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The Incel

The Incel
Staff writer Sophie Miller sat at her desk in the busy office of OMG News, on the 8th floor of a downtown office block. She was trawling through her email folder.

An email from the managing director caught her eye: "Great work on the article Sophie! Click rates are through the roof!..."

This was the first direct communication from the top boss since she started at the online magazine 6 months ago. Prior to that she had been a freelance writer struggling to make ends meet. Now she was a full time staff writer and her latest article had generated a lot of publicity.

"I'd rather be beaten to death than bored to death - why a boy can never be too bad." had generated controversy, humour and condemnation. Some critics had called it crass and risible, others had called it dangerous apologism for abusers. Others saw the ironic humour and critique of toxic masculinity. The one thing no-one had called her...is boring. You could never be too controversial in an outlet like OMG news.
She continued reading the boss's email "...I'd love to discuss it with you personally, pop into my office whenever you have a moment."

Her heart raced. The managing director wanted to see her. She'd never spoken to him before. She wasted no time and headed towards his office at the other end of the floor. On the way she checked her face in the mirror. Lashes were on fleek, red hair was neatly in a bun, makeup perfectly contoured. She knocked gingerly on his office door:
"Mr Donnelly?" she inquired gingerly.
"Come in my dear!" he ushered her into the office. His normally stern face was grimacing. She found it unsettling but forced a smile nonetheless.
"You wanted to see me Sir?" she said nervously
"Yes sweetheart" (he never used the names of any of the women in the office) "I called you in here to congratulate you. Since your little article was posted on the website our engagement and clicks have gone through the roof. Now I may be an old grey-haired dinosaur but I know that for an online news service, clicks mean dollars, and that makes you a golden goose."
He grinned and she responded likewise, awkwardly.
"Now I understand you've been here 6 months?"
"Yes sir" she responded cheerfully.
He stood up and began to pace up and down the room:

"That makes you entitled to a raise, but of course raises must be justified, with...a real business case." He stood next to her and placed his hand on her lower back. She could smell the coffee on his breath as he drew closer...

As she walked back to her desk afterwards, she felt everyone was staring at her. She was paranoid her makeup or hair would be disheveled. She hurried to her computer and lowered her chair so no-one could see her. She opened her emails again. She figured she would answer the important ones then head home. She needed a shower.

"SLUT!" jumped out at her from the screen. It was the title of an email.

Oh God, someone had seen her leaving Mr Donnelly's office looking disheveled. They knew, and soon everyone would know. She'd be the talk of the office for all the wrong reasons. As she clicked on the email she realised it was sent hours ago, at 10am this morning, just after the article went live on the website.

She opened the email:

"Dear Purveyors of Immoral Filth. I recently read your article entitled

'I'd rather be beaten to death than bored to death - why a boy can never be too bad.'

Needless to say I was disgusted. You are advocating for a lifestyle that rewards the churlish brute and damages the fragile female. In your world there is room only for the Alpha male and all other males are cast by the wayside. This is a primal, barbaric mentality. Sadly there are many females out there that share your point of view, and articles like this will only encourage their depravity further. It's because of low culture Svenagli's like yourself that modern womanhood is poisoned. I am unable to find a wife and folks like you are to blame.

The long and the tall of it is: I demand your 'news website' publishes a retraction, within the next 48 hours, of there will be Hell to pay. There will be no peace for the wicked.

Yours sincerely - The Incel."

At first Sophie was taken aback, then - comprehending the full meaning of the rambling nonsense, she burst out laughing. Immediately she forwarded it on to her colleagues. Then she screenshotted it and shared it to her seventy thousand Twitter followers. The reaction was one of almost universal ridicule, interspersed with the odd note of concern, which she duly ignored. Sophie suddenly had an idea for her next article, which she spent the rest of the day working on.
The following morning OMG News published another article
"Incels - do they deserve our ridicule or our pity?" - by Sophie Miller.
The article got even more clicks and engagement than her previous article about bad boys. Mr Donnelly offered her a raise then and there. Late that afternoon, as the staff enjoyed a coffee break, the security guard brought in a package.
"Special delivery for Sophie Miller. Just arrived now." Curious as to what it could be she opened it.

The explosion gutted the entire 8th and 9th floor of the 10 storey office block. The fire brigade evacuated the remaining floors of the building just before it collapsed in on itself. Of the 30 person staff at OMG news only 3 were pulled from the rubble. The floor above had been unoccupied but two Guatemalan maintenance men who had been cleaning up there were killed as well. Sophie's body was never identified although the crime scene investigators did find one of her shoes and her phone (still working) the lockscreen featured her cat mittens, who was taken in by a neighbor.

Moments after the explosion all the major news networks received the same email:

"I am responsible for the explosion at OMG News. I warned them of the consequences of their immoral words. Below I have enclosed a link to my manifesto. If my manifesto is not published my bombing campaign will continue. There shall be no peace for the wicked.
Kind Regards.
The Incel"
The editors of the major news networks were unanimous in their opinion that this so-called 'manifesto' was rambling, misogynistic garbage, ranting about Chads, Stacies and trad values and so they were united in their refusal to give it the time of day.
A week went by since the OMG news bombing. Investigators were at a loss to find any evidence. The FBI were called in. They set up an incident room nearby, headed by an FBI Assistant Director. They took forensic samples of everything but there was no trace of any DNA anywhere, the original package had been destroyed in the explosion. They checked the security footage from the office building reception. Grainy footage captured a figure in a black hoodie dropping the package at the doors and quickly fleeing the scene. The figure was average height and the face was indistinguishable.
Just as he was getting ready to go home, the Assistant Director's phone rang. It was his junior agent.
"There's been another bomb, this time at NRC News."
Smoke billowed out of the reception of the NRC news building. The Assistant Director arrived to a scene of chaos. Sirens wailed as medics helped the walking wounded to waiting ambulances. It wasn't long before police assessed the scene and found that 6 staff members were missing, presumed dead. Their corpses were pulled from the rubble before nightfall.
Another message was sent, this time to the FBI Incident Room. It read:
"I hope you enjoyed the fireworks. Next time it will be a school or a Mosque. I will continue my campaign unless the government provides me with a wife. She must be slim, pretty and below the age of 25. You have one week."

The FBI Assistant Director turned to his junior agent. "That's 35 people this bastard has killed so far. We're gonna have to take this higher."

President Roland Dunst sat at his large desk in the oval office. His Chief of Staff General Trebuchet walked in:
"Mr President, there's been another bombing, 6 people have been killed in this bombing, that's on top of the 29 in the last bombing. The FBI are saying we need to do something. Fast."
"Who is doing these bombings General? Is it Isis? ETA? China?"
"It's...an Incel Sir."
"A what now?"
"An Incel, a guy that...can't have sex...and he's pretty darn mad."
"Sounds like a stone cold loser to me. What does he want? Money?."
"Well Sir, originally he just wanted his manifesto published..."
"Well let's do it then, let this freak have his 15 minutes of fame."
"But now Sir....he wants a wife."
"A wife?"
"Yes and he wants a hot wife too."
"Hmmm" the president rubbed his chin. "What sane woman would want to marry a psycho freak like that?" The President paced up and down the oval office. He gazed at the flag and exclaimed:
"General, I have an idea....."

Natalia Kowalski sat shivering on a metal bench in the holding cell of the Immigrant Detention Center. The stone walls seemed to be closing in on her and her fellow occupants. She gazed around at the sea of brown and black faces. A bald African man was staring at her. She turned her blonde head away from him. She didn't belong in a place like this, she thought to herself. She was a European. She remembered her father's words.
"The finest thing in the world is to be a European. And the finest type of European is Polish. And the finest type of Polish is a Krakowian. Na Zdrowie!" then he would take another shot of vodka.
The memory made her smile warmly as she imagined herself far away from this awful cell, and these awful people. Europeans should have a separate detention centre, she ruminated. Europeans built America after all.
A sharp bark roused her from her daydreaming.
"Kowalski! Natalia! You're up!"
She leapt to her feet and followed the guard out of the cell and into a warm office down the hall. Two men in high ranking military uniform were sat on the other side of the table. They invited her to sit down.
"My name is General Trebuchet and this is my assistant. I'm President Dunst's chief of staff."
Natalia burst out laughing.
"This is joke right?"
"This is no joke Miss Kowalksi. I understand you were arrested on prostitution charges? And upon arrest it was discovered that you overstayed your work visa by over a year?"
Her pale cheeks burned bright red
"This guy....he say he look after me, find me work as nanny...but instead he make me sleep with men, he take all the money I earn, make me live in tiny room, he take my passport."
"Why didn't you just go to the police?"
Natalia laughed derisively. "Police? What they do? Send me back to Poland to peel potatoes? No vay."
"Well Miss Kowalski, you are going to be sent back to Poland."
She turned to them with sudden pathos. "Please Mister Army man. No send me back. I just want to be American. Live in white picket fence house like in TV show Wonder Years. Please."
The General and his assistant exchanged smug glances.
"So you want to be an American Miss Kowalski?"
"Yes Mr General, I do anything please." she clasped her hands together and feigned tears.

