Subject: 2020 and beyond. The anti-christ lives within us all.


"BIG FRIKI" says: you are under me, and it is not a congenial superiority anymore but a shared experience. Finally, I can separate the breathself from the superego. Hush, McCollough grins and leans on picket rail, wafting the offshore gullsalt to hurry away a required response from Ark, mmmh, yeah, mm yeah,"the scenery is quite different from the fortnight, has it changed some?"

"Quite so, sir, although from aesthetic and not institution." Ark makes quite light of the situation. Hadn't McCollough taught him better from spit torture?

SPITNUM: ça veut dire quoi? One of only four known tortures of etheric plane (the others being defunct FURLAND/radio garbage/silhouttes stomping in the mud). It's all your favorite candy cashgrab yankee doodle bullshit opposite reverses so when you assimilate unknown back into it those things WILL appeal to 'ya. That might be YOU right now.

KAFE, HAM KAFE, eh? Abe with his skin-alive whiskaway into the back of a lousy 'boulangerie' as the frogs call it, though I call it 'magnifique shit.' Aye vie, he is indeed roquette like von Braun and coalboy Hickam. I've seen it all come true in the back of a dank shelter, believe me.

FRAGMENT 1 -

Write to McCollough, as the world sleeps then some break away and form radiant unions among themselves – Tripoli, Paris, Cleveland – and McCollough himself laughs,

"Ark, do the rebels love me?"

And he says,

"No, they do not love you, nor have they heard of you."

To which McCollogh stands up and swishes the trinomial Listerine in his mouth and 'Misherting' the 'howling bacterium' (Ayye!!) at the tip of his tongue, he cried out "Calm down, lad! I'm trying to get some sleep over here!", and McCollough loogies him over there to the window sill, he hangs there in smoky pagodinum. McCollough grab's the day's paper and reads the headline.

"Where is the controversy, Ark?

"None, sir, shall I fetch you yesterday's instead?"

"You damn might as well, I can't read this horse shit!"

But as soon as Ark combs the wet print with his greasy thumb, McCollough swats him away and raggles his beard...

"What do they call this, boy?"

"I believe they call those 'the funnies,' sir."

"Funnies, eh? Well, I'll be damned. This cat has more brains than you, Ark!"

McCollough laughs, then points to the day's strip. INIRE FAS, THE COUCHED TABBY GARFIELD WAS TRYING TO GET JON TO FEED HIM LASAGNA BY MAX HEADROOM-ING JON'S SOAPS AND TAPPING THE E.A.S., says "CIVIL DANGER – FEED YOUR CATS LASAGNA," then Jon snags the remote brutally and, in last panel, yelps "GARFIELD!!!"

"Oh, if only I could hire this cat. He'd do your job better than you ever could."

"Shall I get his master on the phone, then, sir?"

"Yes, make it out to him, tell him that McCollough calls for his cat."

"Will do, sir."

Ark leaves the room. McCollough resigns himself momentarily to the hotel façade, where he overlooks a suspicious willow that fragments a lonely bend of dark road. There are no lights to illuminate distant cityscapes, and McCollough can not imagine for the life of him why anyone would build a hotel at the end of a parkground, next to an Appalachian quirk that only exists on drowsy rides home... In the corner a pulsomatic jivver of radiator heats up nearby airducts, brewing coffee laid out on marbletop close by. McCollough sinks into the comforts of a roomside lounge, and equates the chilled conductor with one of his own famous whistletunes...

Sweet Georgia Brown

and

SHIAWASE NO...KAKERA O ATSUMETE.....

Ark returns with a word from Jon, "..."

"What do you mean he said I couldn't have his cat? Does he know who the fuck I am?"

"Yes, sir. He wasn't available for due processing, sir. Something about 'boundary contracts' and the like."

"Did you ask him how much it would take to buy 'it 'em out?"

"More than we'd be willing to spend."

"Don't me cramping my goddamn style Ark... Who said you could handle my money?"

"I was made head of financial dependencies when Geriatrics couldn't pay for his restitution, sir."

"Ah, right. Well, tell you what, you get him on the phone with me. I'mma give him a piece of my mind."



