I can train them.
I have the technology.
I am reasonably certain that it's a
dybbuk. A real nasty one, too. For my next trick, which in a stunning return to form will not be a thing a whore does for money, I'm gonna sit around and get high while this thing takes its Self to the proper dimension. It's not really a malicious creature, Hell-bent on wanton destruction and senseless, rapacious murder.
It's simply a dead person, trapped in some sperged-off Hell dimension, completely unable to find its desired target —
ç‘est moi — and having been separated from its rightful counterpart — again,
ç‘est moi — the obvious conclusion for an insane dead person to draw from the ever-present and, so far, neverending sight of lil’ Michael Kuczi, sitting on his ass, doing nothing but: smoking cigs, drinking beers, huffing paint, & screaming about his missing weed.
Enchanted weed, no less. Oh yeah, and: masturbating. NGL: I found very little over the last five years that told me I could fap to this.
Nevertheless, I somehow found the strength to knuckle down for crunch time and soldier through. I am a Man, goddam it. My life has value. My life has meaning. My life is mine own. My Residence, on the other hand... owned by a psycho sociopathic voyeur with a really
niche rape fetish. I can't even describe it, it's so
niche. So, so
niche. (Also: disgusting, depraved, degenerate, diabolical, and dollars dropping down deadass.) None of this appeal to me on anything close to an arousal trigger. So when I saw that I was living in a fishbowl and I knew that there wasn't even any need to plant cameras (because nanotech reasons), I assumed I wouldn't be staying here long or having much sex here. Okay, obvious five-oh-oh-oh batting average is obvious there.
I remember this one fellow, he says to me: “I know you must be angry at her, so let's get some girls in here.” I was stunned. This person also blew me away by moving my food from the couch, where I had placed it deliberately, to the kitchen, which was what turned out to be heavily dusted with a territory denying mil.spec.biowarfare spore weapon.
I collect spores, molds, and fungus.”
Because reasons. Having little more knowledge than the fact that such weapons existed, I assumed that I might one day encounter one. I did not know that the presentation would consist of nine (9) distinctly different blotches of decay in my home that I found when I came back after four (4) months at the motel, the St. Helen’s Motel, three (3) and a (
“Half!”) ½ miles away. I walked in with no real expectation of what I would find, as I found myself full-the-fuck-on-blast ostracized by absolutely everyone, and/or all my communications jammed. So much the better to keep from disturbing whomever it was who had no need to tell me that they were scuttling the house (it's actually a ship) which was appropriate as the protocol for any military installation about to fall into the hands of “the enemy” calls for the obvious-in-hindsight denial of any use of military technology to someone who may or may not have caused The Gorgon to manifest (I so did, 🪄, though with no malice aforethought, 💕, and then I ensured that we all survived with our eyesight intact ,💪), who then proceeded to embarrass everyone by doing the whole shebang on record. Audio &AND video. It was like a couple hours. It was not meant to be survived. As in, the design documents clearly state: “the MK∆>k†¡ve will absolutely kill every motherfucker in the room and then stab herself in the temple with the blade of an open pair of scissors after clawing and gouging their own eyes out.”
The meaning of “eyes wide shut,” in case that hasn't dawned on any of you yet. That shit happens. It's baked into the product. And while I had no intention to start a fight or to trigger a C-PTSD crisis event, I still don't know if someone did, or if it happened inadvertently as a result of my choices I made. I can't really be sure, unless I get some answers from people who haven't been eager to even acknowledge that I ever existed. People who I didn't want to put on a witness stand. People I didn't want to shell out the expense for a legal team to take depositions. (The price on those can add up fast.) People who I thought, at first, would simply hang up the phone after hearing I was in jail for Christmas, because I thought it would be an easy thing for everyone to agree on: save the cheerleader’s eyeballs, save the world. I did that. Me. I came home, I wanted a hug. I had no interest in fighting. I had no interest in continuing the charade by the time I realized that, holy shit, this guy can't possibly think I am going to pick up a zip of TheRealThing™ under the circumstances we were finding ourselves in... could he?
Once again: a great question for a deposition that ain't never gonna happen, nor will there ever be a need for a trial. (The Divine shall not be mocked.) By now, everyone with a need to know, knows. I do not have any need to know. And technically, no one can really take my word on this kind of thing, because I could be just lying about my lack of malicious intent. People do that. People lie. I wasn't then, and I'm not lying now, but the military does not go to war on the basis of trust. “Seems legit. We believe the Sourcerœr.” Shit no, honky white man don't believe Jackstar for so much as a hockey period.
