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Four ayem basked in utter surrealality, saturated with the echoes of the roleplay scene I'd just finished (Rhineland mysticism, Templar agents and Illuminati spies, skinheads and two briefcases full of heroin), a lunatic political screed from a conspiracy nut Trump supporter following me on Facebook (Why?), and the first few minutes of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel (1956). Pack all that shit into half an hour and watch the number it does on your head:

Nell accepts the pill, then sits staring at it, as if she isn't quite certain what it is, as if maybe it's poison. She's sets the glass and the washcloth on the floor beside her, setting it down in a puddle of brandy and dissolved cocaine. "Müller's running late," she says, whatever bluster she had drained away. "Something about the airport, I don't know." She dry swallows the oxy, then takes the wet cloth from the glass and presses it to her bloody lips. She closes her pretend-green eyes for a moment. "Dieter, I mean. He's running late. It'll be another couple of hours. I was just sitting here..." and she trails off. She spits blood into the cloth.

"He's probably lying," says Ben. "But I do appreciate that you weren't. You wouldn't believe how many times I've opened these cases and ended up with a Claymore to the face," Ben sighs as he picks through the packs of heroin. "Did you broker this, or did the Hall set it up for you?"

Nex crosses back over to the case, seemingly satisfied that Nell is cowed for the moment. "We're not here for dope, babe," she tells Ben.

"No, we're on a fact-finding mission," he replies. "And right now I've discovered some facts. And I'd like to get some more."

Nell dips the bloody cloth into the glass of water, then dabs at her swollen jaw and flinches. "Not the Hall. Just me. I don't know if the Hall..." and she pauses a moment. "Grau was in with an Austrian group, Black Sun. They use heroin to fund...fuck, I don't know what. Expeditions to find the Aryan descendants of Atlantis." Nell pauses again. "I think she broke my jaw," she says, not daring to look Nex's way. "I'm going to have to explain this to my handler."

"Rough sex explains a lot. Especially at some crappy, Johann-come-lately Thule sex party," Ben says, with Nex agreeing in a shrug.

~ and ~

"...for offshore banking and hostile labor scams to hire illegals over American labor need to be shutdown: meaning businesses like Caterpiller, Disney, and Walmart. And remember, Trump didn't get where he is by pissing people off. You make 10 billion making people happy. As far as the racist claims go: quit reading the flyers put out by immigration agencies like the AIC. Can anyone really believe inviting more people to dinner will increase the portion size, especially when they're all showing up for welfare, ala Bernie Sanders style? Here's the real news about the way globalists are using invasive immigration to beat down labor cost by creating slums. A pecking order is established when toxic (meaning emotionally/intellectually dysfunctional IPD) personalities force the work place, home, or other communal setting into a frenzy of low self esteem. Each member is constantly vying for importance in a beat down hierarchy of self imposed social importance established to overwhelm ethical, productive, behavior in order to maintain an immature standard. Chickens do this too. The top bird receives no pecks and then pecks are rationed out, growing in number for each bird as their individual rankings are established by the group. The bird at the bottom usually gets pecked to death, this being why the poultry industry uses beak removal to deal with the dysfunction. Why people, on the average, disregard equitable tactics like manners, courtesy and charity to act this way is a mystery to me. On the one hand the whole group suffers because everyone runs around concerned about their place in the pecking order, and on the other, someone is always on the losing end of a peck: chaos created simply to sustain chaos... and remember, for immature personal gratification."

~ and ~

Atop a cloud, against a field of blue, a young man sits on a ladder, polishing Plexiglas stars. He's approach by a second man.

“Say, Billy!”

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“I just came to tell you, there’s trouble.”

“Yeah, what did I do now?”

“Oh, not you. I can’t tell you where I heard it, but I heard there was some trouble with your kinfolk on Earth.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Well, isn't that just dandy. Here you take the trouble to tell me there’s trouble, but you can’t tell me what trouble it is. Oh, go bother someone else, while I finish these stars.”

“I just thought you might wanna go down there, maybe help.”

“Wait a minute. Hey, hey, wait a minute. You gone loony or something?”

“Well, everyone has the right to go back for one day. That’s the only reason I told you.”

“Well, just in case I’m interested, who gives out this permission?”

“The Starkeeper.”

“Him, huh? Well, I’ll think about it.”

... And this is why I have weird dreams.


Wow, Spooky just told me Nancy Reagan has died. "Just say no."

Yesterday I wrote up a workshop description for my Ocean State Summer Writing Conference session, and I attended to backed-up email, and I took care of a list of questions Ellen Datlow had about "Excerpts for An Eschatology Quadrille." I read two papers from the latest JVP, "Phylogeny of the Ichthyopterygia incorporating recent discoveries from South China" and "First record of Hyposaurus (Dyrosauridae, Crocodyliformes) from the Upper Cretaceous Shendi Formation of Sudan."

The Patreon is exceeding my expectations. Only a little more than 72 hours in, we're at an even 80% of our goal. Thank you everyone. This is an enormous weight of my mind. And it's easier to write when I'm lightheaded. [Rimshot/sting] [Cue laugh track]

Aunt Beast

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