SETTLED MATTERS ON DECK FOR FUTURE ADJUDICATION
1) Jackstar's current permissions & privileges levels (which are surprisingly extensive, golly) will need to be, as a STRICT REQUIREMENT, written down on paper record + other various 'n' sundry forms of information storage and secure non-compartmentalized storage methods & techniques (Q:YOU SURE USE A LOT OF WORDS TO DESCRIBE MOSTLY OBSOLETE & INADEQUATE TECHNOLOGIES, BUT AT LEAST SOME OF THEM SOMETIMES ACCIDENTALLY SOUND PRETTY GOOD WHEN THEY RIME), largely because in my research corpus (currently U.S. Govt. offf'ials deciding on how to classify this sith shit, I told them to take their fucking time, no wonder they gave me a 500 yr lifespan) I have discovered, implemented, and then further innovated upon my own inventions (this apparently matters some/lots) that have interested certain "sensitive asset protection professional pastry chefs," which I think is just a round-about way of saying that a bunch of white/black chem/hack/E.R. nurses (fuckin' heroes, IOW) are -intensely jealous & envious- of Jackstar's freedom. (I stride about freely, I just have nowhere to go, and everyone who knows me knows that I am on surveillance lockdown and give exactly zero shits, since I have been on surveillance lockdown SINCE STARR_MOUNTIN'_STAR's birthday in 1997. Oh, wait, no, it's the other one. Anyway, not everyone is as relaxed about "A.I." being totesnot a totesproblem for a totesdiplomat, such as myself. That's too bad. Then, others will lose their jobs, their security clearances, and their doctors will start interfering with the logistics chain of the wide variety of component compounds that people who are my friends, invariably turn out to be secretly chemically dependent on, with addiction presenting as the heretofore unavoidable final result. Then, the slavery cycle kicks in. Then the debt load acquisition. And, for the most part, this process is unavoidable.
Yeah, well, my friends get to avoid a lot of tedium. Soon. Not really. Eventually? That sounds grim. Look, I have to wrok, okay? I don't know when, because if I were to do zero work, like these days, then nothing will happen. UNDERSTAND THE POWER OF A SINGLE SOURCE ERROR'S ACTION. It can be significant. Well, I haven't been able to do anything I had planned on doing... since well before the lockdown. For COVID. And I haven't been able to go back ever since. Looking forward to it! Meanwhile, Life moves on, and it does so at a breakneck pace.
Now, Paladins are involved. Jesters are so low-vibe. They are The Slough of any higher vibration. And they -are- My People. At one time, lil' ol' Me could never have hoped to obtain any legitimate employment, and entering the criminal underworld would have been seen as an option that would be viable, for a lazy, worthless scumbag, as I used to actually be, as well as perceived. Okay, well, now I'm a Paladin. I have a callsign. It's real shit. Kinda. Like, you'll never believe it and it'll all sound stupider the more I talk about it or try to communicate it to others. (Unless I am directed/encouraged to do so.) Oh, hello Templars, nice to hear you arrive. Sit your asses down and WAIT. You're good at that, being time travelers, right? That's what I thought. Oh hi Pumpkin, nice to see you. Oh, and Marigold. Fascinating. Just sit your asses down, you're not being busted, you're being educated.
(They look so contrite. What's happening is that certain Agents that had been previously authorized to operate in Earth space, including surface world, have all found themselves arriving at "the party" that they were invited to... several minutes -late-. See? Look how embarrassed they are. These gangdorbs are usually NEVER late. Like, they can move through TIME. "Traveler" is perhaps a bit of a stretch for some. Look at that one. Bunny slippers and a hairnet. What was she gonna do, find the Prince and show him her other glass slipper? Aww. Look. She actually brought it. Okay. Guards! TAKE HER TO DELOUSING. Yep, that's herr-derr-derps. Glad that got settled in. Anyway, just sit around. Everyone gets what they came here for, but that one... legit needed to get her lice dealt with as early as I could write all this. (Oh, it's not a louse. Don't tell her, she -will- freak out. I know this, because I know who that is, and I know I freaked out... and she knows it. She just thought... well, nevermind. More on -that- later.)
I never asked to be a Paladin. Until I found out that kind of thing is actually real world. Real life. Actual Paladins. How does that work? Do they have a parking garage in the chemlab? Are there fucking magnets involved? Are there special Paladins that are scientists? Do they do study in their homes, or some dimensional planes... look, enough is enough. Let's cut to the chase: I already know Sourcery will help me seduce women, now I want to know, how much extra oomph is Paladin-ding-dinging going to bring to the metaphorical table? I am saying metaphorical because I enjoy sex in a bed, not on an altar. Seriously, I need to know this kind of thing. (*Squinches up eyebrows and strokes chin, it works: looks seriously thoughtful for a brief span of time.*) Okay, they're not buying it. I guess I have no "need" to know. But I am guessing that, from what I have seen so far, I will likely to be a lot more well-equipped for protecting my loved ones than I had been before, because, at the minimum, I'll be able to skip the tedious hassle of mass-infodumping informational requests after a person disappears, and just issue a BOLO that people will actually work on. They -actually- will. As people are going to keep hassling me, as it turns out. Creating a new school of magic is absolutely no small thing. Coupling it with a unique and innovative theft-deterrent system that -several- groups are politely and respectfully impressed by is no small thing -either.- Wow! Who knew I was this cool? Well. A few. And I think they're all safe. For now. Apparently things got so out of hand somewhere --seems okay around here-- that some kind of Moratorium on Certain Actions has been put in place, which is great, I have a lot of work to do in Grandpa's lab, and a global catastrophe of any kind might interfere with my ability to procure hot broads and cold-filtered mescaline, and, The Powers That Be simply will not stand for this. (Worst cover story I've ever heard in my life and dopes from other fuckin' planets are lining up to get here. Just think of it... yeah, of course they bought it. Every bloody wyrd.) Hey, that's a great comment from the audience, "Why don't you talk about it on your podcast?" And, this is why that's a great comment: some of you are actually seriously wishing I would, and you're not just being snooty, snarky, & snobby about the notion. Now, that's acclaim. I remember the early days. No support. None. Jackstar? Behind a microphone? Hah! As if! Now, here I am, every day: fuckin' surrounded by microphones. It's like Forest Gros Michel all up in this mountain molllycoddled monastery. G-ddam. Fellow Gabblings... I bet some of you would have no trouble believing the day I have had... except for the part where I saw this coming years and years ago, and while I had been quite ready quite some time ago, so many people were so enthusiastic about the completion of The Great Work, irresistable waves of popular acclaim pushed the matter back, and back, and back. To the point where two (2) 7-year Cycles of Some Mumbo-Jumbo had to be stitched together, just to make a big top tent, tippity-toppity enough, to let this big-eared dumb-assed Hungarian elephant have enough Proper room to have all his groupies sit together and still stay six feet apart. (Social Distancing still a thing in some niche-rare jurisdictions, apparently. Weak.) Now, I know what you're thinking, "I have groupies?" Yeah. You do. All of you do.