The Incel logged onto his computer. He accessed the high security VPN that protected his identity and logged onto his secure email. He checked his Bitcoin wallet. A payment of $5000 dollars from the government of Luxembourg, in exchange for unblocking their servers. He duly unblocked them and smiled at his successful ransomware blackmail. He was a man of his word. As he glanced through his emails one caught his eye.
'From the desk of General Trebuchet. Chief of Staff to President Dunst.' It simply read:
"We have a wife for you, enclosed is a picture of her. You can pick her up at 7pm tonight from Pier 5 at the docks in your home city. No tricks."
The Incel gazed longingly at the photograph. A blonde haired, blue eyed woman smiled pleasantly. She looked a little like Taylor Swift but with a more Slavic bone structure and fuller lips.
As 7 o'clock approached Natalia grew more and more nervous. The General and several soldiers stood around her, but she had never felt more alone.
"Now just trust me Miss Kowalski nothing can go wrong. Just walk up to him, smile and we'll take care of the rest."
"General I really scared, must I do this thing?"
"Unless you want to go back to Krakow and sell your ladygarden for coal then yes I suggest you do as we say."
He nudged her through the door and onto the open pier.
"Walk out to end of the pier and wait. We'll be in the building watching.
Shivering in her little black dress Natalia Kowalski nervously walked to the end of the pier, her high heels making an audible clip clopping sound. She stood waiting, there was no-one around so she looked out over the shoreline at the boats and the seagulls. She thought about how far she'd come.
Just then she heard a voice behind her.
"Erm hey."
She shrieked in shock.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you...You must be Natalia?"
She gazed at the source of the voice. It was dark but she could make out the figure of a man. He seemed to me smiling. She stepped closer. He wasn't very tall, maybe around 5'10. The same height as her in flat shoes. He was a little on the chubby side but it might have been the winter coat he was wearing. He had a mess of dark hair and dark eyes.
"You're v..very pretty." he stammered. His voice was quite deep but soft, he reminded her of the narrator from the Wonder Years, the show that gave her her first glimpse of America.
"Thank-you." she smiled. He smiled back, genuinely.
She noticed he had very kind eyes, a little beady, but kind.
"I don't normally hang around in place like this. Not for free anyway." she said with a wry laugh.
He laughed and cleared his throat.
"Do you wanna....I dunno....go someplace else? My car is waiting nearby."
"Erm...okay sure." They started to walk. "Maybe there is coffee shop still open at.."
She heard a loud bang. It sounded like fireworks. She turned to the man and saw him slump to his knees.
She looked at him and even in the darkness could see that the top of his head was missing. He slumped forward and dark liquid poured out of his head onto the wooden boards of the pier.
She felt weak at the knees and ran towards the buildings on the shore. The General emerged from the building and guided her inside. Shaking she sat down.
"Well done Miss Kowalski. Mission complete. We got him!"
Natalie felt numb. The General spoke on his phone excitedly.
"Yes, Mr President, Operation Loser was a success. We got him. Yeah he's dead, killed on the first shot."
Natalie was then escorted to hospital where she was checked over by a doctor. Physically she was fine although the doctor recommended counseling. After an hour or so the nurse said:
"Miss Kowalski you have a special visitor. It's the President."
Natalia's eyes widened and her heart raced again.
A face she had seen so many times on the TV filled the doorway of her hospital room. President Roland Dunst marched over and shook her hand.
"Well done Miss....erm...
"Kowalski, Natalia Kowalski."
"Well done Miss Nawalsi, you did a HUGE job for this country and helped us defeat a really bad dude. A terrorist, which is the worst kind of dude. And for that I now dub you a US Citizen."
He handed her a certificate of citizenship. She took it with a grateful smile but inside she felt hollow.
Some news cameras entered the hospital room.
"This brave lady Miss Nadine Koala helped to defeat a terrible, terrible terrorist. Let this be a lesson, that beautiful women will always be the downfall of stone cold losers like him."
The cameras pointed at Natalia but all of a sudden she began to cry.
submitted by Socialist7 to creativewriting [link] [comments]

[MS] The Incel


Staff writer Sophie Miller sat at her desk in the busy office of OMG News, on the 8th floor of a downtown office block. She was trawling through her email folder.

An email from the managing director caught her eye: "Great work on the article Sophie! Click rates are through the roof!..."

This was the first direct communication from the top boss since she started at the online magazine 6 months ago. Prior to that she had been a freelance writer struggling to make ends meet. Now she was a full time staff writer and her latest article had generated a lot of publicity.

"I'd rather be beaten to death than bored to death - why a boy can never be too bad." had generated controversy, humour and condemnation. Some critics had called it crass and risible, others had called it dangerous apologism for abusers. Others saw the ironic humour and critique of toxic masculinity. The one thing no-one had called her...is boring. You could never be too controversial in an outlet like OMG news.
She continued reading the boss's email "...I'd love to discuss it with you personally, pop into my office whenever you have a moment."

Her heart raced. The managing director wanted to see her. She'd never spoken to him before. She wasted no time and headed towards his office at the other end of the floor. On the way she checked her face in the mirror. Lashes were on fleek, red hair was neatly in a bun, makeup perfectly contoured. She knocked gingerly on his office door:
"Mr Donnelly?" she inquired gingerly.
"Come in my dear!" he ushered her into the office. His normally stern face was grimacing. She found it unsettling but forced a smile nonetheless.
"You wanted to see me Sir?" she said nervously
"Yes sweetheart" (he never used the names of any of the women in the office) "I called you in here to congratulate you. Since your little article was posted on the website our engagement and clicks have gone through the roof. Now I may be an old grey-haired dinosaur but I know that for an online news service, clicks mean dollars, and that makes you a golden goose."
He grinned and she responded likewise, awkwardly.
"Now I understand you've been here 6 months?"
"Yes sir" she responded cheerfully.
He stood up and began to pace up and down the room:

"That makes you entitled to a raise, but of course raises must be justified, with...a real business case." He stood next to her and placed his hand on her lower back. She could smell the coffee on his breath as he drew closer...

As she walked back to her desk afterwards, she felt everyone was staring at her. She was paranoid her makeup or hair would be disheveled. She hurried to her computer and lowered her chair so no-one could see her. She opened her emails again. She figured she would answer the important ones then head home. She needed a shower.

"SLUT!" jumped out at her from the screen. It was the title of an email.

Oh God, someone had seen her leaving Mr Donnelly's office looking disheveled. They knew, and soon everyone would know. She'd be the talk of the office for all the wrong reasons. As she clicked on the email she realised it was sent hours ago, at 10am this morning, just after the article went live on the website.

She opened the email:

"Dear Purveyors of Immoral Filth. I recently read your article entitled

'I'd rather be beaten to death than bored to death - why a boy can never be too bad.'

Needless to say I was disgusted. You are advocating for a lifestyle that rewards the churlish brute and damages the fragile female. In your world there is room only for the Alpha male and all other males are cast by the wayside. This is a primal, barbaric mentality. Sadly there are many females out there that share your point of view, and articles like this will only encourage their depravity further. It's because of low culture svenagli's like yourself that modern womanhood is poisoned. I am unable to find a wife and folks like you are to blame.

The long and the tall of it is: I demand your 'news website' publishes a retraction, within the next 48 hours, of there will be Hell to pay. There will be no peace for the wicked.

Yours sincerely - The Incel."

At first Sophie was taken aback, then - comprehending the full meaning of the rambling nonsense, she burst out laughing. Immediately she forwarded it on to her colleagues. Then she screenshotted it and shared it to her seventy thousand Twitter followers. The reaction was one of almost universal ridicule, interspered with the odd note of concern, which she duly ignored. Sophie suddenly had an idea for her next article, which she spent the rest of the day working on.
The following morning OMG News published another article
"Incels - do they deserve our ridicule or our pity?" - by Sophie Miller.
The article got even more clicks and engagement than her previous article about bad boys. Mr Donnelly offered her a raise then and there. Late that afternoon, as the staff enjoyed a coffee break, the security guard brought in a package.
"Special delivery for Sophie Miller. Just arrived now." Curious as to what it could be she opened it.

The explosion gutted the entire 8th and 9th floor of the 10 storey office block. The fire brigade evacuated the entire building just before it collapsed in on itself. Of the 30 person staff at OMG news only 3 were pulled from the rubble. The floor above had been unoccupied but two Guatemalan maintenance men who had been cleaning up there were killed as well. Sophie's body was never identified although the crime scene investigators did find one of her shoes and her phone (still working) the lockscreen featured her cat mittens, who was taken in by a neighbor.

Moments after the explosion all the major news networks received the same email

"I am responsible for the explosion at OMG News. I warned them of the consequences of their immoral words. Below I have enclosed a link to my manifesto. If my manifesto is not published my bombing campaign will continue. There shall be no peace for the wicked.
Kind Regards.
The Incel"
The editors of the major news networks were unanimous in their opinion that this so-called 'manifesto' was rambling, misogynistic garbage, ranting about Chads, Stacies and trad values and so they were united in their refusal to give it the time of day.
A week went by since the OMG news bombing. Investigators were at a loss to find any evidence. The FBI were called in. They set up an incident room nearby, headed by an FBI Assistant Director. They took forensic samples of everything but there was no trace of any DNA anywhere, the original package had been destroyed in the explosion. They checked the security footage from the office building reception. Grainy footage captured a figure in a black hoodie dropping the package at the doors and quickly fleeing the scene. The figure was average height and the face was indistinguishable.
Just as he was getting ready to go home, the Assistant Director's phone rang. It was his junior agent.
"There's been another bomb, this time at NRC News."
Smoke billowed out of the reception of the NRC news building. The Assistant Director arrived to a scene of chaos. Sirens wailed as medics helped the walking wounded to waiting ambulances. It wasn't long before police assessed the scene and found that 6 staff members were missing, presumed dead. Their corpses were pulled from the rubble before nightfall.
Another message was sent, this time to the FBI Incident Room. It read:
"I hope you enjoyed the fireworks. Next time it will be a school or a Mosque. I will continue my campaign unless the government provides me with a wife. She must be slim, pretty and below the age of 25. You have one week."

The FBI Assistant Director turned to his junior agent. "That's 35 people this bastard has killed so far. We're gonna have to take this higher."

President Ronald Dunst sat at his large desk in the oval office. His Chief of Staff General Trebuchet walked in:
"Mr President, there's been another bombing, 6 people have been killed in this bombing, that's on top of the 29 in the last bombing. The FBI are saying we need to do something. Fast."
"Who is doing these bombings General? Is it Isis? ETA? China?"
"It's...an Incel Sir."
"A what now?"
"An Incel, a guy that...can't have sex...and he's pretty darn mad."
"Sounds like a stone cold loser to me. What does he want? Money?."
"Well Sir, originally he just wanted his manifesto published..."
"Well let's do it then, let this freak have his 15 minutes of fame."
"But now Sir....he wants a wife."
"A wife?"
"Yes and he wants a hot wife too."
"Do we know who he is?"
"We know his email address" the general replied. "We traced it though the manifesto he sent. He kept repeating the phrase 'No peace for the wicked' which is wrong, it's 'no rest for the wicked'. We typed that phrase into the search bar of an incel forum and brought up his account which was linked to his email.
"Hmmm" the president rubbed his chin. "What sane woman would want to marry a psycho freak like that?" The President paced up and down the oval office. He gazed at the flag and exclaimed:
"General, I have an idea....."

