assassin battle

ninja fight

Havarculous, god of cheese

a walther and martini

Dhampir

a maker

obligatory Trek clip 1

" " 2

"there exists a bond between cyborg and man"

lullaby

Delta v.

conserving reaction mass, Engine 5 hit 13 days ago, leaking radiation across five parsecs, two Confederation picket carriers (Tesh and Dobson) on the scent, duck in system...

dodging occasional boulder, trying to keep some rock between ion plumes and sensors, hiding tons from megatons, but they are positioned effectively on opposite sides of the rings' elliptic, weak sensored fighter sweeps are regularly ineffective, minimal life support active...null g...passive sensors...no hot food...no water recycling...heat and atmosphere only, main engines and inertia shell cold...using chemical thrusters, weapons and defense screens offline.  waiting for the cavalry or for them to move on...or we're found and cortex blanked...

ordinarily The Man wouldn't get so riled about 15 runaways but this was the maiden raid of the League of Free Systems Q-ship Jean Grey...she had shattered their illegal gene mixer and its defenses.  plus the breathing proof snatched off an intact module, webbed in behind the cockpit...would erode the Confederation's plausible deniability. Artificial persons predisposed to certain forms of labor are legal, once incubation is complete the Choice is given, most choose the purpose for which they were grown, some don't...frictional loss (they're freed).  Soldiers and whores are not legal...the psychological and physical predispositions necessary for specialization in those endeavors renders one incapable of Choice.  nurture doesn't have a chance against nature, and the League pays well for good conductors.

So it came to pass I had 10 300 lb. able killing specialists, and 5 100 lb. able fucking specialists strapped down in a fifteen by fifteen meter passenger hold, five meters behind me.  I had "rescued" them mid indoctrination, so their personalities and behaviors are only half-formed, butchers and sluts with only a vague notion of who/what they were.  being strapped to a g-couch is annoying...14+ hours a day at high burn is ridiculous, no hot meals for a week is demoralizing, shitting and pissing into hoses push the situation into Hell.  Tensions mounting...

all the tank grown soldiers know is they should be moving and doing...their elevated testosterone levels and twitchy muscles demand an outlet, burning eyes glare at everyone/thing, guess who gets sedated.  the whores look relieved and disappointed...their talents aren't destructive, so I don't care what they do to stay sane.  I back Jean into an asteroid cavern (checked for void maggots, wasn't born yesterday)...  vein of iridium needed for nano repair systems to finish Engine 5, remote spectrometer finds it, two more days to nominal and we can slip the Feds...been awake for 36 hours...elongate bridge g-couch...set Boolean alarm parameters...pfzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

the Dream rain feels/smells of lavender silk...SNAP awake and clank noggins with the whore hovering over my face...fuckwhocansneekuponme?  she laughs perfectly (of course).  glossy maned vision in e-therms.  I respected her determinedly competent gaze, arched brow that I will compare all others to...gotdam she looked height weight proportionate, it had been five lives since I lost Her, spliced pheromone glands question resolve.

her name's Britney...she's ceiling anchored...and well, I suppose she pounced.

By His suns...she was faster than me.

mommas don't let your babies grow up to be...

resist ignoring the indiscriminate mutilations, the isolating intelligence...anciently gazing seven year old, the missing animals, lost blades, ease with fluids, the affected compassion, disproportionate rage, preternatural movements...caution advised when signs abruptly disappear, ist nicht sehr gut.

Self-awareness achieved...hide the uniquing Gifts...sink into the tall grass...patiently savor the Dream...formulate safe self-actualization...learn to ignore the Itch...hungrily scent walking detritus

worrying about demising, before relishing the first. finally a Choosing...

mine:

sixth grade English and history teacher, big smile, dead doll/shark eyes, resentfully barren uterus, feebly manipulating what she cannot conceive, obvious psychological compromises...the eyes always give it away, so obvious to another...cracker ass bitch...badgering Jhibby...he didn't deserve it...she tries to ignore the Swiss cheese soul, annoyed I can smell its stink

barren+psychopath+teaching=societal liability

acute corner scamper up and over junction of stucco compound wall, 100 lbs. of comically determined shadow, her beloved Fiskars secured in pack, machete in arrogant backsheath, melting between darkpools, matador of patrols, don't leave first floor windows open, contemplating from the bedroom door, one minute, anxiety whiff, two minutes, first has to be perfect, husband too?, beasts wed beasts, main scissor blade overhand windmill entering above adams apple, silenced for extended appreciation, thrashing wakes hubby, leap to bed center, downward machete cyclone, pleasantly surprised by mess...is that a finger in the chandelier?, her eyes betray knowledge of motivations, barely start with the tit strokes before consciousness lost, damn, immobilize, tools/bag stashed in garage...spill everything flammable, horror film shower, new clothes, blow out bedroom pilot light crack open fireplace valve, dislodge kitchen gas main, candle lit living room, tentative dawn as tree limb shimmied above wall...two blocks away "BBOOOMMM, HUGGHOOSH (fireball)". 