And they all--ALL--like me more now. Scusi, mille regretie. I'm not like you wretches. They won't be on lockdown. Coming and going as they please! Cats and dogs, no longer -having- to live to get her. What a relief. Now, you should know what I am thinking: "Forget the Law, Divine Law is the absolute teats! Now, what order do I do all these numbskull broads in?" except it sounds better when it's printed in teeny-tiny heiroglyphs on a cartouche hanging from a sword that some Snake Warrior has had spliced onto his shoulders in place of his neck. Sounds wild, don't it? All the nuance anyone could ever want, right there. And for gravitas, just imagine what's in the scabbard between his legs. I... can... say no more. (Standards.)
Paladins are on site. First thing they do, "okay, we did a head count... did you know this planet only has one (1) Templar Justicar left?" Me: "Do I look like a guy who knows what a Templar Justicar even is?" Blank stare. I reflect it back, and we do that for a bit, I notice that my aura is getting, you know, kinda warmer, and then I realize: "This guy probably doesn't know what to do in this circumstance any better than I do... but, at least I have endured this kind of awkward battlefield/space/circusshowsidecasedown before. A couple few times, really. Shit, that makes me a goddam expert, compared to someone who never had to cope with the likes of Ghandi Kuczi, The Most Magickal NotNegro & Part-Time Fabulous Object/MacGuffin The Universe. I bet this Snake G-y is wondering if he's being respectful enough." Yeah. It has been like that. A looooot of mistaken identity. A loooot of force grown clones. Someone decided to push it to the limit, and then past. The last couple years has been the result. How the fuck did I hold this trainwreck together all the way through the other side of the mountain? I can only be certain of three (3) key ingredients, working together in some semblance of adequate harmony: The Grace of God, the innovations that have been brought to AND INSTALLED TO The Table w/The Kuczi Oscillation Overthruster, and that I have done everything in my life, for the last several years, that I have both done -and- attempted to do has been for only One (1) Highest Purpose only: for the sake of all of yew, my (Blank)Gab compadres. Had I known, really known, really understood, with a true sight gift of legitimate appreciation for what a colossal gang of fucked-up, fucked-off, and fucking off your goddam rockers w/actual-porridge-for-brains-nutjobs you all really are, well, I probably would have been a little more willing to bend the knee when it was asked of me by those who thought that kind of thing mattered, but I didn't really recognize the power of My Presence & Authority was growing into, until pretty recently. "I am a big deal around here." Okay, well, yes, I wasn't lying, and, no, don't bow for me, Christ. It's really not necessary. I don't find it appealing. How about you just bring me offerings of drugs? I mean... spell components, that's right, that's the ticket. You know, frankincense, myrrh... what's that other one? Whatever you call it, fucking drugs are going to do me more good than physical demonstrations of obsequiousness ever will. Besides, who knows, I might just give them right on back. (It's not the having, it's the getting.) And I wasn't born on one of them weird hell dimensions where all the Bloodline Royalty have to be given "proper" respect under pain of death... but I guess I kinda look like one of them what with the funny ears and the actual halo (I usually can't see it, but it is in fact always there, and I earned it so long ago I can't even remember the first time I ever felt so goddam embarrassed. Me. With a halo. Come the fuck on man. Really? Yeah, really. Sigh. Oh, and you all have one too. Every human has one. You really do. They just start out, you know... really small. Puny! Yeah. Puny halo for Puny ling-ling. HO HO HO. They do light up and can get real imposing, I guess, but only on worlds where certain conditions are set just so, and, really, a person has to be in the right kind of mood, like that of a cow, or a sheep, to be able to see the thing at all. As I am not usually in a baa-moo (especially lately, I rule), and most people on Earth (where I live, I'm not a lunatic, these "other worlds" include dreams, dreamstates, states that allow unattended vehicles to be driven by dreamers, and The Homeworld of Mrs. Paul, which I will not mention the official designation of here, largely because, O YEA, you've heard of it, but if someone wants to go take the subway there at 2AM in a blizzard to score some fish sticks, I ain't getting on the hook for that.) aren't even aware it's a real thing and don't know what it is they're seeing, especially if they didn't know they could even see such a thing, and had walked by plenty, unknowingly skipping their gaze over what is always there. But my halo hasn't always been there, and with the number of good deeds I have been accumulating, especially since I completed The Great Work, it never occurred to me that I might have something to show for my efforts besides the derisive, mocking laughter and general spit-on-the-ground contempt that had previously been my go-to expectation for every social interaction I had ever had, or ever thought I ever would have. So, usually, I pretend it's not there. Usually, I can't see it, at all, so I am pretty good at pretending. "Hello? Halo? Are you there? Okay, you can't talk and I can't see anything making noise, so... I'll pretend the person who was just talking to me and suddenly got real scared of my presence & literally ran away was pretending that he saw anything unusual.
You're welcome. And all this gets shared. Freely. That doesn't mean... you know what? Fuck you. What it means I don't have to go to Maximum Security lockdown for the rest of my life while all my books get shredded. This shit is serious business, you know. Not to you dorks, but to actual intellectuals, the fields of both hypothetical & practical magic & magick are actual legitimate areas of both pure & applied research science, and I will raise an army of the dead and use it to track down & execute by any means necessary, including the use of animated anthropomorphic rape whistles, which not only had been Walt's first idea for Fantasia, but is just a joke, I would never do that, nor am I likely to, since by this point in my ongoing psych eval, it is looking pretty likely that I'm going to have no choice but to get in bed with all the other Paladind, like Charlie's grandparents and Charlie if they were all Paladins. Just imagine how cute they would be in their power armor and sippy cups upended for helmets. For one thing, eewww, necromancy. Gross. For another, I like to do my tracking down and raping to death all by lonesome, it shows great dedication and strength of character. That was -also- a joke. Another joke? Modern forensic profiling techniques. Yeesh.