Natalia Kowalski sat shivering on a metal bench in the holding cell of the Immigrant Detention Center. The stone walls seemed to be closing in on her and her fellow occupants. She gazed around at the sea of brown and black faces. A bald African man was staring at her. She turned her blonde head away from him. She didn't belong in a place like this, she thought to herself. She was a European. She remembered her father's words.
"The finest thing in the world is to be a European. And the finest type of European is Polish. And the finest type of Polish is a Krakowian. Na Zdrowie!" then he would take another shot of vodka.
The memory made her smile warmly as she imagined herself far away from this awful cell, and these awful people. Europeans should have a separate detention centre, she ruminated. Europeans built America after all.
A sharp bark roused her from her daydreaming.
"Kowalski! Natalia! You're up!"
She leapt to her feet and followed the guard out of the cell and into a warm office down the hall. Two men in high ranking military uniform were sat on the other side of the table. They invited her to sit down.
"My name is General Trebuchet and this is my assistant. I'm President Dunst's chief of staff."
Natalia burst out laughing.
"This is joke right?"
"This is no joke Miss Kowalksi. I understand you were arrested on prostitution charges? And upon arrest it was discovered that you overstayed your work visa by over a year?"
Her pale cheeks burned bright red
"This guy....he say he look after me, find me work as nanny...but instead he make me sleep with men, he take all the money I earn, make me live in tiny room, he take my passport."
"Why didn't you just go to the police?"
Natalia laughed derisively. "Police? What they do? Send me back to Poland to peel potatoes? No vay."
"Well Miss Kowalski, you are going to be sent back to Poland."
She turned to them with sudden pathos. "Please Mister Army man. No send me back. I just want to be American. Live in white picket fence house like in TV show Wonder Years. Please."
The General and his assistant exchanged smug glances.
"So you want to be an American Miss Kowalski?"
"Yes Mr General, I do anything please." she clasped her hands together and feigned tears.

The Incel logged onto his computer. He accessed the high security VPN that protected his identity and logged onto his secure email. He checked his Bitcoin wallet. A payment of $5000 dollars from the government of Luxembourg, in exchange for unblocking their servers. He duly unblocked them and smiled at his successful ransomware blackmail. He was a man of his word. As he glanced through his emails one caught his eye.
'From the desk of General Trebuchet. Chief of Staff to President Dunst.' It simply read:
"We have a wife for you, enclosed is a picture of her. You can pick her up at 7pm tonight from Pier 5 at the docks in your home city. No tricks."
The Incel gazed longingly at the photograph. A blonde haired, blue eyed woman smiled pleasantly. She looked a little like Taylor Swift but with a more Slavic bone structure and fuller lips.

As 7 o'clock approached Natalia grew more and more nervous. The General and several soldiers stood around her, but she had never felt more alone.
"Now just trust me Miss Kowalski nothing can go wrong. Just walk up to him, smile and we'll take care of the rest."
"General I really scared, must I do this thing?"
"Unless you want to go back to Krakow and sell your ladygarden for coal then yes I suggest you do as we say."
He nudged her through the door and onto the open pier.
"Walk out to end of the pier and wait. We'll be in the building watching.
Shivering in her little black dress Natalia Kowalski nervously walked to the end of the pier, her high heels making an audible clip clopping sound. She stood waiting, there was no-one around so she looked out over the shoreline at the boats and the seagulls. She thought about how far she'd come.
Just then she heard a voice behind her.
"Erm hey."
She shrieked in shock.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you...You must be Natalia?"
She gazed at the source of the voice. It was dark but she could make out the figure of a man. He seemed to me smiling. She stepped closer. He wasn't very tall, maybe around 5'10. The same height as her in flat shoes. He was a little on the chubby side but it might have been the winter coat he was wearing. He had a mess of dark hair and dark eyes.
"You're v..very pretty." he stammered. His voice was quite deep but soft, he reminded her of the narrator from the Wonder Years, the show that gave her her first glimpse of America.
"Thank-you." she smiled. He smiled back, genuinely.
She noticed he had very kind eyes, a little beady, but kind.
"I don't normally hang around in place like this. Not for free anyway." she said with a wry laugh.
He laughed and cleared his throat.
"Do you wanna....I dunno....go someplace else? My car is waiting nearby."
"Erm...okay sure." They started to walk. "Maybe there is coffee shop still open at.."
She heard a loud bang. It sounded like fireworks. She turned to the man and saw him slump to his knees.
She looked at him and even in the darkness could see that the top of his head was missing. He slumped forward and dark liquid poured out of his head onto the wooden boards of the pier.
She felt weak at the knees and ran towards the buildings on the shore. The General emerged from the building and guided her inside. Shaking she sat down.
"Well done Miss Kowalski. Mission complete. We got him!"
Natalie felt numb. She heard the General on the phone.
"Yes, Mr President, Operation Loser was a success. We got him. Yeah he's dead, killed on the first shot."
Natalie was then escorted to hospital where she was checked over by a doctor. Physically she was fine although the doctor recommended counseling. After an hour or so the nurse said:
"Miss Kowalski you have a special visitor. It's the President."
Natalia's eyes widened and her heart raced again.
A face she had seen so many times on the TV filled the doorway of her hospital room. President Roland Dunst marched over and shook her hand.
"Well done Miss....erm...
"Kowalski, Natalia Kowalski."
"Well done Miss Nawalsi, you did a HUGE job for this country and helped us defeat a really bad dude. A terrorist, which is the worst kind of dude. And for that I now dub you a US Citizen."
He handed her a certificate of citizenship. She took it with a grateful smile but inside she felt hollow.
Some news cameras entered the hospital room.
"This brave lady Miss Nadine Koala helped to defeat a terrible, terrible terrorist. Let this be a lesson that beautiful women will always be the downfall of stone cold losers like him."
The cameras pointed at Natalia but all of a sudden she began to cry.
submitted by Socialist7 to shortstories [link] [comments]

Climate Change: Mother Nature needs a Man like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

I have to admit I'm still on the fence with regard to climate change. First of all, I've seen how the left establishment or CIA lies about stuff and how their most powerful weapon is omission. And how the science is highly politicized and misleading. The best reportage has been imho the Corbett Report for essentially debunking.
That said, weather has been highly deranged. Anyone can see that. Highly highly deranged. Gross anomalies and records busted in nearly every area.
Deepwater-Vortex Hypothesis
The most salient example was with the Polar Vortex of 2014, which was in turned caused by the activity of the Ridiculously Resilient Ridge (RRR) of late 2013, an impossibly longstanding anomaly off the northwestern coast of Washington State, whose appearance and disappearance coincided exactly with the stalling and resuming--respectively--of the Gulf of Mexico's productive eddy the "gulf current loop" which in turn powers the gulf stream. And without the Gulf loop, whose twisting power feeds the momentum of the gulf stream, the gulf stream slows down, causing erratic 'jams' in other oceanic currents which then jams up reciprocal wind systems, causing droughts and floods all over the world.
What caused the gulf loop to slow down? Deepwater horizon--the BP oil spill and the actions taken to correct it with surfactant "COREXIT"
I'm saying BP, Obama, Hillary Clinton, EPA, Coast Guard, Navy and Nalco Company caused droughts and floods all over the world by making the decision to spray Corexit on BP oil spill instead of cleaning it up more properly (skimming it off the surface) like non psychopaths would do. Hillary's basically a straight-up cheap redneck from Arkansas--one almost expects her to do the oceanic equivalent of throwing dead car batteries into the forest. But what's Obama's excuse? Get the bad press off him fast, because hey it's making me look super uncool in my new Hugo Boss suit. It was about money and their vanity, no attention to people, truth or consequences.
They poisoned the fish and then lied about that. They caused the ocean gulf loop to STALL by the corexit-petroleum emulsification changing the density of the water in the area. This was akin to turning the Gulf of Mexico into essentially a kitchen sink after an italian meal: a greasy, oily, sudsy, mess...for several years. The change in density screwed up the natural pattern of the undercurrents, slowing them to a stop.
Initially I thought that maybe they used HAARP or some weather machine, and then turned it on to create the RRR, and then turned it off when the gulf loop resumed. After all RRR seemed grossly unnatural. Anyone looking at the radar would have to think that maybe aliens were doing this. It was like a triangle hovering in the same place for over a year iirc
I don't believe this was done by technology anymore. There is another example of the same thing happening elsewhere that came out in an article today. Remember that Ozone hole that we were told to be scared about in the 90s? I do. Well they stopped talking about it. Because it went away. I guess we all thought changing brands of underarm deodorant stopped it. Go us
NASA: ‘Natural Variability,’ Not The UN, Shrank The Ozone Layer Hole
It turns out it went away on it's own. Or Obama Trump once again turned on the weather machine for the greater good.
Kidding. I just don't think they are that smart or competent. Anymore. Kind of a big relief. I can go back to being afraid of archons and aliens and AI instead of my government.
No, I think they--by they I mean the deepstate--are all, largely spychopathic, sycophantic, infantile, child-corporatists that like to roll around in money and when they are caught they continue lying. Or maybe they give insincere apologies because they know they will just use PR agents to manage the situation; heck they might even make money off it with a book deal and many talk shows.
The fact is they don't care. They didn't care enough about the corexit and its consequences on the health of the population. What makes you think they are going to care enough to fix their mistake with a weather machine? It's nonsense
Obama and Hillary--much like their cohorts--have shown themselves in the last year to be devoid of principle and devoid of any substance of merit. They are gaslighters who continue to lie and are still trying to salvage any semblance of support by continuing their lies while still continuing to omit what what we already know to be true, which specifically is that the russiagate narrative is dead. Debunked 33 ways from Sunday. Even today, Nov 2017, they are still trying to lie to us by using sources from 2016, omitting everything we've learned since then!
No, what they've shown is they're capable of really one thing: worldview warfare...and I say that people are defined more by what they do than by what they claim to be. Where they got worldview warfare from says a lot about who they are.
In the meantime, the world goes on, with or without injuries from man.
She's alive I tell you
She doesn't need man's corexits or corrections. She doesn't need fixes to her ozone holes. She doesn't need our help in fixing herself. Just keep in mind, like any strong woman, if you hit her she's going to hit you back twice as hard. So maybe it's time to scale down all the stupid stuff and grow back the trees
I think this is what she's saying, in her own way. We ought to listen.
Epilogue: Story doesn't end there, because: Chemtrails
When it comes to climate, what's omitted is several things. Solar activities. The effects of wifi / cell and wiring/wifi'ing up the planet. GLOBAL DIMMING--oh yes they won't talk about that.
And I believe global dimming is absolutely 100% man made from chemtrails. Now chemtrails we know are real whether you want to tell me to don my tinfoil hat or not. It's not just proven empirically, it's been admitted by the US military and other militaries around the world. Why are they doing it? We know that one reason is for tracking ground 'assets' and 'enemies'...except now that they are running the phoenix program globally they are spraying everywhere with 'taggants', nanoparticles whose chromatic signature is visible under hyperspectral camera, allowing identification of assets as they travel across areas. Kind of like tagging cattle or managing a gps fleet. This is military technology that's being used unwittingly in the civilian domain for essentially illegal / unethical mass surveillance
But if they aren't spraying taggants, what else are they spraying and why? First question is alumino-silicates and alumino-barium particles, cadmium fluoride, zinc fluoride, other toxic heavy metals like cadmium, lead, arsenic and various organo-metallic compounds and complex organic volatiles found in unrefined petroleum that they say are NOT contained in kerosene-like jetfuel.
Ok so why? Could be a multitude of reasons. Including but not limited to: 1) Cheaper to crap it across the atmosphere than to pay to dispose of it properly (industrial waste from fuel, plastic and pharma manufacture), 2) Building on 1, could be a way to obfuscate nuclear weapons manufacture, if it contains fluorides, which it certainly does, 3) Could be used to enhance the microwave signals and other EMF electrical signals from ground to sky (reduce distancewise attenuation, increase gain so to speak) 4) block out the sun or a certain band of solar radiation, 5) used to weaken the population in some way by making them sick
Like Artificial Intelligence, the meaning of life, whether Sessions is a deepstate squirrel or not, whether bitcoin is a hat trick or not, chemtrails are also going to remain one of life's great mysteries.
submitted by 911bodysnatchers322 to C_S_T [link] [comments]

