this is, like, covered by attourney/client stuff right? You can't tell anyone about this, right?"

"Mmhmm." S. adjusted his hair again and straightened his glasses.

"Well, he offered me a position in a new... ehm, government. Like, a new Ameridinian government."

S. turned his attention almost 90% to his client, now. Anything over 65% is rare. Eyebrows slowly raised. "So he was implying that one of your clients had information that could help usher in a new Post-Phenson-J-Maldekirk regime? The levers of power have been abdicated for a few weeks now... do you believe that he could be telling the truth?"

"In a word: Yes. He impressed upon me several points that sounded in congruence with what I know to be reality. But he did mention that there might be significant loss of life."

"This has never bothered us... rather, you... before."

"I know."

S. returned to his captivating gaze in the mirror. "I can't have mirrors in my house anymore. I walk past one and all of a sudden it's a day later and I've missed appointments, eating... once I forgot to breathe and lost consciousness.... I say meet with him, his name was Vlad or something? Suss it out, trust your instinct."

As some amount of time evidently passed, The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd grew familiar (as familiar as an amnesia prone unwitting ghost can be) with his new environs. Those environs spanned several acres of oddly shaped hallways, break rooms, lavatories (he spent most of his time in there, trying to coax secrets from the fixtures. Fixtures in these locales (the horribly bureaucratic, profit driven and impersonal) tended to assume the attitudes of their confines and, thus, were far from helpful, giving or entertaining, much to the chagrin of The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd... but he soon forgot about previous snubs and attempted comradely chatter again. Usually within minutes of his last attempt at good humor.), conference rooms and assorted testing labs.

The facility that Yoyodine Inc. runs in the drab and tetris shaped buildings in the complex and are devoted to such guberment and clandestine operations as Attack Zeppelins! (the exclamation point is a part of the name), Artificial Muse AI, "The Problem With Polar Bears" (after very troubling problems in a manufacturing plant up north involving Artificial Muse Manufacture), Squid Mercenaries (turns out, they have no loyalty. Only an intense and burning hatred for whales... no one knows where this battle started or which side could possibly win. Squid high command is willing to work with any organization to bring about the bloody, tasty end to all whale-dom), Interspatial Anomalous De-Chronification Transmission Protocol, Vast Arrayed Consciousness Wiping Space Lasers and "The Cure For The Common Cold" (Which is really an umbrella project for anything that "Cannot Be Named"). Little is known of this vast, corporate expanse aside from its fantastically tasty and popular "High Fructose Corn Syruprise! softdrink" (or, slated for release next Novectober: "High Fructose Corn Syruprise Harddrink -- FOR ADULTS!"). It operates mostly underground (very much like mycelium) and only arises once a project has reached maturity (has "bloomed into fruitfulness" so to speak) and can be monetized (or used as leverage). The corporate steering committee has not been seen since the ill-fated Bern Negotiation of 2074 where half of the attendees were forced to eviscerate themselves. It is said that all of the members reside in Canadia where they've been granted corporate immunity to local laws (although those laws are lax and tend to be pro-flora/anti-fauna, so skirting them is hardly a noticeable hardship). It has always been assumed that their motivations were financial (or at least merely narcissistic to the point of divorce from the natural order of things (which, really, isn't considered that much of a problem)). (But! If Ameridinians knew how politically intertwined the Canadians and Yoyodine had become, they may reconsider...

"This, my friends, is the the future of The Planet: You're either on board or you're swimming with the manatees!" He looked gently down and muttered, "Vicious, vicious manatees." A tear welling barely noticeable in his left eye. After a half second, The Prime Minister shook his head and returned to the task at hand. He reached back to open a red curtain (actually the same red carpet the VIPs had walked in on... Canadia is short on textiles) displaying a slick drawing his 4 year old had put together with paste and crayon (this being Canadia, their standards for boardroom presentations are quite a bit lower than ours).

Squinting, Jereth Denko of Yoyodine said, "Yes, well... it looks as though an ice cap has been placed over the Ameridinians, a few people are drinking from goblets in Canadia and 3 polar bears are feasting on people... or maybe just dragging them around while they still plead for death. Is that the gist?"

"Very perceptive! Yes. We Canadians are sick of being labeled a top-hat to Amerdine's head, a wastrel nation to be forgotten and pitied, an OREGON TO THEIR CALIFORNIA. I don't even know what that means! The injustices and disrespect we've suffered have only served to steel our will and drive our elite cross-country ski commandos to bloodthirsty berserker rages (thanks to some Yoyodine mood enhancement, as well).").