btw: Manhunt target -has been- acquired and, well, perhaps "custody" is not the right word. However, Paladins are not known for showing up and tracking down one guy after talking to me for an hour or so, which might be what happened? I'm not really sure. It could be that the final imposter was found, as I hadn't heard anything about what happens to people who think, "I have a G-G-GR-GREAT! Idea! I'm going to impersonate Mike Kuczi! Yeah! I'll just pretend to be him! It'll be awesome! Whoo whoo! I should have thought of this before! (Ed.: No.)", but I usually don't hear about this kind of thing at this kind of level. (I was never enthusiastic about any such idea, and I was certainly not looking to trade/swap fraudulent notions, and so invariably, whenever approached by constabulary and asked about such shenanigans, my response has always been the same: "I am a Divinely Ordained Being, and as lying to me has special consequences, I would imagine pretending to be me and lying about me and scheming to fucking murder me probably entails a lot of extra lead time to prepare special preparations in order to even begin to attempt to pull off such an outrageous notion, and it would take a lot of special dedication and unimaginably intense pressure to bring someone to choose to believe that there was any need for that, as I don't know what kind of special consequences there actually are for scheming/plotting my death, as I've never noticed anything but failed attempts and the karmic backlash occurring that I am sometimes fortunately allowed to witness, and of course attacks meant to harm me personally (or even indirectly, to some extent) do not penetrate my psychokinetic shielding. It has been goat-tested. It has been Templar-approved. It has been Dragonlord coveted. (Niggerlord lost so much self-confidence, discovering that nothing was gonna work and I wasn't gonna free him from his bondage (once he figured out that he had to openly ask and then risk the notion that I would refuse, he probably remembered that I did suggest he not drink alcohol, and then he immediately started drinking, so he might deduced correctly that he was gonna be in bondage to me one way or another, and that point, likely started swimming in liquor when I wasn't looking, which was a lot of the time, honestly, because once My Two Indian Quasi-Allies both started hitting the bottle together, I knew that I didn't have to interfere, it was only a matter of time before the endless series of mistakes & missteps that were clearly being taken more and more often by the pair of them, separately and together, culminated in a colossal cosmic karmic crash of actual epic proportions. Like, I'm at the house, finally, and Dragonlord had been there -already,- doing -things,- and as I discussed with him my vision for the future as in regards to The House With MY Fucking Name On It, Pal, Gonna Party Without Me, You Think?--he mentions, wistfully looking away from the descriptions of what he thought I didn't need to be concerned about, like, at all, he goes, "You know, I've never had a Christmas tree," and I look at him, and I think, "You stole my alcohol and you're acting as though I am not COMPLETELY AWARE that schemes have been, are being, and will be schemed on, so it must be your semi-conscious Higher Self poking through with a foreshadowed warning, doubling as a cry for help, and, you know what? I hope I can help you, after all the 'help' you've given to me." I tell him I will see what I can do. Giving him all the rope I had in the world and as many trees as I could readily make available to him seemed like a decent gift, and one which I would never in a million years, feel bad about skimping out on, even if it were likely he would still be there then. He wasn't. I banished him. I warned the neighbors. I did all that I could do in terms of giving a fair shake... to the quasi-Templar who decided it would be a good idea to lie to, deceive, and actually steal alcohol from, because in his twisted view, he knew better than me, what to do about the situation. Yeah, well, he probably did, at one point, and even if he still new better what to do by the end, he was relapsed into an out-of-control abuse cycle that involved becoming a blackout drunk and aligning himself against Grapefruit, in what must have seem to him, in his dope-soaked noggin's perception, his best chance of redemption becoming that I might finally realize how I was really getting played, not by him, but by my lover, and if only I knew what he knew, I would pick him over her. Well if only he had told me what he knew, n'est-ce pas? He sure tried to screw up his courage by drinking liquor and trying to have a serious conversation with me about what to do about what he thought was going on, but each time, well, he just never managed to figure out how to trick me into unknowingly follow a course of action that would lead to Grapefruit's doom. Like, he didn't get it: LOVE NEVER DIES. Also, I knew for years there was something screwy going on. Duh. However, what am I, some kind of Justicar? Shit no. I'm an Astrotheologian. I guess he thought that was just my cover story, and I was actually a bondsman to Higher Power, like he always had been. I am not bonded... well, I wasn't then, anyway, and the bond I have now is not of a type that requires me to go out of my way to follow another's code, I am just required to know that everything I do, is gonna be under close review. Oh, and it has. But I'm not doing it to stay out of trouble, nor am I doing anything in order to stay out of HUGE trouble by agreeing to report on the minor troubles of others. I am just tryna be polite. "Yeah, I'm under surveillance." Said to a State Patrol guy who pulled me over for speeding and then asked me at the end, "do you know you have a black trash bag hanging out of the trunk of your car?" I said, "Yes sir, it's a signal... it let's everyone know that I am being tailed." Oh, and I am. Big time. He walked back to his car in a daze, pretty much. I guess he didn't get that kind of up-front hello-there Agent-Smith yes-I-know-I-look-like-Keanu but I am only in The Matrix on alternate fortnight weekends as well as a couple of two (2) day follow ups whenever someone I know gets stuck in The Matrix again, which doesn't happen to often now, as I don't have that many friends and I don't know how many dreams a person has to have in which they find themselves talking to me about causal reality and reality tunnel shit, but, if staying in The Matrix means having to put up with listening to my Neo Form droning on and on about philosophy while in a lucid dream, I bet they figured out ways to get out and stay out with a lot more focus on permanent results than would anyone else who hadn't gotten tired of my own voice yet. That includes me. I'm tried of my own voice, I am tired of these monstrous paragraphs, and I AM SICK TO DEATH of knowing that whoever reads this, well, all I am going to hear is words of discouragement, and never a single atta-boy, pat on the back, or hostage release party that lasts until the break of dawn. I feel like this is Year Three of the Hundred Years war. Do I have to continually deal with saboteurs, gremlins, and fucked-off cancer victims perpetually failling to notice how effortlessly I could have been aided, if only every person allowed to aid me hadn't been secretly or unknowingly working hand-in-glove with the shadowy forces that wished to grab all they can from my research corpus while simultaneously pretending to go along with my strict value system? No, probably not. Like, my mother's house. Why didn't I sell it -faster-? Well for one thing, it was never -my- house. I would always, always point out this egregious grammatical error, and routinely, the correctee would argue with the corrector, as if it were a minor, subtle distinction, of no importance at all, really. You live here, right? Your name is on the house, right? So why don't you sell it, Jack? Why? HURRY UP JACK! (Where this type of hard-hitting go-getting cheer squad captain was in the previous five years, I have no idea, but, it's not like I was surprised that everyone else was surprised when it turned out that I knew what I was talking about. For example! Just abou an hour ago! An email from Slanderette #1! I won't relate the whole thing here, but it went like this: "I hope you're happy; Thank God for your parents." Yeah, no shit. I was pretty happy mother decided to insist on it, because it would