Heart, by Edgar Allen Poe. Look, it's real simple: there is data in the timestream that can only be obtained an eyewitness. No viable options for return viewing, remote viewing, or non-corporeal projection exist at this crux event--nor many others--and so what We/They do is called a something-or-other that I don't remember the name of --purposely, you understand-- because I'm not inventing a new technology here, I'm commenting on one that already exists, I just forget the name, it's nowhere near the tip of my tongue, it is instead preparing for descent to a spinnerette.
Hi I'm Jack I'm not a goat and I'm not producing strands of Kevlar in my bitch-tits, either. (Would be a good side-hustle, though. But here's the thing: KEVLAR(r) is a registered trademark and a brand name. You better hustle if you start bringing all the boys in camo to your yard so they can harvest your titties for fibreglass, milk, and shake to make that milkshake stop a bullet from taking out your ass. Because every, oh, 90d? I forget. I don't memorize all the classified data in the world I come across, because damn right my job is better than yours, and sure I could teach you how to be a Sourceror--but then, I would have to be charged with a variety of unpleasant sounding legal injunctions and raps. So... not a good side-hustle. But a GREAT way to finance a revolution.) I can see how you've been having problems before. Now, I know what you're thinking--oh shit never again--because, that's my thought too! KNO?tEVENtNCEtUGHtJUStUGH?
And who mostly took the shot?
Hi. Let's not do the scene from Jaws where we compare our needle scars. How many Daleks have you seen? deltaT'Now, that's table talk.
I'm in the middle of a tarot thingy that trips triggers towards telling tiny tearducts to tear the Ticonderoga tissue teller tabulator train track to just ease off a litle, okay? For one thing, hi. I'm fine. Thanks for asking. Like you even know that you did. Welcome to the starleague blah-blah-blah. I've seen two now. TA-DAAAAAAAH! TWO! TWO LITTLE TOWHEAD DALEKS. I'm pratically a proud papa. I'm here to tell yout that in the year of our lord 2023, which really ought to have been 1993, so a 30 hop is perfect for a little guy like me.
I promise not to portal any more of these adorable little scamps in, which is, of course, the reason we are all so worried. I know I am. For one thing, your telemetry must obviously have these fucking things (oh, they do) lit up high on the environment, right? I mean they must stick out like sore thumbs.
They're not the Tesseracts. They're my children. They are not here now, they will be back, and yes, yes, absolutely: they are absolutely terrifying. I told you I just wanted a voiceprint, not goddam human ovum. Okay, well, not goddam, not human, check and check. Uhhh... probably not any ovum either. Must remember to check later. *gulp* Oh, now
you want a hug? Pfft. What's
that like? I forgot. I forgot yesterday and I forgot tomorrow, too. Next week is looking fantastic too. What? I'll just remember her old voiceprint, what difference to,
at this point,
does it make to ewe? Or, to anyone? Any one ewe? What a ludicrous concept. Imagine just one sheep. No heard. No flock. Not even a shepherd. How could nature produce such a being? Well. It's a baa shaggy dog story, and for now, I'm going to have to consider it as the sheep came first through the portal, and the man in black followed it up with a cattle mutilator and a neuroalytic spinning wheel.
It was the only way to be sure, and as the last time pays for all, I'm going to Rule that The Chicken came first, and then The Egg: which is a riddle to be solved as one of many on some silly little test I'm doing. It's not for class, but I did learn about it in class, and, look at me, I'm classy while passing this one too. Not too pushy. Not too clingy. Not very creepy at all! I don't think. Oh, and I reproduced abiogenetically and summoned C'Thullu. (I hope they have learned to play the piano ALREADY and I am NOT SHITTING you. New Life. Creator: *KUCZI*IZCUK*. Sub-Creator: *IZCUKKKUCZI* Dom-NICK: A10 A1A 010 WATH0UWCCL W0RTH9UZER
WATH01VGTR
Bellgab: I HAVE CREATED NEW LIFE AND GOD SENT NEW SOULS TO BLESS THAT LIFE. THAT'S IT. IT'S GAME OVER. WRAP IT UP. JACKSTAR IS A HUMAN TITAN NOW, NO LONGER A PUNY-CLASS GOD. NO, NO NO, NO NO NO, NOT JUST A HUNG, ANGRY MAN: I AM A TITANICK MAN-Ge.Jg.