Sixteen ideas to save Western civilization

Idea one

Rather than funding a Darwinian triathlon that leaves thousands of people dead every year, in which those young men who are best capable of jumping fences, swimming through rivers and crossing deserts are given a ticket to paradise, we declare today that no more refugees will be given entrance into Europe. Instead, every Euro that is currently spent on providing shelter and care for refugees in Europe, will be used for refugees in their country of origin. With a guarantee that there is not a snowball's chance in hell of being granted asylum in Europe, the refugee stream to our continent will plummet. This will allow those NGO's who currently spend their money transporting people from Libya to Italy, to spend their scarce resources on helping refugees where they actually live. The cost of providing for one refugee in the Netherlands is 20 to 40 times higher than providing for the same refugee in his country of origin.
The moment we change our policy towards refugees, towards one based on rational sanity, is the moment we can start taking care of twenty to forty times as many of them. This will be necessary in the years ahead, as climate change, soil erosion and overpopulation will create a refugee crisis the likes of which humanity has never seen before. How about highly skilled refugees? You might ask. The thing is, those refugees will be the people who will be needed to rebuild the countries they fled from. If they live here, they can't help rebuild the communities that were destroyed.

Idea two

Europe is faced with a demographic crisis, as our fertility rates are very low. There are many different solutions to this, but one solution I have not heard before is as following: Let the height of our child benefits payments depend on the average age of the population of a municipality. The government should be paying people in rural communities to have children. Many of these communities have conservative Christians, who would be quite willing to have more children if they could afford to raise them. What we don't want, are child benefit payments going to overpopulated cities. What we need is for people to migrate from cities to our dying villages and for people living in those villages to have more children.
Our cities are home to our underclass, people who are unable to make something out of their life, often due to hereditary problems. Schizophrenia is twice as common in the cities for example. The people who live in cities tend to be descended from the rural peasants who were unable to make a living in the countryside. This is unfortunate, but it is the reality we have to deal with. What we want is for children to be born in the best possible conditions to guarantee a happy life. This is a conclusion I have reached, by virtue of the fact that I was born into the urban underclass myself. I want children to be born with more opportunities than I had. This tends to be very difficult to understand if you're born into a wealthy or middle class family.

Idea three

We don't just have to implement repatriation subsidies for migrants who live in Europe. In fact, we should implement broader emigration subsidies. We have more young men than young women, while Russia, Ukraine and the Baltic states have more young women than young men. The fertility rates of Europe as well as Russia would go up if we sent men to Russia. Ideally, Russian would be a language that's taught in high school here.
We also have millions of citizens in our continent, who yearn for more diversity and feel disgusted by the sight of a homogeneous European community. Europe to them is a racist monolithic continent and they worry greatly about the plight of Africans. What better way to help them achieve their dreams, than by paying them to migrate to Africa, a continent full of multicultural countries, where everyone speaks a different language and has unique customs? Everyone benefits from this. Africa desperately needs skilled people, while Southern Europe is full of young unemployed people. A gender studies, sociology or cultural anthropology degree is useless here in Europe. I'm sure it can be quite useful in Africa however.

Idea four

When it comes to income, women want to marry up, men want to marry down. If women can't find a man to marry with higher status than themselves, many simply refuse to marry and never reproduce. This is a big problem, because young women right now tend to earn more money than young men. There's a reason for this: Discrimination. White working class boys are least likely to go to university. These boys are not all stupid, but the culture they live in makes it difficult for them to succeed in life. In fact, the kind of long-term investment that college represents, is one that these boys who grew up in unpredictable insecure circumstances do not find appealing. In addition, white working class boys are not very interested in listening to long tirades about how they are guilty of everyone else's long history of suffering.
The problem we need to understand, is that education is now not used by employers as a requirement because the skills taught are relevant. No, educational requirements are used by employers to filter out dumb and unreliable people. The effect this has is to favor women over men, giving women an unfair advantage on the labor market. Neither women nor men benefit from women having an unfair advantage on the labor market. Besides the fact that a woman might not be better suited to the particular job she got by virtue of her college degree, women don't benefit from living in a society where there are no men whose salary can deliver them a similar standard of living as their own.
If we were to make it illegal to discriminate against the uneducated, we take away the unfair advantage women have over men. Certainly, we don't want uneducated people to become doctors, nuclear power plant operators or air pilots, but we really don't need people with four year college degrees to carry out mid-level office work for us. Another good measure to use is to hide the gender and name of a candidate for a position. Studies show that people prefer to hire women over men. In practice, being a good looking young woman is an enormous unfair advantage on the job market, for the simple reason that middle-aged men in management positions think with their dick.
What happens when college education can no longer be used as a status indicator by employers, is that a big part of the incentive to go to college disappears. As a result, eighteen year old boys and girls can simply apply for a white-collar job, rather than first having to spend four years studying some particular subject they'll never make practical use of again. What this means is that people are able to become mature much faster than they do today. A person aged 25 might feel ready to have children because they have been saving money for years, whereas today a 25 year old is still paying off their college debt and feel frightened by the thought of having children.

Idea five

Implement a big progressive tax on private land ownership, unless the land is covered in trees. Most of the land in Scotland is owned by a few private individuals, who just have massive herds of animals that eat the land bare. Scotland used to be covered with trees, all that's necessary for the trees to grow back is for the herds of animals to be removed. When we implement progressive taxes on land ownership, farmers who produce a lot of food with little land will find their business more profitable, while farmers who waste a lot of land will find their business to be costly. As an example, mushrooms farms use very little land, to produce a lot of food. Cattle pastures on the other hand, use a lot of land to produce hardly any food. When land ownership costs money, land can no longer be used for blind speculation. As a result, the property bubble should start to deflate. This is highly needed, because the young are now unable to buy houses because of the ridiculous prices we're dealing with. Those of us who can buy houses are afraid to do so, because prices could crash fifty percent and we would become prisoners in our own homes. If you're 65 or older, a decline in prices might suck, but you don't have a strong need to relocate anymore. Because we're unable to buy houses, we're unable to start families.

Idea six

Most of the people in our prisons have double passports. A simple wise solution would be to give prisoners a choice: Renounce your citizenship of our country, in exchange for release from prison. Let Morocco, Turkey and other countries handle these people. When these people choose to move back to their country of origin, it creates an incentive for their families to move back too. What about those prisoners who have just a single passport? Offer them a reduced sentence, depending on where they're willing to sit out their sentence. As an example, you could cut a prison sentence by 25%, if the prisoner is willing to be imprisoned in French Guyana. By the time they are released, they might simply stay there.
Another option that is very important is euthanasia. Prisoners need to have the right to choose to end their lives. Some people consider the death penalty inhumane. I consider sticking someone in a concrete box for twenty years to be far more inhumane myself. Most have no real chance of building up a meaningful life after they're released. There are actually a large number of prisoners and former prisoners who insist that the death penalty is more humane than a prison sentence, because our society treats former prisoners as second class citizens.

Idea seven

Implement a big tax on the use of our air space. Any plane that passes through our air space will have to cough up large amounts of money. This is great, because air travel has to be disincentivized. Most importantly, it increases the expenses of people who own private jets, which are a complete waste of our society's scarce resources. Currently, Americans charge roughly 30 dollar per 100 kilometer to people passing over their land surface. This is negligible. Try multiplying that rate by ten and see how much people still travel by airplane.

Idea eight

The Netherlands has the highest petrol taxes in the world. This is fantastic. The whole world needs to follow our example. Why? Because oil eventually runs out, so it's better that we prepare for it by encouraging a transitioning away from cars, rather than being caught by surprise. "But China and India!" Joe Sixpack proclaims. I don't care. Let them do what they want to do. If they want to create a big fossil fuel dependent economy, let them go ahead. By the time we run out of fossil fuels, their economies will implode. I think we similarly need a big tax on anyone who has more than a single car registered on his name.

Idea nine

Implement a constitutional amendment, requiring elected heads of state to have children. Why? Most of our political elite doesn't have children. If you don't bother to provide your own contribution to the future of our society at an individual level, why should I expect you will manage to do it at a collective level? What if our head of state is gay? He needs to find himself a wife who doesn't shave her legs, use his imagination, lie back and think of England. People used to make sacrifices for their community.
What investment in the future does a childless leader have? He's a parasite, who ultimately expects other people's children to pay for his retirement. Donald Trump is forced to listen to his daughter, who understands that climate change will prove to be a real problem. If you raised children, your interests align more closely with the interests of the next generation, who are ultimately the people who are carrying the torch of civilization forward. If physiological problems prohibit you from having children, adopted children count too. The kind of person who doesn't want to raise children is the kind of person I don't trust ruling over a country.

Idea ten

Charles Galton Darwin was probably first to propose this, but it can't be said enough: We need to make foreign aid dependent upon a nation's population control efforts. Look at this map of abortion laws to understand what's going to cause us problems in the years ahead. Countries that legalize abortion should receive priority in all of our dealings with them.