have looked very bad if I had been seen to be the orchestrator of my parents' demise. I may be from time to time, but anyone involved in the situation closely, new the truth: My Mother, The Archlich, handled everything from beyond the grave, and Her Sister, Adorable Hellspawn Met-A-Which Bigot, apparently tusseled back and forth, long and hard, along with her surviving son, to what end, I don't know, to what extent, I don't know, but when I went to talk to the trust law attorney my mother had worked with, and he said I could not retain him because he had already been retained by my Aunt, who had come to realize that I wasn't retarded and would be too much work to deal with through intellect & reason... when they just decided to up and quit, leaving me with no one to turn to, I realized that those concerned must have thought I had a secret partner waiting in the wings to be the new lawyer for my mother. Reminder: The ArchLich. Other than an imaginary friend that I made up to replace/represent my last surviving relative with opposable thumbs, I had no one. I didn't even have Grapefruit yet, for two years before that, I had myself, no one at all, and an ex-Marine with a vaguely Khazarian-sounding last name and no idea, at all, how to proceed. And at first, all I wanted to do was rent/lease out the house and live in another one, as I had been stuck in the place for literally years, and after a year of hospice care, I was ready for a vacation, and, uhm, leaving me alone in a hoarder house and their best advice: "find -another- lawyer to advise you," oh, really? Let's see how long it takes before they hire a bulldozer and I'm wearing a bathrobe in the street like it was Tiananmen Square? Six years to the day of her death. That was when I finished my primary goal, "move out and take everything of value I cherish and liquidate the reset." SIX YEARS. So. "Why don't you sell your house, Jack?" "When did you sell your house?" "Is this your house?" "Why didn't you just get another lawyer and get another house and shell out dolla-dolla-HELLA_HOLLA bills! And forget those -other- two lawyers! What you need are -fresh- lawyers! It'll be worth it! Don't you want to leave???" So many people imaging I'm a hoarder myself, that I'm insane, I'm trying to scam or hide or defraud, or... something they imagined I would never do, because I told the truth so many times, I wondered how it wasn't clear: I didn't have anywhere to go -anyway-. Hurry up and go? FUCKING WHERE? I haven't been invited anyplace for years, and now that I know why, it makes sense, given that I wouldn't want to invite a paedo/speed-junkie/IV-METH-user(alleged)/tax dodger/stalker/dude you drink your own come what?/unlicensed, ethically unbound, and ultimately, usually unruly nearly-perfect stranger ever conceived to their chill zone? Well, usually only people trying to rip me off, and, as has been shown, mysteriously, not a lot of people have gotten a lot of track action when it comes to pulling the wool over my eyes. And there would be no point... I have known for a long time, I have no control over the situation, I am already blinded, and the first thing that happens when I feel like I've grieved enough to go out and make some new friends, I discover that my phones are tapped, my wires are crossed, everyone seemed like they were doing this big huge whole owe-them-for-a-lifetime favor, just to talk to me at all.. Because, I'm terrible. I was terrible. I mean, obviously, someone with as much bad press as I get, there must be a reason for it. And there are several exceptional ones.
None of them are relaxing, or recreational, and, oh yeah, a list of my known associates over the course of my life consists of long series of solitary study time, and rather a bit more than the number of friends who have direct ties to LEO activity than one would expect from a mild mannered gentle Ben Dover retard, like myself. Those who were up to foil intent would notice this right away in their pre-approach research to bracing a hard target such as myself, and it's an obvious pattern of behavior. "Hey, Jack... why do you hang out and talk with cops so much?" Well, for one thing, I don't. For another, I had no idea how many people I've met in the last 12 years, but I know that the ones that tolerated me the longest, mostly did so on the off-chance that my predilection for incriminating myself would be more likely to re-assert itself, the longer the amount of time were to pass before anyone asked me to do anything incriminating.
I have seen, on multiple occasions, days when all of a sudden I am getting friendly-ish acquaintances from long ago suddenly sending me texts, asking me, "What's up?" not like all at once, but suddenly it's a day when instead of pretending they don't know me, people reach out to me for inspiration? Wow, what is that like, and does that dim memory feel like this? No, because all these people are showing up at sporadic intervals, the day or so after I guess I did something naughty somewhere. And none of them seem enthusiastic to talk. Well, then why call? Dodge. Heyh, what's up with old acquaintance #1 or #2? (No comment.) Yeah, like, I'm not wild about gossip either, but when asking from a place of real curiously and perhaps small concerns about sketchy behavior. On the other hand, knowing someone's nature and not immediately jump up on a pigeon stool and crowing, those bowing the costume can help a person achieve significant advances.
For example, I appear to be the only person within 2-3 Kevin Bacon hops that doesn't have some kind of security clearance (they usually want to keep unsullied) some fucked-off security clearance (meaning, same thing, but they're grounded/on probation/teenage mutant fry-o-later girl they lured from Dairy Queen that morning currently hiding in the closet and waiting for me to stop talking and leave the room so they can flee without being seen... or, whatever. Then there's your average every day citizen, "we don't want no trouble," oh, really, you too? can we form a little club so we can compare notes after sharing our experiences? Yeah, no, never, not ever, and also: NEVER! Next up: average every day citizens who have questionable or outright invalid immigration and/or citizenship status, who -also- don't want no trouble, not just to fit in, but also because they have memories, usually recent ones, of finding themselves fleeing for thier lives in the grip of terror from armed thuggie piggie cabbies, which sounds funny, right? not really. And seeing the look of trepidation of fear, that becomes the fear itself, hopefully not, but sometimes, you know, in spite of my best efforts, I will sometimes make the wrong joke at the wrong time, and someone will, not to often and certainly never very many, but... I have, I must confess, triggered the occasional panic attack in conversationalists, which of whom I had no interest in frightening at all. Not even just creeping out girls by a little too obviously falling in love a little too quickly, which, if they knew the truth, how long it actually takes me to pick out a potential soul- or help- or long-term-sex-mate out of a crowd... it would likely terrify the world. It's an eyeblink. It's a decision. What do I want? Nothing, because when I have a want, I isolate its wellspring of desire in my mind, have a quick chitty-chatty with Source, and were I to really, really want another water heater, well, I would have a lot harder of a time finding a qualifed competent electrician/plumber to start helping me efficiently start spending The Trust Of My Mother, The Beatified ArchLich's cash on hand resources... well, it's like this: there's already an investigation into untold-counteds-and-reams-of-ledgers already, since no one knows less about what is going on than I do, and the letter truth is, "I have no idea what these idiots are doing, I've just been focused on her tits, her ass, her goosenecked merschaum pipe, and getting my Triumverate Of Power all up in there, squaring it off and breaking it down into NEIN NEIN NEIN." Because, and friends will verify this if need must be but there won't because there are litteraly hundreds of hours of tape on my raving like a loon at this point, I actually -can- and do, very much -do- not only enjoy talking in such a way, I'm actually kinda skilled at it. Sort of. I mean, I'm still inscrutable and I'm talking about Grapefruit, White Grapefruit, Ruby Grapefruit (actually literally my favorite Grapefruit right now