we can all be stopped. Overmind knows pruning is necessary to facilitate optimum flourishing, and thusly many roam free.

somebody's got the itch

woah! easy there... 

no exit plan

been getting soft

american know how, all around 

clowns!

 

they are watching you

trailor park drama

incongruities

what, an ancient psychologically fractured oft-resurrected Angel of Death was supposed to be a reliable narrator?


 

forlorn shepherd

the final Ark lunges heavenward from New Vladivostok, old school chemical rocket drubbing the gravity well.  awkward blocky hope punching through the pillowed steel mesosphere ceiling.  ash and snow churned in its wake.  no small feat, with all the ground crews evacuated too.  scientists, artists, laborers, engineers, farmers, women, and children...kernel enough to start over closer to the Core.

volunteer line held long enough, obviously, before gene raped and absorbed.  Horde converged on the starport 31 hours past, soaking up ammunition and bravery...allowed to fester and corrupt too much biomass...the call for Warders went out too late...too numerous to break contact and run for the transport...too many toos

garishly mottled hides of the gestalts' individuals boil together beneath the plasmic window, piling atop the dead.  eventually flopping onto the roof and into the concourse, presumptuously bellowing victory.  Plasma projector's readout glows seven terawatts, and railgun counts 1.5 million flechettes.  the deadman switch is rigged and tested, the settlers' dozen odd Tokomaks set to detonate when the last "human" life on the planet sputters out.

turning out the lights on another Horde overrun world...The soothsayer was right (as usual), totally called the spin of this wheel (lifestyle makes it too easy for her)..."cold, alone, without succor or companions".  Just once, for that bitch Oracle to be wrong...not that I could have avoided Pasir Panjang, Camaron, Alpha Centauri, Hoth, or Shiroyama...

What's the feeling, transitioning into the Void, surrounded by some who possess a shared fondness for you?  He says its different for those, the positive neutrinos swiftly accelerate the untethered soul to Peace.

Peace...that bait has dangled for eons, but we both know the Crafting renders me eternally Fallen.  A CPA at Carnivale...a boilermaker at a fashion show...alchemist at NanoFair...  In my Peace Her hazel eyes and impish smile would be waiting, sun streaming as our laughter mingled, I wouldn't have to unmake anything ever again...I'd be a fucking vegan, a Tai Chi instructor for senior citizens. 

I always spend the last moments picturing Her and cursing Him...my own personal cliche.

and so the cobbled redoubts crumble beneath the Horde (as always).  Plasma disassociates molecules, flechettes disassociate appendages and tentacles.  I disable the fail safes...projector overloads with 1.3 terawatts remaining, vaporizing yours truly and 10,000 metric tons of Horde.  planetwide, pinprick suns flare brilliantly, irradiated firestorms scourge the surface.

startled heaving breaths suck piney Asgardian air, too golden light sears new retinas, I enjoy the wampa furs on all new skin...until the Assigning...

another wheel, another turn...

special treat

for all the loyal readers

sticky

1,000 Baht (approximately $35) was exchanged for her intact hymen, the conversion rate was most kind.  chill, cut her loose. Golden Triangle.  stakes are high, but the buyin is insultingly inconsequential.

leaden breaths, thickened atmosphere.  cheap death calls The Leering Gods.  stinks of accelerated life cycle and extinct altruism.  warms the heart, when its in your wake.

.308 plinking pirates, Malacca Strait, scrilla ain't worth seaborne isolation, crews' Lights getting distracting, to feel one under paw

murder mystery dinner party?

milking leaches

Supplemental work is necessary and troubling in multiple facets.  Mandatory honing is a fact of purpose, but those pursuing  freelance life disposal can be a skosh perturbing.  ticks on swine.  persistent dingleberrys.