The Yoyodine Executives shifted a bit, placid smiles on all of them (which usually meant trouble; at least to the perceptive among us). The Prime Minister beamed, he had them in the palm of his hand. "Alright," Jereth agreed, "But you can't go this alone, of course," and he looked around the table at various faces not yet met/intimidated/negotiated with/suckered/or honored.

"Well, we won't tip our hand just yet, Director." The Prime Minister smiled coyly.)

While wandering a hallway, The Erstwhile Mr. Lundeguard walked past an unusual type. Dressed poorly and un-tucked, sniffling with a vacant but impatient stare. There was a receptionist that The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd wanted to have a chat at ("at" since the living didn't respond, so he just rehearsed pickup lines and pretended they were shyly twirling their hair and making breathy eye-contact).

"Hey." The gaunt gentleman said, annoyed. "Dude, what are you doing here?"

"Me?" Ever had a cast on, or a retainer or any part of your body confined for days if not weeks? At the very least, wake up with an entire appendage unresponsive to your will and the slow tingling that accompanies contact... movement? That feeling when the restraint comes off and you touch it. The fuzzy cottony feeling? The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd felt that in his head, the part that had actual response hadn't been used in so long he barely knew how to hear any more. "I, uh. Don't know. I'm just here."

"I get that. Do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm going to go talk to that girl." Not quite confident that the conversation was over, The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd turned to pursue his blond but she had disappeared down some hallway/corridor/shaft/or causeway. "Shit."

"No, do you know why you're still here? You've been dead for a while now, dude... you don't think there's a reason for that?"

"To chase blonds. That was sort of my life's work."

"Nope. Look, I'm privy to some odd communications and I think I owe a friend of yours at least a little bit. Come over here." Cecil (calling him the gaunt fellow or drab, or dirty or whatever is getting tedious, he'll introduce himself to The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd in a little bit, so you're going to know anyway, it's not like it's a big secret. You won't remember him, but he was a junkie that lived close to "The Hick." He's gotten a menial, junkie-type job at yoyodine emptying trashcans. But in the course of his employment has received several admonitions, stern finger shakings and outright demerits. After a certain number of demerits (56), one has to undergo "courier duty" which entails being put into a drug induced hypercoma and shifted into a sub-rational and wholly outside of time consciousness where you deliver corporate memorandum all over space and time. Being a junkie and degenerate, he tends to open said communique since no-one is (or can be) looking...) started heading down hallways between the bricks and up around time spasms.

"...After a while I got to like it," Continued Cecil, "Better than the stepped on satori and dilaudone I was getting from my 'friends.' Yoyodine knows how to make some transendental shit. Anyway, they project me into the time between seconds, sometimes you have to wait till someone isn't looking, sometimes walls will just open up to other countries. We're between everything, the smallest rocks always have room between, and the smallest units of time, eye blinks, heartbeats, there's always time between. So they send me all over, through shortcuts and lapses to deliver shit like this: "Cecil opened a pneumatic tube canister and fished out a scrap of mildewed yellow paper, "'Contract on Phenson yanked. Details Altered.' It takes me what feels like 10 minutes to get this across the world. Which, I guess doesn't seem like much, but I have to deliver, like, 600 of these things before they wake me up." He turned a corner and stopped at a door.

"What has this got to do with blonds?" The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd asked, scratching his neck uncomfortably.

"Nothing. Your friend, the Timmy Burger dude. He stopped by here for tests and they shunted him off to transform into a slug or something in an alleyway. He was my neighbor and he needs your help... looks like he's headed into something strange."

"Stranger than being a slug or a hypersexed ghost?.... Or a drug addicted dimension traveler?"

"Look, people are going to get hurt, I got you to this division, check it out. And here." Cecil handed The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd a note with an address. "He's headed there... some sort of big leafy garden a slug his size can't resist."

The Erstwhile Mr. Lundegaurd looked at the note and the lab door ahead of him. "So, what's your name? How do I contact you?"

"I already did more than I need to, jack-ass."

Fucking junkies. Never can count on them. Trust me, his name was Cecil.

Spent most of my life mildewing in the corner of the twinkle of my father's eye. After that, things progressed in a straight forward fashion: pupal, larval, cocoon, destroy the world's conception of beauty... the normal stuff. Right now I'm focusing alternately on harvesting old style biological bug milk for sale and profit and surreptitiously undermining a worldwide conspiracy to control all sources of satori.


Log in

No account? Create an account