SPITNUM -

FOX IS HERE, with a legitimate "lights on" approach, too. Football is a proxiable counterpoint to, etc. etc. dataset profiling at eleven etc. pissed stain clothes at eleven. Whatever man.

Reiko's cats duct tape inexpensive furnishing for Waylon, a quarter tape to a revolver, a plastic jar, the odor of paint chip and old velvet blanket wrapped in dialysis training, Xerox machine pen scrabbles on blanked papers on blanked walls. Scandals resolute in Appalachia, a sopper not in the morgue but in wooder septette, courtier to a grounding of clocks, wheels and gears churning, a three fractaled inchworm slogging through 'muh body. Reiko's seed: the birth of empty white table cloth and nation stripped and bullied on the ears of his turnaway black cat, fang'd. Windmill percentage sliced, on point, groping his beard. The black cat of sewers and not garages. A basic ham sandwich room: shellac walls, hokied curtains, blackmold forming arround the brimmings of each outer step, schlitter kintz, in sync, the moped pompadorous skeletons at night that spill into dreams. A more colorful refresh rate the cornea can't catch. The poulper stuck twig in the hair of a lesser mechanic's son, trading profits for hedon, scaling muff handprint on BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! cloaked in hedon in front of a two way mirror like in a dentist's office. He's a faggy life out in Oregon, schindler musk out by his porch briar, exhuming carpet smoke into unseen woods and crystal lead veins. Not as mature as most, I'll admit. As saggy as Pierce on Broadway, relishing slopmask in counting werter strokes. Lemme suck on dat ass.

Spitnum crisis at eleven. Insemination of counterclock dissidentry, revel in genitalia lost. Glasslost, Sunday morning, footwork with the septette cult of love. Sidefuckers in beach bomba, Corolla familial consumerist rejects the decent, this is it, Corolla cardplay for 'babes on a smile ramp, this is it. The lateral gray brick layout across the painted gradient, you'd drive into the ocean and it'd end here, monster by way of clux suicide (meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow! Meow Mix picture essent [anticonsumer hey I mean they gotta eat one way or another and I ain't about to go into the fucking woods and slaughter a deer]). This is not a premediated segmentation of Sossus, Soxxler, soma, or fingerbang. Not her dripping fruit punch slave, Gladdys Webster. Doors off will reflect from forest's trees, blight hallway guards preventing passage through a complex in point insertion. Summer fun all around aight.

Summer fun lixation of our season knit top on static white noise. Brutal consisent gangrape on the beach, storm-ridden like a misinterpereted polar memory. Straw hat lies on a broken transistor radio, caller 0927 on air WLDK white hat protesting on switchboard. It was tuning in and out like a powdered rainbow wave.

"Spitnum crisis at eleven! Spitnum crisis at eleven! Spitnum crisis at eleven!"

Homer Sptiham. Mickey Mouse spitland. Adolf Spitler.

"0904, what have you?"

"Tang info at seven a.m. O Niner O Four. Walt Spitham. Homer Spitham rockets on into outer space. Mickey Mouse spitland. Spitler killed jews."

"0910. Hawthorne, Brady. Orange County. You're online." The signal sliced into blurpped sandcastles yeah.

"Hotel Bravo, O Niner One O, nine a.m. T.F.O. orange illuminations on skylines. Probably the coming of the New(ish) World Order. Collapsed buildings and horsemen. Thoughts?"

"I wouldn't count on it. Your theories are pretty tasteless, Mr. Brady. Here's an aphorism for you: bring an umbrella when it looks like its about to rain."

Liss spitnum crisis at eleven, insemination of counterclock dissidentry, lever nii genes lis approach enguard member'd as sword, bomba premediates Soxxler clever, fine innit? Bentley with his profound philosophies on life: "Death is covert, your sense of fear is heightened when molested by 'burbs. Their slight hand-me-outs scare us dry, and we huddle back into our naked gatherings in an underpass briar. Beneath an alleged trestle, metallic and regurgitated with the taste of zinc and coppered bridge wire, we cry, and under it we cry not for ourselves but for creed."