"hustling" idiot-savants composing problems arcing above the hops of their lead footed dingos.  Sicilians.  heretical members of the cult of the carpenter.  Blacks. if you can afford my services, get out of the ghetto.  Russians. always implore me to "take my time".  ughsigh

better gangsters than The Man.  The Man draws nigh not for profit, but to minimize embarrassment:  altar boys, talkative side dishes, dirty cops, too clean cops, inquisitive journalists, inconvenient peers, diplomatic rivals, straying wives.  The Man crafts nations, but his ladies and friends heed the Underdark's call.  so the world burns for whitey's lackluster sexual aptitude, malformed humor, and all joys money can't buy. 

vermin of the underbelly

furry friend

Casanova

sweet science

crushing maggots

there is something to make, other than war?

important relationship advice

Bug Hunt

The island's shroud guarantees adventure beyond the psychic fortitude of unlifted homo sapiens.  the inked bulbosity legitimate discouragement to idle investigation.  Far below, my quarry broods upon its fractured perversions.  the hired Portuguese fisherman feels irreconcilable sanity paradoxes tug at the edges of awareness.

My Purpose arises angrily to Chaoss' taint, the arrogant defilement of His favorite plane.  eldritch motes consider the cleansing before us, the universes' energies coalescing towards my will.  A fisherman's soul and his weathered craft's spirit provide mathereal necessary for the SunSpark, and with a cyan "BAMF", both are immolated in a retina searing globe, steam geysering, flaming gulls pinwheeling to splash...Beneath the crags of oily rock, the Old One recoils from my Illuminated splendor, reconsidering the immediate threat posed by one wielding His mandate. 

I guiltily revel in the Form for a blink, recalling epochs of glory in an instant, and then meteoric...flame swathed churning through the brimstone gloom...hanging at the cavern entrance of a contrived Hell.  the chittering of lesser servants, precludes the fragrance of self righteous fear, what realizations haunt aware sacrifices?  the non-Euclidean labyrinth provides insufficient aegis from my Balefire.  Greater Lytches, Arch-Fiends, Pit Wyrms, Schlorogorths, and lonely Succubi smote by iridescent mercury.

down, spiraling down, lower, below the water line, deeper, darker, danker...Why do these Chaos deities prefer the smell of sulfur?   

Until Its chamber spans impossibly wide...infinite centered pit...from which the conglomeration of mottled tentacles flowers...matte gold eyes shine briefly...then the assault.  by the ton, thrashing severed tentacles crash to the floor...then the response.  Despair mentally buffets, and turbulent sadness darkens senses, somewhere a Kris tipped pseudopod awaits its moment.  The Glorious Answer flares away shadows, stark too-pure whiteness evaporates the One not fit for honest light.

lacking psychic buttresses, howling implosion commences...the laws of inter-planar physics cannot be denied. rock to liquid, a molten loogey deposits me pinkish to the sun drenched surface.

I need a bowl, and a whiskey.

meanwhile, in Soviet Russia

Conflict resolution

Azrael

Gift One is the Sense, simultaneously the most necessary and burdensome.  That itch of proximate mortals, delicate flickers, tired stardust wicks experimenting with slivers of Him.   

such organizations resonate in a perfect center, behind the eyes...between the ears...homing pigeon's bit of iron.  constantly orienting, track-while-scan, no off.  usually the first change to manifest, a languid realization of every one's pulse and capacity for laughter.

sometimes it is felt, a chill..."being watched"...a sinking reptile intuition.  the consideration of Azrael is usually dismissed, as it is an occasional universal experience.

Inhuman Mob

Pack Savagery

You would hit it...

... and not in the "two in the chest, two in the head" sense, either.

prude Americans

Courtesy of the Angry Metro

Fails of 2010

soft hands

the increasing merchants' blood lust bodes ill for the future.  The ringed fat fingered fools believe themselves insulated from their thefts...that their button press executions, and proxy wars will escape Master's attentions.  The honor of our predecessors' arsenals held excesses in check, they required intimate skill for application.

UAVs, railguns, lasers, intra-orbit kill vehicles, ballistic missiles, binary poisons, nano-viruses, C-beams, H-bombs, grasers, plasma projectors, EMPs...  Merchants are worried about ease and returns, but human Spirit and our universal understanding of the club will be their last realizations.