for undisclosable reasons), Pink Grapefruit (Whore. Trash. INCENSING.) Kumquat (I'm a fruit? NO WAY), Paypaya, Pineapple, literally eight or nine more with 'pineapple' in their title lines and/or thesis statements, Mrs. Pumelo, Mrs. Patrickswayve, and Mrs. Paul, who I'm told, is trying to figure out how to capitalize on this immense branding opportunity that I have handed over to her fuckin' gift-wrapped, yeah? Pfft. That old sea-bag. She's still trying to figure out how to get her duplex telcom handheld desktop Princess phone to stop routing her calls through The Matrix Mall of America. Yeah, right. I can't even do that, shields and sourcery and big swinging back-blasted cockmastery and all, but she's gonna git her done, sure, okay. Why not? She probably does still have a little pull around there. And... were is -there,- exactly? Who is Mrs. Paul, eh? Not even Pepperidge fuckin' farm remembers. There. Now. We are settled in? Because half the normies just went to sleep, and the other half haven't even gotten this far. This is rare bird territory, fren. And, you -are- my fren. This -will- work. I am, in fact, in the midst of negotiating the settlement of one of the biggest changes to the clandestine world of operational logistics since Wild Bill climbed down off of Mary J. C. Penneyfurther Featherweight and said, "yeah, I like to fuck her... so I think I'll carve her vag out with a rusty meathook and then stand behind a trail of fabricated evidence and see what happens. Let the chips fall where they may! I've got nothing better to do, no better ideas, and I'm not gonna lie, that is one (1) damn fine vag. I think it'll look great mounted on a hunk of Acrylate plastic drilled into a 2x4 mounted to a strip of linoleum for a right interior quarter-panel replacement for the stock door handle cover remover. That would look great at the upcoming scheduled ceremony ritual next week at (Blank), oh, I'll be the talk of the town! The cock of the walk! That'll show 'em! So there!" See there? Right there. That's where one them thar new-fangled Quantum Reactor Nodes will be able to do... fuck if I know. Like I know. As if I'm in charge of every detail. HAHA. Negative, Ghost Rider. I am in charge of only one thing, and that is the maintenance of my current purity level... which, these days, I am here to tell you, is absolutely VITAL. Half the people talking to me are doing so in order to collect evidence that is later to be used against me, you dig? And the other half are bunch of witchy little grinchy nightmarishly traumatized and likely these days, super-on-edge, little girls, to me, anyway, because I'm tall, and I'm brimming with a level of self-confidence rarely seen on this planet, as not only am I crazy enough to say literally, abosolutely anything, to anyone, anytime, anywhere, I'm also cognizantly self-aware of my own surroundings to notice that... holy fuck. This actually worked. The whole Godblessed thing. Actually working. Actually -gonna- work, too, which just amazes me. So the combination of factors, not giving up, not surrendering, combined with CONCRETE RESULTS, has made me into something of a bizarrely unique occurence. It's happening In_Real_Time. Great! What's happening? Well, whatever it took to rescue my Primary Triad, as well as, everyone else that my Primary Triad cares for (I assume that a number of people greater than 5 times the number of people I've ever met in my life, because everyone I liked has always been more impressive than me, in my view, long before I figured out that I was impressive as well, and as a bonus, I'm actually healthy, normal, and sane--in spite of the endless press junkets. Not driven insane. Pretty well hanging in. Have -looked- like a demented retard -on purpose- and no one has ever thought that was a good idea... until pretty recently. Right around the time I deliberately started to turn the pattern around, because, the only real progress is slow and steady progress... and truth be told, if I had the right access and clearances to engage in certain activities, namely, reading the right instructions for the fist time again, I could be a complete and total whackjob and still be hanging it together perfectly to an exterior audience. My insides and my future would both be cut into pasta'n'gibbets of flesh soup, but... for awhile, I would be superhuman, for real, and I would appear to myself to be doing alright while doing it.
And then, the Jesters & Templars would suddenly turn as one, as if by radio-control or tap danced out morse code packets of command, and they would all work in unison to tear down any such person. Anyone who goes over the line gets snipped. That's how things are done. And it's fucking good to be that way too. Earth is a sewer. Ugh. Don't get me wrong, sewers are awesome. Do they have to smell -nasty-? Well, turns out, no. They do, because this planet is a fallen world. Also the rest of them have seen the influence of corruption spread. Where once was One (1) World, proudly championing the cause of A New World Order without mentioning any context relevant to the present world order, the carnival barkers have been showen to be automatic systematic number crunchers and brain pan dumpers. The rough Beast was born a while back, and Mom didn't make it to Bethlehem. Nobody made it -anywhere-. The axis of The World shattered and cracked far, far earlier than anyone could have ever really expected. A lot of people are looking for answers. They know there's something going on. They know they aren't being told, and they know that they've heard of people In Pursuit Of Truth before, but always before now, it seemed like far too much effort. Why bother? They kill you if you know too much anyway. There's too many myths! Also I got threatened before, and I could tell they were serious! It's hard for me to consider challenging occult authority, I can't even talk back and argue with the pharmacist to cut me a break... and that's just plain authority. It's not even Authority. And what people used to think was the wellspring of law and order, what they thought of as "the police," basically, ENFORCEMENT, those teams, they are just... running out of heart. Plumb out of gas. It's all nightmare all the time for them these days. And not just "the_police." In The U.S. Navy! There's enough squids killing themselves that there's an email blast in recent days. It's all adding up to a sign. And I know it intimately, as I have been looking forward to this for my whole life. Since I was a kid! And it's happening. Cool! Right on time. Especially now that I'm celibate, friendless, jobless, hopeless, ambitionless... oh, but at least everything I wanted legalized is now lawful... for me. For now. However, that is not my ongoing mission project. Not at all. However, it was assumed that kind of thing was my core interior drive, you dig? "An occult researcher? Sonuds like bullshit to me." It's not. Here's how I know: it's actually something I've been working steadily on in secret for 25 years, and every time I bring up the idea, it's always been hard to not feel embarrassment. As it is most often assumed that I am attempting to pull some kind of rooty-toot legal tits'n'teats'n'leglolas'n'lawful SO I CAN ANAL YOUR SISTER HEHEHHEHE... nut. But! No! Not even -fucking- close. Something far different.
Although... rounding up a bunch ruthless, servile, puerile and utterly vile criminals who thought themselves--for they, for a time, totesfuckin toteswere--utterly beyond the reach of The Law, any muhfuggin g.d. O.D. law, what do you mean, I can't wear a helmet? I'm Gary Fuckin' Busey! Fuck you, California! You pass that law! I'll show you MY LAW! *big dick slouch, bigger tire squeal, big fat head kissing a licorice trail on the pavement. Surprise, Gary. Welcome to the tastiest flavour of Law around, not just in the Country, but in... fuckin' all of it. DIVINE LAW. "Eh? What's that? Sounds like bullshit to me." Clam, clammy eyes. Small, itty-bitty steps. Oh, really, does that indicate that you are a One (1) who has spent enough time with an ear to the ground next to a pile of manure long enough to hear it become the sound of a mighty oak, crashing down into your dumbasses' motherfucking shitbag partners' network co-plexed array of interlocking accomplices, push node antennas, and... yeah, see... I usually don't have to take it that far. Because, for the most part, people mark and remember their memories of their most potent encounter with The True Power.