This distrust continues to this day. But then, it was months after the incident, and I'm saying to the guy, “i can't use my kitchen, it's been dusted with a toxic black mold biowarfare weaponized disease vector.” I could see the shit, ok? Additionally, the kitchen was basically untouched from when I saw it last. The debris from the melee had been picked up within four days. I noticed that it must have been with help while I was there doing the civil standby. During which, I saw the kitchen counters fully covered with pots and pans and with nary a clear counter surface spot within sight. And all of this equipment: covered in spores. Spores designed through deliberate bioengineering to become a severe and more complex problem once someone started rustling up and disturbing the nearly in my invisible spores. This would happen... just by “tidying up.”
You know? “Tidy up.” I touched not one item in the kitchen, which was at one end of the house, the rest of it at the other, and while I had never seen such weapons before and was not sure at first, I still wasn't going to use that kitchen. It was a catastrophe that I did not ask for, and it was also a crime scene. Disturbing everything as little as possible was, is, and will always be my goal. I figured that distribution of the spores into the air would be inevitable and that burning down the house was my best hope. No need to do dishes then. (So, so lazy.) So I stored my food on the couch, away from the usual food storage and preparation area. It was all potato chips, F®itos®™, and craft cider, you dig? I was going to sit on the couch anyway.
However, the guy who wanted to use the house for a blood orgy, and thought that I was “angry” wanted to use the couch for, like sex. I imagine he was thinking of draping the house like a David Lynch set and taking multiple hours of footage, and since I had told him that I had no reason to be angry and that THE KITCHEN AND THE WHOLE HOUSE IS A DEATHTRAP, I calmly began to plan on being a target of a S.W.A.T. Because everyone did everything perfect. She couldn't have done it any better.
She couldn't tell me the truth, oh Lawdy no. But nevertheless, she did the best she could with what she believed to be available, and when the man who wanted to “get some girls” also wanted to carry my food from the couch into the kitchen — where the black mold was, right? Yeah, he grabs my food — MY FOOD — and actually walks it towards the place where... pots and pans had lain undisturbed since BEFORE the ambush. Which I guess it was.
I didn't know and still don't, who sought to make the women go into crisis, but it was no accident. It was no intention of mine to obliterate her central nervous system. And the mechanical way she walked to the refrigerator, and threw down glass sheet pans, and pulled a knife, et cetera, told me that someone who hated us was involved, and absolutely I figured that I was wanted dead. But,
Grapefleet was not. Both before and after.
Because she puts out, and I know what a
dybbuk is. I wasn't sure until now. I still aren't. I'm lying. The creation of a
dybbuk was either an accident or a thingμ someone
actually paid for. (You like me! You like me! You really like me!) Either way, Bellgab, it's your lucky fucking day!
Because wrangling a
dybbuk is my area. (Facts.) Check out the video linked above. It is more pertinent than usual.
Jason Vorhees is a
dybbuk, btw. From
Friday The 13th. A film series that is a favorite of someone I know, whose crew used to consist of the woman who tried to sell me fentanyl the day before yesterday, the girl who gave me a ride home yesterday after calling to me mistakenly, allegedly, and the woman who gave me a cat whose bones have been taken from this tomb, who was raised as a kitten by the woman I saw at the Red Lion Inn, which had an explosion in the kitchen, what is it with the kitchens around here, huh? Weird.
Since I do not wish to escalate matters, here's the deal: I'm going to handle the
dybbuk, and you're going to give me shitloads of money. Or else, I can just put it right back to work. (I could have just not told you any of this, Bellgab. Fair warning.) Think it over. It'll take a little while. Probably not until February 2027, but one never knows.
§🆔¡-iê is
so nice! (Actual.) Don't smoke me a kipper. (Hackneyed.) I won't be back for breakfast. (Busy at lunch as well.) In fact, I might not even be back at all! (Tahoe or bust. Maybe. Stretch goal.) How do you like them apples? (You don't. I won't. We can all change our minds, yet we are not quite the same.) Have you ever tried liking them ON WEED/CRYSTAL METHAMPHETAMINE/CRACK/ICE/HEROIN/LYSERGIC ACID DIETHYLAMIDE–25/DIMETHYLTRYPTAMINE/PHENICYCLIDINE/KETAMINE/FLAKKA/LEAN/QUAALUDES/ROHYPNOL/SALVIA/
DATURA/PSCYLOCYBIN/COCAINE/SCOPOLAMINE/BATH SALTS/BUPONEPHRINE/SOMA/MORPHINE/ADRAFINIL/BENADRYL/DRAMAMINE/NYQUIL/NYTOL/
ROBOTUSSIN/GAMMA HYDRONIC BUOXETINE??? Yeah, me neither. (I enchanted that ounce of WEED because REASONS, MOTHERFUC— *click*) Let's change cameras.
Into
trash. (I'm shy.) Namastμ
