Soundtrack: Sun Ra - Atlantis (1969) Full Album

Odyssey of Dingbats opens with Pizzer and Sex at Costco’s Parking Lot: a man on a special needs class trip to Costco catches a guy getting head in his car.

Anyways

The Outsider

Consider the outsider artist: a creator with little to no concern with the expectations of modern art sensibilities. The appeal should be self evident. To those obsessive enjoyers of the arts, the outsider offers the rare opportunity to discover something truly different; and not different for the sake of being different, but different in its lack of awareness of the broader cultural zeitgeist.

But what makes an outsider artist? Can they even be aware that they ARE an outsider artist? It’s hard to say. To me, the distinction lies more in the spiritual realm than in the causal. A true outsider, in my eyes, is moved by something cosmic rather than the social.

I’d go so far as to classify someone like Lynch or Burroughs as Outsider, even though their work has reached a broader audience. To be an outsider, mainstream ambitions are in no way a disqualifier. It’s all about the path you take, the muse you follow, blind adherence to a higher power, and trust that it’s all going to work out in the end.

Odyssey of Dingbats is a collection of unsettlingly earnest stories, primarily concerning off-centered individuals. The lady at the front desk, normally a bit part, becomes the central protagonist in Colleen. A homeless man (who may be a wizard) is given center stage in The Troll: The Yellow Figure in the Green Cloak. A former sex symbol past her prime, addicts, schizophrenics, folks working thankless dead end jobs, these are the stars of Dingbats!

Thoughts Upon Finishing an Odyssey of Dingbats

Right off the bat, it needs to be said: the artwork is incredible. There’s at least one color picture (handrawn, photographed, or summoned from the depths of psychosis) to accompany every story. The art style is a mixture of grotesque caricatures, hazy creepypasta horrors, and googly eyes on random inanimate objects. It’s charming, endearing, totally appropriate.

I dog eared so many of Omar’s wonderful illustrations: the eyeless/noseless abomination from “The Chimp/Group Therapy”; the charmingly eerie elephant from “Old Man Searches for the Golden Elephant”; the eight images preceding “Lester”. I don’t know if I would have enjoyed the book half as much if it weren’t for the accompanying illustrations. Each harrowing portrait oozes with the obsessive joy he no doubt felt creating them.

The Stories

Omar definitely has a style. His sheepish, at times obscene, prose is slathered over every odd tale; whether he’s writing from the perspective of an old, saggy titted former starlet, or a demented crayon, his voice is distinctly Mr. Omar King.

I feel this style works best in the collection’s shorter stories. When marking my favorites (and there were quite a few), I noticed that the most impactful were the ones that came, flung shit at my face, and then hastily retreated back into the bushes. “Poisonous Apple” is literally a paragraph, and intense, absurdist energy is a punch to the gut (the accompanying image is, of course, very righteous.)

“Barnes & Noble and Homeless Schizophrenic” was a particularly touching piece, offering insight into Omar’s inner workings and literary fascinations. There are several micro stories towards the end of the book focused on his literary heroes, and I enjoyed them all. As much as I appreciate violence and absurdity, it was these brief windows into Omar’s psyche that effectively drew me in.

Who Is Mr. Omar King?

He is a Mr. Omar King, unapologetically so. Between the schizophrenic dialogue dumps and graphic masturbation, there are moments of sincere heartwork. This is the kind of material that won’t appeal to normies. It’s for weirdos and artists, the people who search through musty bins for long forgotten relics, the thrill of uncovering something overlooked.

An Odyssey of Dingbats! is a journey through the Goodwill of the soul. Good on New Ritual Press for giving this delightful individual a voice. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE. PICK IT UP HERE.

Previously on Nerve City: Lucky’s old partner is dead. Enter: Shutterfly, a bubbly pony with a nice set of kickers. Now the bossman, Chief Diddy, has hipped him to a troubling new development, one involving highly volatile energy generators called X-WEBs. Shutterfly already has the scoop on a potential lead: the historic brap brothel, Madam Le Pew’s House of Fumes. But with LePew’s being closed on Saturdays, Lucky is tasked with checking in on a petty untaxed snussy operation in the shitty part of town. Now, we return to Nerve City, where life is cheap, and death is a bargain.

3

The snake had a way with dick–truly a professional.

If you ain’t had a 130 pound boa in cheap lingerie curling her forked tongue around your carrot stick, forget about it. Just gotta keep real still, or she might just fang ya; some of em got that venom, ya know what I mean? I had this rattler back when I was just a greentail, fuck, cunt nearly pierced a hole through my nuts. Lucky for her, she was dealing with the old me, back when I thought there were consequences to my shitty behavior.