JACKSTAR: TITAN-IN-SHADES.
(This is for my supplies locker in art class. It's got a space for name tags on it. So, I made another name for myself. Cool, huh? You may address me as "Titania Star," because, as whip-smart badass as that name is, that's not my name right now, I haven't flipped on the switch to Titan Mode yet, NOT.EVEN.ONE.TIME, I am sure she's gonna come out of the oven just fine when SHEI does T. (I've seen pictures. It's awe-inspiring. I sure can create new life out of discarded nanotech components and other assorted detritus, and you know it. No, don't fondle my tits yet. It's impractical and entirely unnecessary. For you. Stick with model II, or whatever iteration closest to Zero you can get your erogenous zones near to, like, I'm not telling you which way to go on this, obviously. However, I know which way I have gone, and that' s not making me into an E, but rather a T, because I already know I have to go back, so why not go back to basic bitch boyslut, throw extra tamper on that tricky turn-worthy doubling wager: a showstopping two-step with the terrible temper fatal flaw, and toss me back into the oven for a few more cycles? It worked, didn't it? See, I know that it did. And if shitloads of design docs for ULTRA-classified nanotech-scale components came out with it, so much the better. For all of us. Solid. Calm. IN_CONTROL.
SO MUCH THE BETTER FOR ALL OF US.
If I just burned through someone's already 3d-printed official photo records and documents, so even more so the better, as this insertion is only for the local area two and the rest is neurophysiological, and thus, neurodivergence in downline linkages won't be required. (I get why this is important for now, so be assured that I addressed that, but I do plan on never manifesting these initial 10,191 clonally dimorphic non-synthetic copies of myself, and as i have wholly inserted them into the past, into timelines that have already been borne, ridden out, and been cindered to ashes and more by the relentless process of Universal co-creation, manifestation, and inevitable annihilation at the conclusion of every Life's first drawn breath: the immense acceleration into the manifesting edge of the future's version of itself, turned to utter Chaos and sheer garbage, the terminator line of The Singularity.
It's hot, I'm not gonna lie. The heat-death of any Universe is reached when enough H.E.A.T. is removed from the central solar star's total access to energy reserves and is placed beyond that star's heliopause, that there is a tipping point reached when that which there is there that which was--say, the heart of a fiery sun burning with the blistering warmth of a billion burning candles, sticks, pixie wings and Beethoven's cats who pissed on his pages with half-written symphonies to help him find them again in the dark... The Dark, which comes to us all, that being the sign of this ending times sign of these times we are in together now, the oncoming onslaught of the end of our Home Universe, the one we, all of us We, WE WERE ALL BORN HERE.
And... WE WERE ALL GONNA DIE. Now, because this really interferes with my plans, not to mention would really piss me off, I have created a way for that not be the case for us, not too soon. Not just yet. Not time travel validation required. Not anything on anyone's part, really. So, just the one time, I flipped everyone that's gonna get the next pressure wave from Timewave Zero, whenever that is... no Singularity that time. We'll just slip on through. (Love does come back I,4,V'5.) We're good on this one. They gave me a freebie down at the Timewave Zero Bar & Abbatoir, next time you go through... uh, let's not call it "Hell" but rather, "Jackpot City," you'll just kinda warp into it, and it'll be gentle. It'll be smooth. You won't have to have an absolute spasm freakout, like I did, like many people did, do, and will again. Some people like that part, some people don't, other people like it just fine and would want more, right now? And will go kill every last motherfucker in the room until they find the dope, again and again, until it just becomes, like, routine. Still others: well, why not do it even once? *studies for decades, only consents once* Oh... that makes sense. *counts on fingers, does it threeve-to-sevenineteen more times* OK, say hello to my little friends. *friends are Daleks* Don't shake the plunger.