Idea eleven

We need to bring this new cold war with Russia to an end. I know, they don't allow gay pride parades. Deal with it. If the people of the world are going to have a place to live, it's going to have to be Russia. Russia, Greenland, Canada, Alaska, these are the kind of places where humans will survive a century from now. We need to be planning ahead for that future, rather than fighting each other over petty cultural differences. Why have we been fueling a bloody civil war in Syria since 2011? It's the greatest waste of human potential in recent history.

Idea twelve

We can simultaneously improve our diet, reduce climate change, heal the ocean and give most of the world's land surface back to nature. It's explained here. China, Korea and Japan produce 88% of the world's seaweed right now. Why are we, in Europe, North America and Oceania not contributing? The solutions exist to our problems, but we're not applying them.
Throw subsidies at mushrooms, seaweed and shellfish. Eventually, you'll get the public to switch their diet and you can begin abandoning most of the world's surface.

Idea thirteen

Happy societies are societies with plenty of young people and few old people. Particularly, it's important to have more young women than mature men. When the population is growing, war is common and life expectancies are low, this is easy. The fact of the matter is, that it's simply not a lot of fun to be old. In addition, old people have to be cared for by young people. We could kill all the old people, but I don't think anyone's looking forward to that.
What I would suggest instead is that we work on getting rid of aging. "What, are you suggesting immortality?" No, I'm suggesting we've got our priorities wrong. Life expectancy at age 65 was 13 years for women in 1930, 21 years in 2010. So, the average retired woman will have eight extra years of life. This is fine, but why is so much money spent on keeping people alive longer? How about we shift our priorities towards keeping people young longer? It's possible to increase the number of eggs a woman has. Dehydroepiandrosterone is effectively used to gradually increase a woman's egg count over the months, until a woman who was infertile is fertile again. This was discovered, not in a state of the art laboratory. It was discovered by a woman who had difficulty conceiving and decided to start experimenting on herself.
What kind of quality of life do you have as an 80 year old? Not a lot. What kind of quality of life do you have as a youthful looking fertile woman? Quite a lot. I know that I'm eventually going to die, so dragging it out doesn't matter much to me. If you can increase the percentage of time that I spend youthful on the other hand, I'm all ears. The best method we have to accomplish this currently seems to be the use of senolytics, substances that kill senescent cells, which are cells that have grown old and prohibit younger cells from reproducing (kind of like the babyboomers). The senescent cells do this by creating speculative housing bubble- err secreting substances that cause inflammation. Senolytics are the equivalent of a suicide bomber who only targets golf courses and cruise ships.

Idea fourteen

Why do we have massive office complexes everywhere? Most people can do their work from home. We soon won't need all the roads we have today either, because we will have self-driving cars. Self-driving cars don't need vast distances between vehicles due to our mediocre human reflexes. In addition, they can more easily share multiple passengers. We won't need all this parking space we have now either. Because people will be able to work from home and order products from home, we will need far less travel too. It's thought we can reduce the number of cars needed from 245 million, to just 2.4 million, through self-driving cars. That's not a typo, it's a 99% reduction.
Technology renders humans obsolete, we say. I think we're not thinking this through clearly enough: Technology renders technology obsolete. If we can use Bitcoin as a store of value, demand for gold declines. If demand for gold declines, we don't need gold mines. We don't need televisions anymore, we're using our computers now for that. Most people don't need a desktop computer, they can do just about everything with a smartphone or a laptop. Paper production has peaked, most of it is now used for packaging. If our population peaks, we don't need to build new houses. Colleges? You can study from home.
The city is full of space we won't need in the future. Parking garages are a thing of the past, companies will rent an office for two hours a week to hold a meetup. What are we going to do with all of that space? We can use it to grow food. A Dutch company grows mushrooms of the non-magical variety in an old swimming pool. If we grow food locally, it won't need packaging.
So what happens next? Minimalism. If we're wise we will live like Sadhus. What else will we not need? Houses. If you can work from home and video-conference your colleagues if you don't want to show up to a meeting, or receive a basic income and don't really have a formal job, why would you want to own a house? You can simply rent a house for a night through AirBnB. You don't really need to own anything. A lawnmower? There's always someone in your street who has one and you can earn money online by renting yours out. Ideally, you wouldn't even have your own clothing. At any moment, 90+% of my clothing goes unused, just like most cars go unused.
What do you think this is? Fully automated communism. What causes it? The free market. It's American free market capitalism, run by right-wing libertarians like Peter Thiel, that destroyed the taxi companies and the hotels. Some of the Silicon Valley tech startup guru's don't own anything other than a smartphone. Isn't it ironic? The Chinese and the Russians pursued communism and accidentally ended up with capitalism. We pursued capitalism and accidentally gave birth to communism.

Idea fifteen

What's the biggest problem in the Middle East today? Endless pointless violence. What causes this endless pointless violence? A small minority of men who monopolize the women and indoctrinate everyone with hateful ideologies. This is sufficient to get the young men to sign up for whatever idiotic millenarian group happens to run their town. The only reason the Middle East can function the way it does, is because everyone is sober. Alcohol and other psychoactive substances are forbidden. There's a simple reason for this. Sexual repression is difficult to sustain in a culture with access to alcohol. Alcohol makes people promiscuous, because it reduces inhibition. Psychedelics can make people promiscuous too, because psychedelics make you lose faith in authoritarian structures altogether and reduce your fear of death.
But how do you keep those substances away from people, in a world where you can order them anonymously on the internet? The government looks for heat from the light used when it wants to find indoor cannabis plants. But how will that work, when you have yeast that can produce THC? Don't even get me started on Psilocybe mushrooms, which you can grow in your own house using little other than a glass jar and some wheat bran. And what do you think happens when people can order abortion pills and euthanasia drugs off the internet? These authoritarian structures have no future. Islamist fundamentalism is a temporary blip on the radar, that will be followed by an implosion of Islam. The bloodshed of ISIS has alienated an entire generation of young Muslims, who now realize that consistently applying Islamic laws doesn't solve anything but merely makes the misery worse.
Studies show that Psilocybin mushrooms are increasingly commonly consumed, because the information on how to grow them is available everywhere. And those who take the mushrooms, report improved mental health. We haven't even begun to scratch the surface of the various substances out there and how they interact. How long do you think the taboo on cannabis will last when it becomes indisputable that use by the elderly prevents dementia? How long do you think the taboo on Salvia will last? Salvia treats opioid addiction, Americans can't afford to maintain the taboo.
What I am proposing here, is a psychedelic renaissance. Our culture is on the verge of shifting towards one where people will have no desire to dominate, but merely yearn to spread love, happiness and compassion. This is a cultural state shift, the likes of which we haven't seen in centuries. It can happen and it won't have to be limited just to the Western world. It can spread around the globe in the same manner as most of our great cultural innovations have.

Idea sixteen

When do we begin to comprehend that we're eating the wrong things? When you're staring with your microscope at the particular genes of a piece of lettuce so that you can geneticaly engineer it to be resistant against a common mold, does it never occur to you that if your crop is plagued by an endless list of pests, you might need to consider eating something else? Why do we have factory farms when the Southern United States are plagued by feral pigs? Why can't rednecks make a living selling the feral hogs they shot? Why do we eat chickens who can't walk, when our pastures are plagued by millions of geese?
"It's not cost-effective" Your government will say. And the reason it's not cost-effective is because you won't let it be cost effective. You create legislation that favors the big guy over the small guy and allow supermarket conglomerates to conquer the globe. Only big farms in England that own sufficient land can apply for farm subsidies, while small farms that make efficient use of their land can't qualify. You force people to leave their small towns and migrate to massive cities. You place subsidies on animal fodder like corn and allow people to bottom trawl the oceans and feed the fish to factory farm animals because they harvest so much fish they have no idea what to do with it. You artificially destroy oyster reefs that people use to gather wild oysters, because the oyster farmers feel threatened. It's not cost-effective because you're scared to death of what happens when it does become cost-effective!
Sunchokes grow like weeds here in the Netherlands, I grow them in a bucket as I can't plant them in my soil as they'd take over everything. And yet, our diet is built around potatoes. The average Dutch potato has residue of 36 different pesticides. People think we're innovative, but that's nonsense. We have change forced upon us, but we refuse to adapt to nature. We'd rather watch everything go to hell than to adjust to the conditions we live in. We seem to insist on having the most bland unhealthy diet imaginable, produced in the most inefficient method imaginable. Now that it's becoming difficult to sustain, we're planning on the next insanity: GMO crops. Rather than adjusting to nature, we'll come up with a crop of our own that produces its own pesticides. Whatever genetic diversity still remains in a crop is lost when the farmers switch to GMO crops. As a result, GMO crops don't solve anything, because the real problem we're dealing with is a lack of genetic diversity in our crops.
I envision a future where everyone grows his own food, not as sterile monocultures but a variety of crops grown together, while mushrooms grow in office towers and seaweed is brought in from the ocean. You'll live in a tent and travel around, following the feral pigs, deer and camels. When people tell you civilization has collapsed, you wouldn't notice the difference. You'd be too happy to care either way.
submitted by sourdoughbreadmaker to accountt1234 [link] [comments]