“No cop’sss ever fucked me like that,” she says, uncoiling from my achin’ fourteen incher.

“Was your pops too fat for the force?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a joke.”

“...”

“About you fucking your dad.”

I crack myself up.

“Eat a dick, pig,” she says. “You think we workin girlsss jussst exissst for you’re amusssement, like we don’t…”

She keeps yapping, but my mind is elsewhere right now, thinkin’ about Gruff, how’d he let a lil henpicker get the jump on him so easy? On the bright side, he’d finally graduated from this shithole, on to something more real…permanent.

They say all dogs go to heaven; for his sake, I hope they’re right.

“...and my kidsss living with hisss dad right now, court thinksss I’m still on the…”

And this Shutterfly situation, ponies on the force? Gimme a break. Might as well’ve partnered me with a marshmallow–it don’t feel right. Someone has it out for me.

“...so that’sss what I gotta deal with all fucking week.”

“Sounds rough. Got anything mellow? Maybe oughta loosen up a little.”

“Sure thing, Jack.”

Me and her split a Trembunox, half up her keister and half up mine. It’s the only way to ride with ‘nox. I can hear her saying right now, “You pick up that trick from the screwtails, Luck?” Yeah, maybe I learnt it from…screwin on the…your asshole…mom’s place…fuck…gettin…tired…my cock…

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

–phone’s buzzing in my trousers.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

Snowball–the old nag–probably wondering where I was yesterday–Jack’s big triathlon thing–fuck.

I pop a few of the scale slit’s Amps without asking and hit the hardwood.

“You better pay me for thossse.” She hisses.

“Damn, I’m all outta cash. You take cum shots?”

She hurls a mean streak of slurs. What the fuck do I care? I’ve heard them all; I ain’t lettin this two bit whore make me lose my cool–Smack–I give the bitch the back of my paw. Damn cop reflexes, guess I oughta follow through. I send another one across her face; she dodges this one. Damn snake reflexes.

“You want me to turn you and your no good pimp boyfriend in?”

She wipes the blood from her snout, glares with cold blooded contempt, but she knows better than to open that mouth of hers now.

“Here,” I say, tossing a sixty cred on the bed. “Tax free, bitch.”

I check the phone–Snowballs sent a pic of Jack getting his gold medal–the kid’s a champ, there’s no denying it–then, “Call me when you can.”

I turn around, see Selena washing down whatever pills she had left with a handle of Jack Rabbit.

I hop over just in time to snatch the bottle from her jaw, take a swig for the road.

“Ssstew meat,” she hisses.

“You wan’t another one?” I say, wiping my mouth with a bedsheet.

She recoils, slithers off to her dresser.

I watch the scaleback’s tits jiggle as she squeezes them into something sexy.

“Sssixty cred won’t get you far these daysss, and I still gotta give Robby hisss cut–”

“Shut it, calling my boss. Say one more word, and I’m booking you right here, got it?”

She shuts it. I can feel her sourpuss face without even lookin. Not my problem.

I ain’t callin Diddy–he’d see me whe see me–I’m callin Snowball, the other boss.

She answers.

“Lucky?”

“Hey toots, sorry I missed Jack’s thing yesterday, got called in last minute, guess some knife-wielding maniac thought it would be fun to take a couple of pups hostage and–”

“And you shot his fingers off before he could slit their throats.”

“Wow, how’d you know?”

“Because it’s the same story you told me last week.”

“Damn, good memory. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to him. Tell him I’m taking him out for carrot shakes. I’ll buy him a Playbunny. Hell, I’ll buy him a cigar, a Cuban.”

“I’m tired, Lucky.”

“So, take a nap.”

She groans. “It’s not that kind of tired, I just can’t…”

“Just can’t what?”

“I just don’t think I can go on like this. The STDs–”

“I would never!”

“–the pills–”

“That’s the old Lucky!”

“–and little Jack, it’s like he hasn’t even got a father. Have you seen his wrists? He’s all carved up! He says he got them slicing a zuccini, but I don’t believe him. He needs love in his life, Luck, a father’s love. He’s crying out for help, he’s…he’s in pain!”

“He ain’t turning gay, is he? He’s dead to me if he ever goes screwtail!”

“Fuck you, Lucky.”

She hangs up. For a fetish model turned housewife, she sure acts indignant.

I get dressed, snort an Amp in the bathroom, and blow, skippin any and all pleasantries. Don’t wanna be around when that snake realizes the cred card I left was junked.