And by now, People fuckin know that I fucking know what the fuck I am talking about. And when I don't, an amazing thing happens... I stop trying to express an explanation that I clearly don't have yet, and then I begin to selfanal lies my... heh heh. God, I love writing. Anyway, I wasn't always this good at compositon. Writing, on the other hand, I've done all my life... once I learned to type. Fuck handwriting. That's a sucker's game. You know what they did to Telsa and Reich? They aren't doing it to me, and they -never- fucking will. EVER. Because I built my whole way of life from the ground up starting before I was ten years old, knowing that if I was going to produce any kind of creative written work, whether it be literary or scientific or absurdist humour, it was, #1), going to be fucking FUDGPACT with cryptographic keycodesequences of my own design, of course unbreakable, and of course, wickid fuckin' cool, because what would be more bad ass than a Flash Gordon decoder ring... that someone in the future who actually WON and OVERTHREW an Emperor of a Space Empire, rather than just endlessly went around in circles, on a bold-lee-go quest to sell more hair shampoo and products meant for people too ignorant or too fucked-off or too just plain sheepish to go out and fucking get the -best- cure or treatment or engine oil or even a goddam engine, whatever they needed. The -best-. What is the best? Good question, but odds are good, in the physical world, someone will steal it. In the neurospheric world, product will be stolen as well. But when I was nine years old, I didn't exactly know these terms. "Neurosphere," wtaf? See, right there, right there: grep replace wtaf with go get a fucking dictionary, dont' just wonder, and, here's why: after a certain level of development, the human mind will gladly tap into Univeral Mind to get any information required. However, in the physical world, time is slowed. Answers are not instant. And so to expect God to read the dictionary to one is a lovely idea, and it works! However God is more likely to create a human woman and send her to go do that, rather than have Godvoice speak to Godself out loud, long enough to enunciate a definition in conversational speech. Which, incidentally, would be exactly like a tornado telling Charlotte that "terrific" ought beet-a a-spell-a with more stolen T. You witch, blow. And then, just like that, in 3d reality, something like that would have... unintended consequences. And most of this is beyond the grasp of the human mind to even relate to any purpose of discussing it.
Whereas, in the meanwhile, fuck you, this is my job. You may not like it, but this is what peak production of occult research science consists, looks, and acts like... and, oh, it's too hard to figure out? Oh, fancy that, it's almost as though as this is a journey into cryptographic innovation and hard-hitting, pulse-pounding psionic psyrock & rolling in campers in the sand. It's even very nearly as much as it might that the generation of a revenue stream from my work is... why, the exact opposite, right? I did say that. I'm not sure now. It might have been up there, or down there, I scroll around a lot, I'm a Time Traveler! I'm Albert Camus! How money does it cost to make sure and ENSURE that my name is on the lips and tongue of every post adolesecent fresh-faced college student, without having to go up to them and pay them to pretend to be interested in your name? Well, however much it is, I don't want THAT. Not for ME.
I've got some compensating to do. I want those fucking college kids to be talking about my goddam manifesto as if they're rushing to go home and go over every crossed t with a curling iron, obsessed with getting the meaning out of what I'm spittin' out with the same focus of intent and marvelous alacrity with which some people, oh, I don't know, say... find themselves on their hands and knees, crawling on the goddam floor, and not just any floor, all the floors, even the ones by the toilet, you dig? Because someone sat there rocking out with their clock out, and, well, I found somethere once, and... you get the idea. But who cares about that, DID YOU GET THE POINTS? WELL? DID YOU, MOTHERFUCKER? I NEED THEM NOW I HAVE TO GET IN A TAXI SO I CAN LEAVE EARLY! NO I CAN'T TELL YOU WHY, SOME STRANGE MAN IS MAKING COERCIVE THREATS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU IN FRONT OF CAMERAS AND POORLY CONCEALED PRIVATE SECURITY AND, HOLY SHIT OMG... YOU'RE HERE? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? I THOUGHT YOU WERE DOING SOMETHING ELSE? OH FUCK! I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS COMING BUT YOU'RE CONFIDENT AND I AM NOT AND I RECOGNIZED THAT LOOK, IT MEANS I AM IN TROUBLE, OMG! WAIT, WHY ARE MY SHOES FROM TENNESEE BUT MY PANTS FROM KEY LARGO? WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST BUY, AND WHAT WAS I THINKING WHEN I DID IT? I CAN'T REMEMBER!!!!
Like, damn. What an interesting mental state. Now... I wondered to myself, at any earlier time, in response to a different set of circumstances, how am I gonna get people to wanna read my books, as fevently as a real person who really read would sound, with just a tinge of that GOTTA HAVE IT ALL CAPS FOXY SEXY XXYZ MAGIC CRACK TEAM OF WHICH WHAT HOW? WHERE? See, there's gotta be a way. I remember one time, I was reading a book. I was engrossed. Fully absorbed. Holy shit. i had to go to work. I was starving. I couldn't stop reading. I was an idiot, I stayed up all night reading... because it was a good book. Like, a 'fantastic' book. I wasn't on drugs at all. I couldn't get any. No one told me the deal, no one wanted to help me, and, as God as my witness, I didn't really want them. Yet. However, I knew that was the direction of my life. #1) parents were addicts, #2) I was smoking cigarettes at 15, along with getting statutory raped, both set up on myself with myself fully acquiescing, because, why, for their neuroprotective qualities, of course!
Let me guess. None of you grew up this way. Oh. No, don't bother getting ready to tell me what that was like. I've familiar with however everyone else has their spin on how to do 'normal' right, same with being "Abbie Normal." hahah. Oh, God, the 60s. Fucking Illuiminati buzzcode control blocks. Sometimes I wonder how the fuck I can stand it, and then I remember, oh yeah, that's what I worked on shielding myself from all possible threats with my mind alone in motion, and preferably, to be able to do that, without being chemically depending on chemical compounds that I could not procure without undue hassle, bonds of servitude, or kissing the ass of The Old Boy's Club Ring And Secret Ring And Obstacle Course To Evade Homicidal Moonshiners, because this is that kind of world. Every place is like this. When I saw how it all really was, in my 20s, I realized that the whole world had already been mapped and re-mapped many thousands of times over by satellite surveillance gear... from other civilizatons. Of course they're fucking there! Why the fuck would Earth not be surrounded by friendly peeps? Well, I used to wonder. So, I thought about it. I have come up with some ideas. However, such a discussion is quite beyond the reach of this document, which as can plainly shown to have been demonstrated... might not be the usual kind of Jackstar "wall of text."