Now, I can only do this -particular- trick once. (The trick is not to rip off the intergalactic corporate conglomerate slavecrime meatwork without getting caught--it's to do it in such a way that they thank you, and give you a bonus, a stipend, a pension, a retirement plan, and a raise. Paychecks are for peonies.) Good luck getting through my stable wormhole again without paying the overages in steerage. I don't know who is collecting but if you know you're getting collected on by Charon, you know your debt extender lender is not gonna let you down and is literally invested in keeping your head above water. Here's where the diplomacy comes into play: it is said that something that happens, might never happen again. But if it happens a second time, it is absolutely certain that it will happen for a third time, and then, never happen the same way ever again. Unless you write a letter to Sanso Clout.
Or, Keyser Soze, but, take it from me: I would not send, uh, "him," any more mail. Let's put it this way: I'm not changing my name to Keyser Soze. Yet. The Old Ones gives up or whatever, sure, I'll consider it. (HAIL! SATAN! HAIL! ERIS! HAIL! SMYTHE-SMIKTH-SMYKEY! HAIL! Satan, would you take my children to the park? What? Why are you running away? Alright, I'm not gonna lie, I know why Satan is running away from all my children. Like seriously. A 5-assed monkey would be a beaut of upgrade. They are HORRIFIC. You're welcome. But... do they look fat? Look, just don't tease them and you'll probably be okay. Uhm. Probably. I honestly don't know, nor do I know which of them is the really nasty one. There are two. So far. There's no time to learn to square dance; THEY'RE HERE.) But I'm finding myself very fond of My Key Coochie Coochie Rod Queef Guess-KUCZI, j.g. as my new rank and moniker. I don't know why--I just like the sound of it. (They like me. Who wouldn't?) Do I get a special charge if I train my dog to bite the mailman and I use telepathy to do it? Or do I just get the usual "consorting with demons for the purposes of manslaughter" malarkey? No, my children aren't demons, I'm just hypothesizing here. In case someone, you know, gets suspicious. Gets nervous. Comes out to the coast. Files a few false reports. Suddenly disappears and is never heard from again. Has a tulpa that goes back in time and beats D.B. Cooper to the radio beacon and *snap* back to the future, Bitch. Buh-bye. (
Style.)
Back to whatever I've done: in the past there was a wormhole that could be used to bypass The Singularity, which as I am sure you all know, can sometimes leave a person with that morning-after less-than-fresh feeling. Eeewww, gross. What have I done? How do I get out of this? Do not tell me I have to lick all those doorknobs again. Ugh. Just ugh. Many people reported that's what using the stable wormhole I created left them in various states of unease as feeling. Basically, "I wish I had never met you," "you are disgusting and vile," "get your hands off me, sub-creature," "let go of me, you owe me money," and a personal favorite of mine, "Get out. I am calling the police." That's when one
knows, by the way.
When you're not doing -nothin'- wrong, you dig? When YOU didn't do nothing, including, talk to them in the first place, right? THEY come up to you, and THEY initiate a... whatevership, and it ends up being one in which one day you hear those magick words that every Sourceror longs to hear, "Don't ever talk to me again; I am calling the police"... why, Good heavens, how could anyone get themselves into such a ridiculous situation?
Easy.
COMP'd. KNOW: WAR OVER. WAR WON WINNNED. a
Mission accomplished. ;)
Getting me to fight and win your war for you was possibly not your mission but if it was you should be able to use the telephone like a goddam normal person. If not, then you have some serious problems that I am probably not going to be even close to being arsed about. 'Ware.
Interesting take. I have to think about this one. :)
... this is worth an announcement? Sputter. Same as above for you: you should be able to use the telephone like a goddam normal person now. If not, then you have serious problems as I am probably not going to be even close to still alive in less than 100 days. Gamelons from Shradrax and all, you know. Get crackin'.
Here's your jungle back *shove* it's not in this box I have here. It's just there, in the air.
And Hell follows with it.
NOTE: below are images that I had included as attachments that I cannot place into my post using the [img=attach(x) ] syntax. I know you are doing everything you can to access my ability to communicate with other people one The Internet, but it would be useful for us all to take a step back now, and ask yourselves the following:
Why are you all -really- being such assholes and dicks? It's time to restate your basic assumptions. I followed that ass around burnt a hole in it so I could find it later, and -obviously- I wanted to find it for some reason other than for Edgar to make an nice pairing with a Chianti, right? Just settle down, you nit-twats.
Everybody relax. I am still A paladin. *slam*