Their silks sodden with blood, intestines roped around desperate and soft hands, gonads a hamburgerred horror.  And as the corrupt light flees beady eyes, they will hear throat sundering screams as their thefts' beneficiaries have their charms collected by His servants.

are you not entertained?

www.ranker.com/list/micky-_the-fighter_-ward_s-bloodiest-real-life-battles/ned_brown

http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/81249154/

hush

brush of shadow across tatami
whisper of steel
crimson constellations

useless nostalgia.  when persons of singular grace and purpose forged history.  half-seen forms of smoke in the fog, flitting about the rooftops, the glittered thunks of exchanged shuriken , indignant shout of a startled heron, the Emperor's quarters soaked with blood and shit, paper walled hallways stinking of fear

if we had only known to what extent the merchants would pervert the Culling.  how the ones with rings on fat fingers, would soil our plumage

Fire with Fire

burn it all:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZcYOTj4kXY

x, y, z

Could the Mercedes operator have known what she was cutting off, the resources at my disposal, or predilection for absolute justice?  Could she have anticipated my weakness for tears, when she erected her middle finger?  Obviously the universe would be well served if her ignorance was corrected, her manners re-indoctrinated. 

Broads of the world remember, force=mass*acceleration, and weapons are just tools given specific purpose.  your SUV, and my Kukri are both governed by the same laws (Gift notwithstanding).  No matter how much money a white cooz accumulates, physics can not be bribed.  A little self awareness would deprive me of these little vignettes, these nocturnal performance pieces.  But His majestic integrity must be maintained.  

Neutralizing rent-a-cop security is necessary foreplay. 

technology

A button and a determined finger are all it takes these days, something that was once always personal now digitized.  like every other factory worker, I must now compete with machines.  Fewer arid multi-day stalks, fewer tundra nights gazing upon the firmament, fewer sleet scoured crags, fewer jungle scents, and fewer poetic Coriolis compensated applications of kinetic energy. 

Outsourced by those who find a remote controlled plane less unsettling and cheaper, than a living-breathing Homo Sapien eraser.  Now my actions are confined to urban prey, streets too narrow, even for a Hellfire.  Preschools across the street, religious shrines disrupting sight lines.  These are society's collateral considerations that inspire a more hands on approach for me, and hand wringing for employers.

But ho!  how the Gift longs to stride the steppes...creep the Savannah, without halogen distractions.  To rend and terrify under those thermonuclear pinpricks, rather than passionless fluorescence.

moments

fluffy blow off a perfect Czech ass, the 1,000 meter shot in high wind, surviving two credible assassination attempts by the Drorugata Clan...

her first ballet recital tops them all

dames

pah!  no fair maiden willingly caresses the determined brow of judgment, nor gazes wistfully into the primarch's eyes.  priests and eunuchs are spared their fear.

but ho!  to relinquish the stained helm for a moment and dare to smile!

tentatively brush the radiance...

the taste

our gene pool is denied reverence by the majority,  the Fedaykin must proactively defend the Flock from itself.  Only cowardly shepherds refuse to enact His will. 

Righteous works beget martyrs of soul and flesh.

warm

was there ever anyone?  you must ask, beg for an attempted grasp at humanity...for such coldness, an extinguishing. 

but, how do you define the vacuum's agency?  a feral maw's hunger?

a few exist, so that most need not gaze into such things

self indulgence

all these pithy, petty nihilistic metaphors.  Pathetic denial of the hope for what could have been.  they them those ya'll, how can you exist near sooth without turning towards its brilliance? 

too quiet

With out the cause why awake?   That is the one lesson they neglect.  What to do?  What to focus?  What to unmake.  All there is left is muscle memory and the twinge of penultimate efficiency.   

The Mask

Aw sheeple...  Do your daughters like effervescent cocktails?  Do they crave something more than the suburban coma?  How do the meandering quiet streets of your ancillary community compare to the temptations I offer them?  Bright lights...lascivious contemporaries...decadent mores...compulsory awareness.  The right Iowa farm girl's contract costs $50K in the appropriate alley of Riyadh.  

Dark portents

How will the Gifts manifest themselves?  What parts of humanity's instinctual injunctions have been made extraneous by my design?  By my imparted will...  Our vast shrub extols the universe for divine pruning, it demands the shears.

Prog Metal

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7oH6Ku27Us&feature=fvsr

SOP's

The Man created me, a falcon without a target, a stray round waiting to blossom in a toddler's forehead.  There are those among you who revel in fire and blood, those who have to fake a wince.  We know who we are, the cat people, arch-hunters made to cull the "herd".      

Alpha-Omega

I exist in the wrong time and place.  My would-be masters no longer posses the ethical clarity to direct my actions, and I lack the means to achieve full emancipation.  How tortured will existence become, how fractured can a psyche maintain cohesiveness?