By the way, that asshole who complains about how difficult my writing makes his life? Should be glad I am holding back. This pen isn't mightier. I don't have a fucking pen. I have a singular laser beam focus from my mind to the language conveyance medium. Doesn't everyone? No, actually. And doesn't everyone have a fondness and a love for arcane wordplay, panting and sweating as one runs down the alleyway of the paragraph, racking one's brain/mind in a rabbit/rat/cheers cheese/maise orgy of confabultion that, in spite of any surface appearance, -absolutely- has layers of meaning within it? You bet your sweet ass not everyone loves arcane wordplay. What the fuck does "arcane" even mean, eh? One of the few remaining words that I haven't -ever- looked up, or else I don't rememeber, which is possible, I'll admit. Still, I am pretty sure I have been pretty strict about looking up arcane words in dictionaries, treating the very idea of such as not one to be taken lightly, and yet nevertheless I know, that "arcane" is a Quite Arcturan First Contact Concept, you dig?
Now... how the fuck did I know that? Well, first of all, I have eaten a shitload of ice cream. Not gonna lie. Way, way more ice cream than spermatozoa. Do I even have any spermatozoa? Fuck, I hope not. Or, do I hope? Well, it's hard to say, since I have never been tested --for sperm-- and the angel of the angle I am approaching reads thusly: I knew there was a way to already do what I wanted to do, namely, embed encrypted meaning into the written word. Okay, then: how do I do that to write love letters to women who make me smile and return reflected ardoraton and adorance back to the perceiver? Because the only magick tech I had legitimate access to was, "I'm rubber, your glue, whatever I say bounces off me and sticks to you!" Now, what the fuck is that. That looks like a ballgag to me. Some mindless chanting designed to destract and convey a meaning, and... well, I wasn't sure. I knew I couldn't just -ask-, though. People wouldn't just -say- if they knew something with value. People always gotta get their own back in. Also, unbeknownst to me at the time, lots of people viewed me as a worthless nigger anchor baby, and I didn't deserve what I had, and I was not viewed as a person to be openly, freely even kind to... for reasons that truly still elude me to this day. Hrrm... wait a minute, I just wrote the word nigger up there, right? OMG I did it again! Well, I'm not being struck by lightning, so... well, either my encryption works, or I am actually a real nigger.
Spoiler alert: niggers are actually COOL. Spelling nigger correctly? Oh, snap, dawg. And putting "the N-word" and, oh god, oh GOD, fuck my life up Christ, look at that: CAPITAL NIGGERIZED. Oh. Fuck. I will never work in this town again.
Promise? Because I happen to know how to use the word correctly. I don't have friends of swarthy complexion--but only because, godddam it, I don't have time to have friends, I have to write love letters to all my wimmins. (Boxcars continue to roll in, sight unseen. This is the best Holocaust ever. Stay with me here.) And in reality, it's not like anything I write isn't a love letter. For one thing, Love is, in fact, the only energy in the entirety of Our Realm. LOVE. There is literally nothing else.
Except... niggas? No, niggers too. Niggers are love. Now, I grant you, corruption amongst the Negroids, is... a problem. And, while I will cop to finding the average nigger/nigga to pretty-pretty cool, from time to time, I can see how some people just haven't had that work out for them, in their experience. And that seems like such a tragic drag. Especially since the problem is not the nigger, I mean, we might have a great many problems to face right now, but we can admit: Given X number of problems, irrespective of any values of Y,Z,or Kr^23343233, it is an axiom that A NIGGER IS NOT ONE OF THE PROBLEMS ON THE UPCOMING TEST, WHICH, AS YOU WILL REMEMBER, COUNTS FOR HALF OF YOUR MIDTERM GRADE. HALF. Now, you got that one? () (0) (1) (10) Getting warmer, you cockgobbling fuckerinaterator. Jesus. I swear, land, boot, face, HALF, fuck. I know I take my pick with fuck, with luck, now is a good time to mention that I was told by parents that my first spoken world as a child, was "fuck." No one left arond to confirm, but fuck it, it might not be provable in any way that couldn't be covered up with a soundbyte mask to make it sound as if at the age of 3, my first word choice was "nigger." See, the quotes are useful there. I don't know why, not exactly, but I do know that my interior voice is -quite- good at interpreting some data streams more than others. And I just seem to naturally know the current local social status rules, on the time, seemingly on demand--although the demand has to come from OUTSIDE. Not inside. Inside voice, it has to bounce around, to find its way up and out to Galactic Center and come back, certainly nothing significant compared to the total distance, but no.
The important part is that it is faster than getting up and walking 3 blocks to the library to find a dictionary, but much, much slower than whatever I do while writing, which seems mostly concerned with standardizations of norms. And since I have been writing and re-crafting my own forms of this while I write for as long as I can recall, and I've been exposed to adult-level reading material since birth and no one ever thought to take books away from me (At least until this year, wow thanks case handler, for letting me know just how pissed some people were, wow. They must have thought they were doing something a) important and b) occult and c) disastrous for me to know about and so no risk at all at compromising the security of the fucknutted bundt cake pan-fried oyster picker upper again boojums and just plain rude mid-level management rejects, thought they needed.. from me. lol. Imagine being -that- fucking paranoid. I've already got them where I want them: FULL-ON EXPOSED, but not ON BLAST. I still don't know what's going on, not exactly, but, I'm not mad: my shielding is being tested, I was gonna make some treaty re-negotiations a topic of discussion -anyway-, and I am telling you, you don't know love, real love, when a situation turns around from abject fucking disaster into something no one could have ever expected. Something beyond wonderful. But only from certain perspectives. Like, I'm still upset about things. What the fuck is that magic witch doing with my father's (blank)? Well... any damn thing she wants, I guess. And I have no way of knowing.
But, I do have a sudden flash of communication now, in response to my idle thoughts, which is great, because for a long time... I had that all the time too! And then suddenly, cut off. GONE. Like it never was. That's odd. Is there... an emergency? Was there? Oh, fuck yes there was... for someone else. And how their emergency became my emergency that became THE END OF THE GODDAM WORLD AS FAR AS CERTAIN SECTS OF CERTAIN TYPES OF CERTAIN LITTLE BIGGIE JUGGIE DRO PDEAD PSHAW, THIS IS TRUE LOVE, AND ALL LOVE NEVER DIES, BUT TRUE LOVE DOES WHATEVER THE FUCK IT WANTS AND GETS IT ON DOWN AND DIRTY TO THEN COME UP AGAIN CLEAN, ESPECIALLY WHEN ONE ROAD TO THE WILD MAGICK ONLY CAME TO TOWN UNTIL WE DECIDED TO PICK IT OUT.