The Venom of God

So many thoughts come, in my hunger to record the shape of that which ails me.
Memories, imprinted like typewriter keys on the wet, spongy mass of the brain, feel transient, like ancient scrolls or commandments inscribed on crumbling slate, eroded by desert winds in unfathomably ancient ages. The memories of a man, fragmented in time - wet with horror and delusion.
For some reason, softer memories of childhood rise to the surface sometimes, like leaves in a dirty backyard pool, only to become too raw and shamefully unclothed when exposed to the sunlight of a middle aged man’s temperament.
I remember games of Checkers with my great Grandfather, Ildor Hearst, who appears in my mind’s eye as a-kind-of Russian Santa Claus, wirey beard and carven forehead. He was a stern man, and would always be ranting his archaic religious views. Prostheletising the fall of modern Babylon and the age of the Nihilist.
He would play Checkers with me, sharp movements, wooden circles slammed down with impunity. He never let me win. Saw his dominance as a matter of instruction and learning. As I look back nostalgically, sometimes, I yearn for Great Grandfather Ildor’s black and white mentality of good and evil, lightness and darkness... and an over arching confidence in the eventual triumph of mankind. Rather than the bleak reality of the post modernist distopia in which I live.
I recall vividly, after those intense games, once Ildor had imparted his thorny wisdom, I would be granted relaxation and be free to play with my own toys, scattered around my grandparents wooden floor boards; Mutant Ninja Turtles and Transformers, Wonder Woman, Spider Man and He-Man. Mine was always a multicoloured world of complex morality and democratic voices ... all of which ran into muddy paradigms that seemed totally outside the circle of Great Grandad’s moral compass.
These days, as a real estate Agent, I am occasionally gifted limited insights into a checkerboard like world of manipulation and sinister intentions, but mine is to perceive the evil of global finance, and the general unfairness of land ownership and rabid, unchecked capitalism...but with no delusion of an interventionalist God to pull us out of the hole we humans have dug for ourselves.
My name is Vilson Hearst, and I am a Real Estate Agent for Steel City Real Estate in Hexton, Australia.
Perhaps you think yourself free from the real estate game. Perhaps, you are a fool.
Perhaps you are satisfied with your lot in life, making a simple way for yourself, with a mortgage and a family, (if you should be so lucky to afford to get into the housing market at all that is). Then, could be that you are living a student lifestyle, paying rent, constantly paying off another cunning man’s mortgage, or worse still, perhaps you have abandoned the fight, to cower in your parents basement, with the real world slowly closing in on you, as you desperately try to escape into a world of Hollywood movies, video games or creepy pasta.
You are all in the real estate game, wether you like it or not. There is a broader game of capital and estate, which is increasingly complex, and even those like myself who’s job it is to ‘follow the money’ sometimes are completely lost at sea in the Darwinian struggle of the global free market.
Studying finance at Bourkeley University,.. I did my PHD thesis about money and the aquisition of power. I spent a solid year, studying the major players in global banking, watched the Chinese ICBC rise to become the wealthiest banking institution in the world. I tracked the strange and secretive trails of the richest investors, after the terrorist attacks on September 11, watching money transfer around the globe in secret trust funds, private meetings of powerful elites in Shanghai—as the Chinese World Trade Centre “Tower Three” was built, in the image of the destroyed Twin Towers of New York, (which is no coincidence, given it was constructed by the same architecture group; Skidmore Owings and Merril, (who also constructed the replacement One World Trade Centre.))
I studied Wikileaks and other whistleblower organisations. Gained secret documents, and learned of meetings between wealthy individuals; John Fallon, the chief executive of Pearson Education, the company which controls half the worlds schooling institutions— made a private deal in 2015 with Indra Nooyi and Paul Bulcke, Chairman and CEO of Nestle and PepsiCo, the owners of the majority of global food and confectionary. You wonder why our children are so desperately obese.
I was constantly surprised by the familiarity of these billionaires with one another. For instance, you might not know, that Hugh Grant, the CEO of Monsanto, the sinister company who has come to dominate a stronghold on global agriculture, (and who, among more nefarious acts, was responsible for manufacturing the deadly ‘Agent Orange’ poison in Vietnam and causing countless generational mutations).. just happens to be close friends with the CEO of Lockheed Martin, the dominant power in weapons manufacturing and ultimately what people mean when they talk about the ‘military industrial complex’.
Guns don’t kill people. Corporations do. But you knew that already.
Other minutes from meetings by the powerful, would have many questioning what the leaders of certain organisations could possibly have to discuss with each other,... such is the nature of the unheard of D40 meeting in a chateau in Shandong Province; where Barry Lam, chairman and founder of Quanta computers, the name behind the majority of computing technology, was recently in discussion with Carlos Brito, the CEO of InBev; the name behind all the major alcohol players—Ian Read, the CEO of Pfizer, who basically controls the entire legal drug market, Mark Zuckerberg and the CEO Of Alphabet Inc— who own Google and most of the rest of the internet. Now these meetings bare direct relationships with the stock trading happening in the World Trade Centre Tower Three in China. The minutes from these meetings contained discussion both controversial and amazingly nuanced, and the complexity of the global solutions some of these key players in the tech revolution were coming up with would’ve gone over the heads of even the top IQ holders from 98 percent of high schools in the world. Nonetheless, some of the darker plans by these shady monopolies would terrify you, more than you could possibly know.
To understand Australian land ownership, the problem becomes more of a global puzzle.
The figures who own the most land globally, are, the King of Saudi Arabia, The Pope and the Catholic Church, Hugh Grosvenor, Duke of Westminster certainly has a cut, and of course, the Queen of Britain herself, Elizabeth ...(who currently owns about a sixth of the worlds land, some 6.6 Billion Acres, more commonly known as the Commonwealth Realm, (which includes two thirds of Antarctica, Time Square in New York, Canada, New Zealand and of course ... Australia.) These people, i’ve learned, are not particularly interested in the debate around land ownership coming to the forefront of the global conversation, and billionaire media moguls like Rupert Murdoch and Andrew Packer have filled their bank accounts, making it their mission to keep just such subjects off the family dinner table, with distractions like ‘My Kitchen Rules’ and ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ filling Australian television channels.
The question of wether anyone owns land in Australia, or if it is in fact all owned by the Queen of England, is a contentious one, particularly when you factor in the confounding elements such as the status of Norfolk Island, which at one time was, on a technicality, not owned by anyone except for the fictitious body ‘The Crown’ (until being taken over by the Australian Capital Territory, in 2015). Then when you consider the original claim of the British that the Australian nation was unoccupied or ‘Terra Nullius’ when Europeans arrived, a truth widely held as fact until the precedent of the Mabo Decision in the Torres Straight islands in 1992. This decision returned some land ownership rights back to certain aristocratic lineages of the native people. However, the paradox leaves a complex and enduring problem for the future of land ownership in Australia and what that exactly entails.
In Hexton, the most rapidly developing city in Australia, corporate billionaires have their stakes in national land ownership, yet meanwhile... National Parks, Botanical Gardens and other public spaces are unapologetically ‘Crown lands’, a fact which is still testified by the names of the spaces; Kings Domain, Queen’s Square, and other titles which clearly and proudly display the heritage of monarchic ownership deeply entrenched within the Australian property market.
Of course, even within the field of Australian National Real Estate, the individual estate agent becomes bogged down even further in matters of local estates, so that these important issues take second stake to the sales and acquisitions of the day.
Steel City Real Estate, the company I work for, is a nation wide brand, but our particular office in Albert Park consists of about nine agents.
I spend most of my time competing with the golden boy of Steel City, Greg Leisdadt. Greg has consistently won the monthly sales targets in our office for over a year. His desk is covered in trophies, awards, and framed certificates adorn the walls behind him.
I’m not sure what words could aptly describe Leisdadt; his wolf-like eyes, both evil and mesmerising. A cannibal grin consisting of Colgate super white teeth, and those gelled locks of amber hair which hang impossibly, like an arch villain over his forehead. Greg oozes saleable confidence which grates my own nervous disposition sufficiently towards constant despair.
The only force which makes the constantly eclipsing day to day victories of Leisdadt bearable to me is Natasha Valuvjdavo. She is the agent who sits on the adjacent table to me in the office.
I confess, for some time, I was profoundly attracted to Natasha, and had to stop myself from gushing and fawning over her. She is a demure, and assertive brunette, her crimson lips could kill a boat full of sailors. Unfortunately, she is engaged to a man named Fred, who is something of a wet blanket, yet I must discard my jealousy and confess that for whatever reason, Natasha seems happy in her domestic life. My only solace in this, being that Greg Leisdadt, the man who has everything, although persistently flirtatious, has never made a dent in Natasha’s self security. She is thankfully not attracted to him.
But now I should refrain from being sidetracked and talk about the subjects which, you, the reader, more likely desire to hear of. For my tale is no idle blathering of romantic ennui, or global conspiracy—but rather the trauma of my profession, does persist— in both being exposed to the ruthless game of money/power, but moreover being haunted by knowledges both gothic and Victorian. For there is no other game in town, where one is more exposed to unwanted or haunted real estate; the devil hounded, and the wished forgotten.
There are the houses that are impossible to sell, because of brutal or public bloody murders that have occurred to the prior occupants. Wether psychological or other, the frequency of those who purchase such forbidden and damned abodes —then in no matter of time, flee and sell at carelessly lower settlement costs, with tales of unhallowed things returned to life, or clanking noises in the basement...why... this simple fact of the real estate market is as common as there is. A story as old as time.
Now perhaps I could spend months repeating the folk lore surrounding that dilapidated and spiritually unsaveable address; that run down, trash infested garden, and collapsing terrace roof of no 13 MacArthur Street.
But this could take a conceivably longer time period, and I shall reserve my energy for the most disturbing and horrific of these preternatural experiences.
Though I should briefly mention Vernon tower, for though this wasn’t the property which near drove me to insanity, it factors too far into the disturbing tapestry of the veiled or hidden real estate scene.
Now, Vernon tower, is an enormous building in South Hexton. Our agency deals more with rentals than with sales of the apartments in that old, and curious piece of architecture. Built as early as 1866, there has always been something profoundly wrong with Vernon towers. Of course, it is me who has to deal with most of the tennants of that foreboding block, for it is the Hearst legacy to be fated just such dull luck.
Thus it is always, I, who takes the phone calls from disgruntled students and drug addicts; Vernon Tower is unprecedentedly cheap, due to its history. Yet the impoverished clientele still have no issue burning my ear off; to complain of strange mechanic noises, or those bizarre phosphorescent green lights. Then there was the girl who tried to sue us, after her seizure from what she claimed to see inside the laundry room. That manner of description I can scarce repeat for its absurdness and high strangeness.