Common underground sentiment now favors the predatory in all. One eight hundred audiovisial inputs and outputs. I will consume one eight hundred audiovisual inputs and outputs, Big Gulp, plastic rings that drag through my esophagus, "American liberties abridged by...oh, sorry," says Bentley. Gulp, gulp, gulp, hold on I'm drinking some Sweet & Crisp Cola, gulp, gulp, gulp. Gulp, gulp, gulp.

Stegano machinery artificial intelligence, shopping list in Arabic, on radar, cruel video whisped all over Times Square in some fucking morally conscientious Ghibli scene during spitnum crisis at eleven. Breakdaytime radio television answered, in mind, in body, "I live to tell people yes!" On screen the devil lived. On modern computer technological equipment in machineries that Chinese countries used to number time to death, on screen the devil lived. They used numbered time to death so it comes not to the one-child policy but to institute a "holy buyer's market" of robot parts, each with timed number to death. Carcins and other things too evil to write about. So scary you'll shit yourself, oh fuck, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy [FlameLordXXX: guyz does death come alone or with eagir re enforcements??!?????!??].

HOW R.N.G. CHANGED MY LIFE AND HOW IT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE -

Random number generator possible prisoner death sentence. Start with the cats, then with the roll-up sharks, '83 Pimpmobile up the street cross the intersection of 7th And Main, outside where they just came from, then service men who commit crimes -- from little Ailey stealing joist candy bar to Parker Ray dog rape and mutilation -- with random number generator death sentence. When the fuzz crack down on their underwater plants, they'll speed to escape their marinas prison yet will ultimately be cuffed and chained. Carried away, they'll savour the layered epileptic glimpse of their last aquatic stardoms, the flayed faces of the salts and the weird fishes. In cells now no more than ten by ten feet wide, they'll jump, squirm, of course they'll splash back into water. On their death day, they'll be ripped from the placental waters but still remain here, dying but either now or in a trillion years. (The end of all who restitute penal code "National Anthem," United Nations voted to deny it in 2014 but European Union still recognizes its illegitimacy.) Contained all around the white walls, the infinite green hills stretch on in their minds yet return when the stink glosses over them, glosses over the interrogator who subconsciously disgusts himself with the arterial McDaniel "yes's" and "i-don't-know's" and "mmm's." I've solved it, men, no need to thank me.

-ALL TIME FAV WALL-

No place to stop, no place to go, I guess they died some time ago.
Attention, if you want to seek attention, why even bother to mention? I wouldn't do it myself.
Atashi no omoi anata no haato ni tonde, tonde, tonde, yuke. Koishiteru!
The only good commie is one that's dead, etc. etc.

I am made of blue sky and golden light and will live forever...WATASHI NO KOKORO NI IMA UTSURIYUKU KESHIKI TO NAMIDA AKANEIRO YUUHI NI TERASARE TA AKIKAZE MAU KONO SAKA KIMI O SAGASHITA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PORTAL TO SHIMMY EAST IN TEN SECONDS, LIVE INSIDE PAINTINGS LIKE MARIO 64 -

"MAKE THINGEY DO GOOD, AIGHT?" says dendrite Appalachian SLAVE to pinpoint god Detrix Gvxo Myte (KURUMI). Make a Christmas wishlist to hear such things spoken to Aunt Suzie Q and her everloving Book of Meth. Methamphetamine is lax population control to keep the hicks in school and out of mountains where they may possibly find the answers to the whole "yanqui" problem (if ya know what I mean). (Ironic because the yanquis are hicks themselves). D.G.M. (KURUMI) offers them. Well, it dosen't matter much anyways because D.G.M. (KURUMI) is 'imself a Boltzmann meth slave, conjured by the high loop of Appalachian authority power headquartered in capitol building CHARLESTON, WEST "BY GOD" VIRGINIA, U.S.A. He grovels on the floor of the capitol building, begging the forgiveness of Cletus who does not forgive but tortures D.G.M. (KURUMI) by throwing his trash all over the sidewalk. But it does not necessarily matter all that much, becausue D.G.M. (KURUMI) 'imself is all-loving and hole-istically benevolent, and we're talking somebody here who would give up their pride (one of the cardinal 'sins' of Abrahamic theology) just so that they could drink their light beers. SCRUB, SCRUB, SCRUB!