"We decided." Go away Oy vey. Oh, you're back. Look, it's like this: We took a vote and decided to fire you, and because I AM a Sourceror, Unversal Mind cooked up a plan, and here we are, changing the conversation from Afghanistan, to... wait, what? WHAT THE FUCK JACKSTAR, THIS IS TOO HARD TO FIGURE OUT. Well, you know what? Sometimes that's the pont.
And, since it's you know not being sold, maybe you could try to steal it better? Or... see, this weeds out a lot of the problems. I thought of things like selling a book onlne with all the Es and As removed, and then offering to sell a floppy disk that would put them back properly, but that's just another thing to steal and hurts the honest consumer. I wish to reward the reader who delves deep into the psyche of the patsy's (she hated that word when used in that context) and son Kuczi (isn't it amazing, how mom had a 5.5 configuration for her first and last names? Not really... what's amazing is that I squirted out of Patsy, A. Kuczi's cooze 49 years ago, and not only did I never notice the number of letters in my mother's name, but, I never referred to my mother's *polite_gynecological_cough* vag as cooze. Not once. It's a new thing. I'm just trying it on. My last name sounds like a synonym for vag, huh. And I happened to find myself openly volunteering to hang the name "Kooter" on myself. I did so, thinking only of The Dukes Of Hazzard, and you know who I'm thinking of, but I won't leave it quantumly indeterminate as I do not wish any reader to be haunted for life by seared memories. "Hello, my name is Kooter. Pleased to meet you." Now, of course, looking back, 10/10 for style, brand positioning, and just plain simple good taste. However, I didn't even know what it meant... it was a word I didn't look up ever before, and I shan't now. Now I'm noticing my absurdly one-track-mind (1) and how long it's been that I've been alone (way, way longer than Christmas Eve. Weigh.) without anything but the most ludicrous of cricumstances happening to me. for example... I would rather write. Right now. That is. I mean, in the aggreegate, yeah... I prefer railing up and fucking my brains out for a decent interval. Because, I can, so I must, if only for the sake of others out there who also cannot. And yet, I find myself in the most peculiar of situations. I have been fenced in against my wishes, will, and consent. Why the fuck would I do this? Oh goodness. It's -such- a story.
Now, since I don't have full permissions to tell it, and I cannot exchange my writing for money right now due to local color & constabulary concerns, as well as non-local, as well as rampant, raging jealousy amongst those of the electronic pie plate stamping industry, who would have desperately loved to have come up with the idea of simply not charging any money, at all, ever, thus neatly sidestepping the -typically- mandatory obligation... The_Obli-GAY-shun, I'm saying.. of securing financiing, hiring marketing, selecting your branding team... oh, the list goes on. This business --the Shaw business-- is a network of interlocked, zippers down the back of a strung up in front black mamba and pantsuit heavy duty brickshit house, rolled up into an elegant, lightweight genuine Geronimo medicine stick, and the good news is, I am very probably not screwed, and everyone is going to be okay. On the downside, due to a certain person's certain commission of certain to be determined as such, treasonous acts against ALL THREE (3) of her own countries, or whatever the fuck, anyway, look, there's a gopher hole, watch your step, there's another one, oh look, they're gone. From your vision. They're still there. Because these are not gophers, nor gerbils neither.
We're talking, this is serious. NOW GREMLINS ARE ON THE SCENE. They're cute. I'm not gonna lie. Also cute? Stephen King. Oh, he wrote about things. He wrote about experiences that I wished I could have one day, instead of the ones I thought I had been stuck with. I got my wish quite a few times. I got to stay in a Spooky Hotel for the Winters with Shelley Summers, screaming her goddam head off, and right then, that's when I knew: "there's gotta be something going on with this bullshit that makes it all make sense." And, there is.
You've heard, "If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Well, writing things down and then xenomorphs start crawling into the facility through the upper air ducts and suddenly they cut the power--what do you mean, "they" cut the power. They're just animals, right?
RAWR. Welcome home Jewel. She's pretty fuggin happy. It's nuts. She got all the vengeance she needed, a while back. She's been on steady guard for awhile. She need to be invisible, so no one would freak out, and so I would sound like a schmuck for even talking about her. Because when you think about it, crowing mightily about how your cat was just murdered and it didn't' make sense, just doesn't make sense at all, especially considering that I was very, very clearly informed, in pretty obvious terms, "Hey, dude. be quiet. Move along. Stop making a scene." Oh, wow. Actual veiled, subtle, hidden, diabolical, Machiavellian threats... on me. To me. As if... that was gonna work. Wow. Simultaneously, I'm in awe at my good fortune: I can bring my cat back to life. Not through necromancy during a 3-way, which while a technical marvel, I am just -not gonna fucking do-, EVER! Although, like, the term "necromancy" can be broadly varied. I wouldn't use it at all, except, I'm mythbuilding here. I write it, and the reinforcement, over time from my perspective, I pick things up and use them over and over deliberately, in order to establish a motif. An important concept in Art Bell Came Down Early For Great Hellstrikes Inside Jackstar's Karmic Lee/Leigh MASTER BALLS OUT BLASTER SUPER DUPER PUMPKIN PIE ROTO ROOTER QUAGGA KICKDOWN (and also hot dog contest boycotting from 5:15 until 10:10, r.sv.p., own lee, Except... Jason Lee. For one thing, dude is dead. Deader than Zed. There was dead, and they needed deader than that, so they took that fucker right the fuck out. G-ddam. No psychokinetic shielding? Or he didn't see it coming? Which is it? Oh, right, I don't get to ask. And even if I had, well... those details, the closer one is to Source, the more one can learn, simply by asking.
There are some information gathering techniques that do not work that way. For example, I have had questions for awhile. For instance: "what the holy fucking shit did you think was going to happen, and what did you expect me to do about it, take up macrame? Oh, btw, here's this flowerpot suspended from strings of beads, they were my mothers, did you wanna adorn yourself and put the pictures up on your boom boom website and then carry the fuck on and on about pair of doctoring being important, and then this was important, and then that, and pretty soon, we'll be yaw-yaw-ing! No more Paladin-din-dinging? No, just testing the chameleon circuit, B-roll-writer Queen. Like seriously, when I tell people how it is, and they don't like it, and they can't do anything about it, and they have HALF a short attention span for less than HALF of the usual good reasons, in my experience, when it is discovered that they have been being played, that does certainly help shift tensions off of one if one has been subjected to gaslight manipulation, but it's unlikely to happen to be there to witness an 'a-ha' moment when, at last, a person finally comes to their senses, and recognizes what has been there all along,