But let me get to the more dreadful incident which frightens me even to recall.
Indeed, it had all begun with that infernal property in Elwood, which I was in terse competition to sell... pitted unwittingly against the undefeated Super-Agent, Greg Leisdadt.
The spectacularly immense mansion on Ormond Road, was once occupied by billionaire Serbian entrapaneur Dimitrije Stojanovic, who I’m told partially drafted the architectural plans for the immense mansion himself, before he had it constructed on the corner of Ormond and Radkin Streets. The nature of the oddities surrounding that place however, extend not from the architectural style of the lot itself, (mind you those odd modernist geometric pylons, stepped piers and sail-like rooves do lend a kind of funereal gothicness to the address.)
However, it was the murder of Stojanovic which caused true fluctuations of interest in the property. Given the public knowledge of the horrendous murder, the property value was incalculably lower than its market worth. It seemed the image of the alleged burglar breaking into Stojanovic’s window, and bludgeoning him to death in the lounge room with a heavy trophy or statue of some kind— somehow grinding his skin off as with multiple teeth, or a spiked club—stayed in the public mind, thanks to Channel 9’s ‘A Current Affair’ and their sensational program about the incident. For interest in the property remained uncharacteristically low. Perhaps the fact that the murderer has yet to be identified or captured by police, nor the murder weapon found, hasn’t helped the matter.
Now, as I have mentioned this was not the first time our staff had dressed up a ‘murder property’. But the truly disturbing elements began to happen during the time the property came under my tenure.
Now, I should proclaim sincerely that I am by no means a superstitious man, I admonish my readers to believe that I was just as skeptical about the soon to be foretold events as you, had I not experienced them myself, I should fiercely doubt my own sanity. I should also divulge a little more information about Dimitrije Stojanovic himself, (the owner of the grand mansion) as the web of intrigue very much seems to hinge on his professional history.
Stojanovic made his billions in Silicon Valley, working in many aspects of the tech industry, investing timely in companies like Facebook and crypto currencies like Bitcoin, when the time was right. in the move to Australia it seems that his ambition was to try out his own company idea in the developing market of Hexton, where the game was not already dominated and over exposed.
With this intent he came out, built his immense mansion in Elwood, Moonsmoth, and immediately started channeling his money into the development of something called .....‘DigiTown’.
Now being neither a tech expert myself, nor expecting such of my audience, I will explain the fundamentals of the ‘DigiTown’ concept in the same manner it was explained to me by Neil Druton, a four eyed nerd with an immense forehead who was one of the developers working for Dimitrije Stojanovic, before he died. I had decided to interview Druton, to get the background on the Stojanovic case to find a more positive angle for investors. I figured if I could distract the buyer from the details of the murder, and big talk the profile of Stojanovic himself, “the prolific entrapaneur”, this might flatter the egos of other wealthy entrapaneurs to buy it out.
Druton told me he had been working for Stojanovic for about six months, mostly at the office Space Dimitrije was renting in Southbank. He described Stojanovic as ruthless, and borderline insane, but nonetheless he spoke of ‘DigiTown’ with respect, a ‘unique’ and ‘brilliant’ project, which would have been at the forefront of the tech industry, if it had ever been finished.
Put in layman’s terms, Druton explained that the project had a great deal in common with Bill Gates plans for a ‘smart city’ but on a more achievable scale.
I could tell Druton was oversimplifying the description for my sake, no doubt parroting Dimitrije’s marketing pitches for investors. But he described it like this; ‘Imagine a kind of augmented portal, with a built infrastructure and virtual architecture planned by white collar professionals, a crypto currency run communal space, overlayed over a modern city space, where your own request portal is linked to different reference cubes; Town Square, Library Cube, Media Station, Entertainment Centre, Eateries, telematics and roads authority, and these all function via the same channels as an actual city.’ ‘So you mean, instead of one social media interface trying to network everything, the actual infrastructure of a city is built out within the media itself?’ I asked. ‘Yeah pretty much’ Druton replied, seeing I had sensed the practical nature, adaptability, and profitability of the software, all over the world. ‘ATMs, shops, business, smart cars and machinery— all worked into the same dual augmented system. Superimposed as a direct collorary.’ It got me thinking paranoid, and I asked Druton earnestly; ‘Do you think if another rogue in the tech industry knew about Stojanovic’s idea, it would have been a groundbreaking idea enough to have killed him over?’ Druton went silent, and sweated a little from his pimpled forehead. I didn’t need to hear him answer the question, it was written all over his shrivelled face.
I spent a good couple of months doing my research on Dimitrije’s mansion. (I would’ve loved to cover up the existence of the current owner of the mansion). Rich heiress Stacey White bought the house, and lived in it for a month before she got spooked— and decided to resell it. I made sure to get the story straight, offering Stacey a hot cup of Bush tea, and asking her precisely what she saw.
Here’s what she told me; ‘I was alone, in that creepy mansion, at night,... and I got a weird feeling. There was a strong wind, and it was dark. The gum tree in the front yard bends a lot in the wind, and sometimes the branches whip against the side of the house. I was just getting used to that noise, but this time it was something different, almost lost in the whistling wind. It was a lower kind of ...moaning. A deep, pained groan. I got up to check I hadn’t left something on in the kitchen. I went to turn on the light switch but the globe burnt out. That’s when it happened. Almost like a mini-earthquake, but there was this strange energy. Then the gas stove just lit up, a green flame. It wasn’t on, but the kitchen was illuminated in a kind of underwater hue. Then—-(Stacey began to gasp and sob)—-then... in the darkness — I saw it!! A green head! Half a Human head, but mangled, half the skull bashed in, shimmering like I was looking through glass. It spoke to me ....in a voice that made the room cold. Just—-(she broke down into tears, suppressing a scream). H—his lips... cold, green lips. Steam coming from his mouth. He said — he said—- ‘Beware the Wagluh’.
As this point she became incommunicable.
I felt an increasing sickness in the ensuing weeks, the cause was unknown, but chiefly matched my mental state. It must’ve been around this time when I first saw the strange rune which had been spray painted on the abandoned building in Elwood. I was doing my rounds, why I should’ve noticed the strange glyph remains beyond my understanding, yet there it was. A curious, green shape, interrupted by a stark arrow and a kind-of ladder shape above it.
I was becoming increasingly stressed and agitated by the competitive sale of Dimitrije’s mansion. My manager Herron Del Ray had been hounding me to make a sale, it had been months since I had successfully got a down payment from a client. Del Ray had threatened redundancy in no uncertain terms, and the stress was beginning to erode my total mental well being.
In conversations with my beautiful colleague Natasha around this time, I found her to be kind, but not particularly helpful. Her advice was that if I was going to beat Leisdadt, I would have to compete with him at his own game. She told me on one particular occasion I should just lie to clients about the gruesome murder in the house, or omit it from the description altogether. This was both against my moral compass, and senseless, for the case was so popular, I felt sure that any potential investor would know of it, to omit it would only anger them.
That same day I got a call from a potential buyer named Greame De Montague. Leisdadt watched me like a hawk as I took the call, giving me a cunning look. The stare flustered my nerves, but choking through the phone I agreed for an inspection with De Montague. He would be the fifth buyer I had spoken to, all four previous investors had abandoned their inquiries when learning more about the murder, or after having seen the contract of sale.
I calmed myself the day of the appointment by speaking soft mantras to myself under my breath. I knew I had to push this client to a final purchase, and my job security depended on it. Greg Leisdadt was leaning against the bronze statue of a Cheetah in our office as I was leaving, mocking me with the words ‘Good luck, Vilson old boy.’
It was a cold autumn day, and brown leaves blew around the streets in gusts of curdled wind.
I had arranged to meet Mr De Montague on Beach Avenue, so that we might walk down to Ormond Street and view the mansion. As an eerie coincidence the corner we agreed to meet was precisely at the point that odd rune was sprayed on the abandoned building in Elwood.
Greame De Montague was standing on the corner as I arrived in my light grey sedan. He was standing in front of the odd rune, as though the symbol itself had somehow marked his presence in an unexplainable yet mystical time stamp. I couldn’t see his car parked anywhere. He was wearing a very curious oufit, particularly for Australia, although the weather was reasonably cool that autumn day. He wore a kind of black velvet robe, cut in the shape ...not unlike an Orthodox Jew’s regalia. It tarried at the bottom into a sort of deep purple cape. On his head he wore a buckled Capotain, and in his hand, a decorated staff. I wondered if his clothing indicated the excesses of vanity of the social media age, or if he was perhaps a foreign prince of some kind.
I stepped out of the car, and approached De Montague with my hand extended. I could see now he had a strange face, with slanted owl-like eyebrows, and a fluffy round beard that gave him an almost koala-bear-shaped head.
Mr De Montague raised his hand and met my embrace, shaking my hand with a firm clasp. ‘It’s lovely to meet you Greame. I have a feeling you are going to love this property.’ ‘Please. Call me Lord De Montague.’ The stern man insisted, ‘I descend from Carpathian royalty, the son of a Duke.’ ‘Very well M’lord.’ I replied, my tone accidentally tinged with irony, ‘Have you come ...very far today?’ I asked trying to distract from my faux pas with a bluff of small talk. I couldn’t help staring at the strange Necklace around De Montague’s neck. It seemed to be made of solid gold, and was comprised of a chain of large charms, each coin depicting deities from Ancient Asian and Mesopotamian religions.
I began walking, unsure what to say but deciding to lead De Montague down towards Ormond Street. There was a terrifying stillness on the street that day. The sun dried grass seemed frozen in time, and the grey sky moaned geriatrically, with the energy of a tired giant trying to fend off the vast abyss of Space.
I noticed that De Montague was not moving, but had instead stopped firmly in his tracks. His face gave off a distinct lack of pathos.
‘Mr Hearst.’ Lord De Montague’s grainy voice echoed; ‘This is the wrong way.’ I turned and looked back at him confused, but De Montague quickly supplanted my curiosity ‘We should walk down Vautier Street. It comes out closer to the property on Ormond.’ By my own calculations, the distance was exactly the same, but as I was in a desperate state of flattery, I decided to humour the strange, old man, though I now questioned wether my client might be an eccentric madman, who merely thought he was born of Royalty, in his delusions.
Nonetheless, I followed De Montague and we wandered down the leafy, terraced streets.
