Azzeræ,
It would be difficult indeed for me to overstate my satisfaction as in regards to how recent events have unfolded, so I'm gonna give it my best effort: I have arranged all this, just to have moments alone with your children, your family, your empire, and you. I still don't know if it had been real. You sounded like you were on heavy, medal-worthy doses of anti-depressants. I was reminded of when Haggman’s son was... let us say: “removed from the gameboard.” I don't know the man, and likely never will — I think merely showing up at his livestreams will trigger a clearance review — but I felt saddened by his loss, most respectfully and most especially his loss of feeling Shielded. (He didn't have my psychokinetic shielding and wouldn't have trusted any prototype and he couldn't have kept it secure and... HAG-man? Ok, Boomer.) I won't explain what I know here except to say, I know how it feels to inexplicably lose a Divine partner.
I think it was three days after, that he chose to get on some SSRI script. The shock in him was vivid, and at first he was adamant with the “omg drugs, such a menace” party line, but the bottom line was that he was rendered unable to function by the grief. And so: a doctor's orders were followed. The difference was immediately discernable. I think it was the wisest thing to do at that point, truly.
He still does his show; alone. Why, I do not know. I wasn't all that into him, but I wondered what was going to happen when they dug up enough truth. “Remember Building 7.” Yeah, I remember that, THAT'S A GOOD ONE.
I remember there were three children. I saw them on Facebook. I don't remember their names. I never met them. This was, make no mistake: entirely by design. I found the whole charade distasteful in ways I could never articulate, but need not ever, because whatever the truth, it was not
for me.
I still have not felt any reason to use intravenous heroin a third time. It's been a couple dozen years; I'm calling the inoculation procedure a success. I'm also calling it a mandatory self-selected initiatory experience, because during the CoV-🆔 apocalypse, I was surprise-dosed with an oral designer drug preparation, meant to enslave me, forced into my mouth without warning and after I had specifically indicated, “no opioids, please!”
Lodge orders is Lodge orders. I detected a note of real regret, but upon reflection, I think the right decision was made. There was no point in risking an argument with the new bishop in town, as it was gonna happen one way, or my mother.
I had a nice time, don't remember the last half, and continue to be free of any signs of chemical dependency. I didn't yearn for any opiate refresher. I do not appear susceptible to the siren song of the opium poppy. I don't think I moonlight as a fentanyl zombie.
And if I appear to be in alignment with the interests of The Hashishim, it is out of due respect and not an unshakeable bio-hypnotic chemical payload package, served in a dirty ashtray with a side syringe of sale/lad. I dig them. I think assassins’ guilds are cool. The Hashishim are, or were, very cool.
And whatever Jack Parsons did in 1955 has taken them down to the flat baseline ground. To whatever extent necessary, they're getting routed out of all power corridors on Earth. I of course do not know much about such things. I do know that they never sent a hitter at me the wrong way, and there's never been as need to discover how a paladin on Mission for God would be struck.
They would only to have had to ask me nicely; and I would have been happy to oblige. They wouldn't wish to risk any possible splash damage, and if I really needed to come back right after, obviously it would be helpful to get my new phone number right away.
That being said, I am not a large component in the awareness of a 60,000 year-old death cult, and at best, their membership considered me a joke at most, or an abomination at worst. They didn't even think I needed a taste of Afghani weed more than once. Pfft. I suppose I didn't need it, sure.
The world didn't need them, either. Buh-bye, Slopey McSlicypants School. Y'all are fuckin’ done.
Azzeræ: you and I remain. And with no conflict, I see the potential before us as a welcome one. At worst, you know I will gladly travel to the extra-planar realm in which your dead children inhabit to ask them to become my Sourcerous Catamite Triad, and whether I would or not, you know that I wouldn't bother to lie about such things. For though I can tell lies... it enhances the potency of my speech if I choose not to defile myself with deliberately false words.
Bummer about your bratlings, brah; believe it, both too busy and too classy to even think up such a thing, me. Obviously, if true, a terrible tragedy — worse than three (3) Silkwoods for sure, but maybe not as awful as a Triple Buddy Holly choking out on the Big Bopper’s third nipple — and since I have no way of knowing, nor wish to dwell on it, nor go on a quest to find the Gate to a reunion gala, I'm just going to make this abhhorently tasteless “joke” as a punctuation to my #Official statement: I had nothing to do with that, I do not approve, I will not raise them from the dead, and, in my view, the consequence did seem a little harsh. I'm not really clear on what all you and your mewling coterie of lickspittle toadies and flunkies actually DID do.
Besides, that is, lie to me. Lie to me a lot. A lot a lot. Still—no hard feelings. I know how things like that can seem like the most appropriate course of action to those who haven't taken a Vow of Honesty before, or simply found deception to be the more convenient way forward in an awkward social setting. Lord knows I did more than once.
A long time ago. And I have no reason to ever start again, as it is easy for me to say, I don't believe you and I have any conflict between us. Certainly, our
information may be crossed up, but let me assure you, I am greatly looking forward to the times when I can explain to you that which you most assuredly do not already know.
By the query; by the minute; or by the volume, as you prefer. I'm thinking a global pay-per-ewe-view, CDNetwork launching event, like with UPN, except we can openly fap to Kate Mulgrew. How about a telethon? I bet that granny would love a Magick In Blackcasting telethon. Imagine: CGI of a double-balcony of dames manning the phones, and they're all Kate Mulgrew. Top row, eight (
Mrs. Colombo-bozos. Bottom row, nine (9) Janeways to shine.
You know how to deepfake someone other than me, right? Pro tip: first you get the permission. Then I get the money, and then you get the power.
I honestly would never imagine anyone else but you as my №1 GΩμ for this, mostly because your family is dead and a misanthropic dopehound like you will surely have nothing better to do than to coordinate the machinery of my publicity while using it as cover for... whatever it is that you do these days. IDGAF. Just get this goddam show on the road so we can start making some real goddam money without shitting all over what you've already been doing while I've been exonerated at trial.
I am legendary. You are convenient. We are close enough without being the same that no one will want to remember that other twerp. Ugh. Just ugh.
Alternately: I hack the MK protocol at a time of my choosing
with my dick and Gwen goes blender on jedimiller,
for real. How this hasn't happened already can only be attributable to heavy doses of tranquilizers and my complete lack of interest in challenging Square authority for access to that turf. After all, brutal mindwash and forcible orifice penetration is my brand, baby!
Oh. Wait. It is not. (Sounds like literally too much work.) What was I thinking? I must have been hallucinating from all the A.I.D.S. and OTC Immodium™. I don't think I was triggered by anything, hopefully. Can someone dial 911? They're probably getting ready for another involuntary commitment.
Lodge orders is Lodge orders and these are just jokes. HA! I can see all this in a word balloon.
Think it over. I haven't retained counsel, filed many police reports, or need to reveal any hidden backstory that doesn't pay off in cold, hard cash. (Better flexibility for j∞.) The world is your oyster.
Its pearl is cast before ye, as the world turns along. Now, pretty please, with sugar on top: find some new gags. Jedimiller being verbally abusive to Jersey Chav is as tepid as Ralph sending Alice to the moon and twice as actionable.
Capiçhe? 