Pragmatist preliminary Boltzmann brain revival "lay on me your 'ha ha ha's!' and you -- Appalachian neophyte -- congruent factualist" asklepion phosphite Mozokawa "predict[] the future we live in," untrue, Counsel Foster speaks "no intent to benefit any...specific group" in Mount Vernon Park 1993, as Mozokawa in 2020s mass-fertilization "truthseekar evidence hid in the encoded electronic spermatazoa, hexadecimal weird shape bills, voxelate en masse Assembly protocols, Appalachian neophyte god Detrix Gvxo Myte (KURUMI) in video RAM, free kernel, Astral Plane in 2038." John Titor weeps.

The ghosts of maître d' genderless actors -- from Essex to Kazan -- without birth, let them know this: yes, you are sanctified in generation loss elder's presents, for they have died so that you could have a new-age experience. Be made into a cartoon, now judgemental, to asklepion ghosts divulging all frequencies of photosystemic pigments for deceased parents, R.I.P. This is the melancholy of aslertion. You could devote yourself to whispering it for them, the off-to trailings of the weak and the dead. Shashmer Heights where they now reside; they speak but are neither animated nor livid in souller bodies. Reinvention of Aeschylus, the dead come back to life as animistic Friar Jones does not even glance up from the newspaper whose headline reads: "GMO'S RISE FROM THE SEA; DECIMATE LOCAL SALMON POPULATION." And sure enough, the streets fill with golden rice, drowning the shouts and hollers of a thousand half-assed environmental activists, hushed away back to congregated city-states where they live in breakbeat sterilization.

Twenty-first century ordained, operandus o'er the scallic calculations from the ranked & the dissapointed in the Home of the Brave, SHIMMY EAST in TOPEKA! L.P. sunglassed barby.

BILNELYI -

As Mozokawa begins in Advanced Hybrid Bilnelysim Theory: “It is with heavy heart that I must subjugate all proceeding arguments, for their content brings forth a certain fragmented testacy, but it is unlikely that they will be taken, once again, as a whole, as they were in the 2010s. It is also unknown exactly how far they will be taken, or how much they will stray from their original intent. Their endurance has peaked, and far gone have the days of dutiful '1+2+3+4+...” systems.1 Modern bilnelyi require not these institutions; if so, they are at risk of "2." TWO, MIND YOU,, TWO!!

“CERN: They built the LHC not to accelerate 'Higgs-Boson' god particle but to substantiate and dimensionalize suicide, separate it from the ego, release it from subconscious bondage, objectify and rationalize it, deconstruct it, denature it, demoralize it, embed it within secret culture, project it in dreams (non-lucid, REM lucid, OOBE, astral projection), personify it, give it clothes, a name, love to cherish, DNA replication, protein synthesis, transience, faith, God, power over others, etc.; until finally it returns home and they realize that they don't need a goddamn particle collider to explain it. Guys, just leave out all the petty melodramatic bullshit and give us the pure, stringy stuff. Let us feel the mistake of our animal pleasures.”3 And “mistake” was the right word. Not every dog would be an Overtoun martyr, but those who knew it would be."

L.P. parts with queasy America, mmmm yummy, elusive pouch of mineral in the Saharan. Resolved like a pumpkinsick tourist photographed tangled in bunches of flytrap, poxied and dissident, for the suffocation of elephant hoof (no shit, motherfucker really got stepped on by an elephant) lifts the reproach from his liver and shoots it to his leg. With his famous assistant -- Jafar the sun-bleached sand cat (Sunaneko dess.) -- he walks away in kicked up dust as the masses hunt him with spears.

Hail Byrd, I'd buy that for a dollar! Zapruder... the first... to masturbate.  Then who jerks off in the 'copter for Friar Jones, or the locusts for Rodney King? Coincidences of spitnum happened on the first day, I DID PREDICT IT!!!




frondix