‘Tell me something Mr Hearst’ De Montague began to speculate; ‘Have you ever heard the expression ‘Old Money’?’ I looked at him trying to gage his meaning; ‘Yes, of course.’ I replied. ‘The man who owned this mansion’, De Montague continued in a practiced refrain; ‘It is my understanding he was one of the new breed. Wouldn’t you say? Those who make their fortunes on the gamble— or the changing technologies of the world, but haven’t yet come to fully comprehend the system as it works. As it has always worked.’ ‘I’m afraid I haven’t come to fully appreciate your meaning.’ I replied with honest perplexion. ‘My ancestors were very interested in Asian spirituality’ De Montague continued in a seemingly distracted soliloquy, ‘The De Montagues have migrated for some time you see. Sharing something in common with the Romani people of Europe. I have had ancestors who have lived, over the centuries, in Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia, Mongolia, Papua New Guinea and the Phillipines. Do you know what is the one thing these vastly different cultures all have in common?’ ‘I do not’ I confessed. ‘Reverence for ones ancestors, and respect for ones elders, and an overwhelming policy of acceptance towards the natural systems that have always existed.’ ‘That’s very interesting’ I replied, gawking about anxiously and wondering where the conversation was leading. ‘I have only more recently come to adapt the principles of the Japanese Shinto religion into my philosophy Mr Hearst. However I think we could all take a page out of that discipline, and it’s superior attitude towards the unknown. You know, in some sense the Shinto practitioners had an almost scientific approach to their spirituality. Certainly, like with the Eastern superstitions, the Shinto perceived a longing towards extra sensory insights into a hidden or secret world supposed to lie beneath the surface of our material life. However, we can say that the Shinto practitioners never got into the awkward and complex dogma of hierarchical worship. Rather, they merely approached each of their animistic inhabitations of spirit that they encountered with the proper fear and respect that one should properly apply to creatures or Gods we fail to yet understand.’ ‘It’s an interesting religion.’ I said, still utterly confused as to what the eccentric prince was attempting to convey.
‘I see you’ve mistaken my warning.’ De Montage continued in a more stern and serious tone, as we passed rows of trimmed hedges and decorative fences. ‘It is right to fear that which we don’t understand Master Hearst. We ought to treat our material supervisors with more respect. Now, I confess, it has never been the object of my ancestors to worship the unseen. Only a fool wishes to make a slave of themselves to a devil they don’t know. But respect, awe, fear, that is different. That is the core of wisdom. Now.... I confess to you... My own aristocratic ancestors, have had more of a vested interest in acquiring artefacts and precious minerals that can absorb such unknown energies. To tap into the mechanisms of nature and the outer spheres of unseen chemistry, that is where one can find the tools to bring about the acquisition of power!’ I began to become totally speechless, realising now, that I was in the presence of a lunatic. We were still about five minutes from the Serbian’s property, and De Montague now began to rave in such a strange and sinister manner, that he appeared some demented imp, his lecture was so insane. ‘So it was for the ones who claimed the future. Those beings with silken robes of silver, who sought the forbidden wisdom from beyond the abysses of Space and time. They are like the watcher, and we are but the conduits to their ancient digital powers. Yet if you could perceive the outlines of the Shapeshifter, who is the lost among us all, and he who brings the bitterness from the original tragedy. Then, perhaps you could understand what the Hindu’s really worship, in the form of their metamorphosising God of many evolutionary attributes.’ Mr De Montague suddenly stopped, slamming the steel cap of his staff upon the cracked concrete, and turned to me; ‘Mr Hearst, this is my warning for you! You cannot outwit the darker destinies of the force that itself conjures black holes. Have due reverence for the unseen beast which lurks beneath, and threatens your soul with eternal mutilation. Stand down from that property, and abandon your research into the disappearance of that accursed Serbian. I send this warning as a friend, and wether or not you take it up, I tell you that your colleague Greg will still make the sale, whichever path you choose.’ De Montague suddenly scowled like a rabid dog, grabbing my hand and thrusting the handle of his cane upon my palm. ‘Cursed child— I have the power of the Chiromancer, and that which is engraved upon your line of fate, makes it clear. But there is still time to evade the mark of this warning.’ Suddenly, I shrieked, for my palm began stinging with pain, and I realised that the silver etched handle of the staff was unfathomable degrees hot. I pulled my hand away before the impression became irreversible; ‘Ouch, you burnt my hand!’ I cried.
De Montague then seemed satisfied that his message had been delivered. He immediately hoisted back his staff, then let out a sound almost like a wolf’s growl. Then he seemed to perform a magicians trick of some form. For he cast the staff down at my feet, but as it fell there, a glimmer of light played a trick on me. I stepped back in fear, for that which lay across my feet, was no longer that of carven wood, but a coiled brown snake, who raised itself and hissed through fangs, and quivering forked tongue. I turned and dashed out of the snakes attack perimeter.
I gazed down at my stinging palm, to see with terror and trepidation that the burn mark in my hand imprinted from the image on the cane— it was the same strange glyph that was painted on the house.
Panting and sweating, tripping over my clumsy feet, as I rotated again to survey the scene, I saw now with incredulity the brown snake remained upon the pavement, but De Montague himself was long gone.
The hoax plagued me for hours afterward, I had been pranked it seemed, by some rich and bored eccentric trickster, who never intended to view the property at all. Or he was an escaped lunatic from Bourkeley Asylum perhaps. As I was already in the area, after a sufficient down time, when my heartbeat had reduced and my manic paranoia dissipated —I resolved to continue to Ormond Street anyway.
When I got to the property my fading anger was rebuked, for I saw two cars parked outside the late Serbian’s mansion. ‘Leisdadt’ I cursed.
As I walked up the modern staircase, I saw a cheerful looking man m, wearing a scarf, leaving, who Greg had obviously just shown around the property. He seemed fearfully optimistic about the place, and I continued cursing under my breath until I reached the hallway where Greg was standing, smugly, with a clipboard. He seemed even more satisfied when I came to the door; ‘You better watch out for that one’ Greg said in a tone that sent me into a rage; ‘He seems very keen. What happened to your 4’oclock?’ ‘Someone pulled a prank on me’ I cursed. I began to wonder if Greg had organised the incident with the charlatan somehow. Leisdadt tried hard to refrain from breaking out into a grin, ‘That’s a shame. Your luck has to come up one day Hearst.’ Leisdadt chuckled, but then seemed to remember something— ‘I thought you signed off on the clearance papers anyway Hearst.’ He said, ‘After Stacey White complained about the dead guy’s stuff still laying around, I thought you had the house completely emptied.’ ‘What of it?’ I asked. Greg leaned over to the ornately decorated mantle piece, pulling open the dresser drawer below the mirror and revealing a stack of haphazard papers and letters. ‘Can you take care of these?’ He insisted coldly, ‘I’ve got a last minute potential sale of that impossible property, 13 MacArthur Street. Can you believe my luck? We haven’t had a buyer for that place in years.’ I scowled into my neck as Leisdadt left via the rear entrance of the mansion. Grumbling and moving towards the papers, I cursed myself for so easily being persuaded to do what Greg could’ve done himself.
I mumbled, calling myself a sucker under my breath as I leafed through the papers.
Then, I turned over something which captured my interest. It was a sleek black diary, and as I turned the pages I came to realise that it had evidently belonged to Dimitrije. I flicked through the musty pages, seeing that the entries of the private journal dated up until the Serbian’s disappearance. I began to read with fascination and morose intrigue;
Here is the transcript of the more interesting parts of Dimitrije's diary: http://textuploader.com/dh4w4
Dimitrije Stojanovic died on the 13th of October, 2016.
The strange diary had a terrible effect on me. I became deeply paranoid that I was wedged within a catastrophic and deep conspiracy. Though I couldn’t fully understand the map laid out by the corners of my discoveries, there was enough of a pattern that I knew there was some terrible logic beneath it all.
I found the references to Vernon Towers and the architect ‘Von Marrickville’ extremely intriguing and began to further my own research on the property which was already familiar to me. I had always known that Vernon Towers was an old heritage building. But I had never researched the buildings actual construction. So it was, that I found out more about the strange creator, borrowing a book about the eccentric architect Veda Von Marrickville from Hexton library.
The book was fascinating. Von Marrickville, it turned out was a fairly prolific architect of the day, who was commissioned to build a series of buildings around Hexton city. Of particular interest to me, where the four or five buildings Von Marrickville built in a kind of arc around Port Phillip Bay, pointing towards Valsbury docks. Von Marrickville was a Dutch native who came out to Australia in 1834, one of the key buildings on the Port Phillip Bay side of Hexton was Vernon Towers, which I read to my astonishment was funded by a wealthy nobleman named Aaron De Montague. I couldn’t find out much about the De Montague family or their history in Australia, but I was beginning to think it must have been the same family as the De Montague whom I had met. Von Marrickville describe Vernon Towers as an ‘occult conduit’ and layered it with engraved symbology. He suffered a tragic fate, and wound up raving as an inmate in Bourkeley Asylum.
Since reading the diary, I have begun to experience strange anomaly. I visited Vernon towers myself, looking for a particular architectural feature. To my surprise and terror I saw one of the green glyphs mentioned by Dimitrije.
I tried to track down De Montage, however have not seen him since that odd encounter. Searching for families of that name, the only people I could come across in Hexton was a family living in Brunswick. When I went to visit I found them to be a strange family of Indonesians who incidentally suffered from an unusual diverse range of diseases. The youngest daughter suffered autism, whilst her brother was an extreme Down syndrome case, and the mother herself had mental health issues. I concluded that these De Montagues probably bore no relation to the man I had met, if indeed he hadn’t lied about his name.
Then there was the day I found that bizarre egg. It was about the size of a milk carton, all speckled and grey, but it was broken in half, as though it had hatched. Yet I was positive no animal could have produced the egg, and could only assume that it was a student art project or installation of some kind. In any case, it seemed unrelated to the other strange occurrences.
I feel as though my sanity has completely abandoned me, torn more and more towards the point of collapse. Leisdadt has sold the Serbian’s property, and I haven’t been to work for a week, for fear of the consequences with my boss.
But worse, I’ve started to smell a.... to sense something. Something that I recognise from Dimitrije’s descriptions in his diary. How is it possible to sense the form of something that you have never seen. To know it sometime. To dream of a shrieking thing that soars through a red sky.
That mosquito like head. Immense lizard like body, bone and ribs, like a sharks egg. Black leather wings.
There was a brown parcel that arrived in the mail. The statue inside matches the description given by Dimitrije. It’s so hideously disfigured. Does it represent the swimming demon in my dreams?
I examined the edges closely, and the inscription which seems to be flecked with blood. Could it be the murder weapon they used to bludgeon the Serbian? What of his shredded corpse, what tore his body apart? As I sit, hailed up in my lounge room trying to distract my mind with escapist television, and recording this journal on my IPad. I fear something unfathomable which seeks my destruction.
I can hear noises, am I hallucinating?
Dear God! That banging outside the house.
submitted by GoityePowerhouse to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]

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'Fake Bitcoin' - How this Woman Scammed the World, then ...

Bitcoin has been declared dead over 300 times... Special black Friday TDV subscription flash sale for a very limited time: http://dollarvigilante.com/flashsa... Thanks for watching! For donations: Bitcoin - 1CpGMM8Ag8gNYL3FffusVqEBUvHyYenTP8 GET THOR´S APPAREL https://hafthorbjornsson.com GET STRONG THE RIGHT WAY! https://thorspowerprogram.com STRONGEST GYM https://www.instagram.com/thorspowergym... Racing back from the shops one morning in his BMW 328, Gareth was dazzled by an oncoming car. The car was catapulted off the road. http://www.youtube.com/Off... This video is unavailable. Watch Queue Queue. Watch Queue Queue Queue

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