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Seems like the neighbors are a little skeptical of Wendel. They haven't met him yet, that's fair. They need to know that Wendel is OK and a good community member. So, let's iron those pants and put on a smile!

"Hello, you must be new"

"Just moved in, a fixer-upper!"

"You've got something in your teeth. And could you maybe make sure your car doesn't block our driveway?"


Meet the neighbors
As Wendel settles in. He notices a small sound.... nothing much. But a strange creening. Seems to be coming from the pipes. Se he gets a few blankets (you don't all of the old handmade quilts or dusty memorabilia to sleep right now) and wraps them around the problem sound downstairs. No one wants the neighbors complaining about weird noises. He just moved in and wants to make a good impression.

Wendel works
Wendel was given a house to live in. It's humble and comfortable, rough around the edges, the pipes leek sometimes. But if you take care of it it's yours for free. (the contract seemed to say)

Everyone loves their first fixer upper. It's a neat project in an interesting neighborhood.

Why not.


Wendel can't sleep.... mostly

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.