Checkin my watch, the time’s already 6:15–shift ended fifteen minutes ago, and I got a stop to make on my way back to the precinct.

All that Amp I’d nabbed from last month’s big bust, well shit, I was down to my last little bottle. I’d been crushing up ten a day; what some might call a habit. For better or for worse, I manage it well.

There are some furs out there, all zonked out and kookoo kola; they’re seeing shit–crazy shit that ain’t there; the gey paranoid, start offin’ loved ones–wake up the next morning and they can’t remember nothin.

There was this koala last week; he was so spaced out, took ten bullets to convince him his coworkers weren’t all a bunch of pedophilic, demon worshipping space aliens. Some jokers just can’t handle themselves, ruin it for the rest of us functional types.

But what’re ya gonna do?

On my way to the station, I take a detour down Pawthorne, past the Litter King and the abandoned VFW, and to that most degenerate of territories, Scat Row. If I have to place a bet on it, that’s where I’d find who I was looking for.

I’m driving down 33rd, bobbing my head to a Whisker Dü record–an old punk band I used to catch playing at the Cat’s Paw, back when I was slinging Zoot and handing out free ass kickings. The guitar player and drummer were homos, but the fruity basst with the big handlebar mustache wasn’t. Go figure.

I turn left at the stop sign–when I see him: Smokey. The six foot seven dragon is strutting down Martin Lemur King Blvd in a tube top and fuck-me shorts, lookin’ like a hate crime waiting to happen. Unbelievable.

I roll down the window.

“Hey, fluffer, how’s the butt business?”

Up close, the guy’s a fuckin wreck–eyes dark and swollen, scales all scabbed and flaky–

“Hard at work, Mr. Policeman?” Smokey says all fruity. “Or should I say, Mr. Pain?”

Mr. Pain, huh?

“Cute nickname, Smoke. How much of the good stuff can I score for this?”

I hold up a wrinkled cred code I’d nicked from some punk’s leather Jacket. He plucks the slip gingerly from my paw, holds it up to the sun to make sure it’s legit, then stuffs it down his crotch.

I can’t believe my own eyes, the puffer sticks his hand behind his tail, squats, and pulls out a short bag of orange powder.

“You just pull that outta your fuckin ass?”

“Be careful, Mr. Pain,” he lisps, tosses the baggie into the passenger seat. “The world is dying–slow now, but faster every day!”

“Sure, puffer, whatever you say.”

I stick the goods in my pocket, trying not to think about where it’s been.

“Say, you ain’t happened to hear anything about the fox who retired Gruff the other night?”

Smoke shrugs, says, “Sounds like your old partner got an early ascension. Must be nice.”

The way that motherfucker says it–I hop out, wind up, and slug the son of an iguana in his scaly gut. A puff of smoke blows out his nostrils. He folds like a bad hand.

“Choke on a tail, ya goddamn yiffer.”

Just to drive the point home, I kick him square in the dick. He yowls, clutching his baby carrot.

Violence, the official language of Fur City.

“Process…” Smokey manages to choke out. “...You’re just the…hngh…process.”

On my way to the car, I say, “Don’t you ever talk about a dead cop like that again. Acension. Fuck off. He’s gettin processed like everyone else in this rat trap, and with this new attitude you got, you’re lookin to be next in line.” I start rolling the window up, then roll it back down. “And if this shit you sold me is kibble, I’m coming back to finish your greasy ass off.”

The bastard doesn’t even get up. Just lays there on the sidewalk like he’s making a pavement angel. I got half a mind to back up over him, but that fruitcake’d probably be grateful for it. That’s when I catch myself smiling. For the first time in months, I’m actually fuckin smiling.

Mr. Pain. Yeah, that’s me.

On the drive back to the station, Smoke’s words are weasling their way back into my brain–was that gonna be me someday? Two years ago, the puffer was riding high, every week, he was pulling in sugar daddies, yiffers with fast cars and three hundred-cred haircuts.

I got a special place in my trunk for yiffers, so naturally, I kept Smokey hot on my radar. After his seventh bust, he finally learned how to stay out of trouble. Always kept an extra bag with my name on it.

He’s cooked now, brains leaking out his double wide asshole all over Pawthorne. I swear, I could do twenty mils a day, and I’d never come out that fucked–and if I ever do get to that point, I just hope someone has the decency to sleep me fast.

←Chapter 2

I don’t read plays. I refuse. So when Daniel Gavilovski’s Carbon Pages came across my desk, I went into reading it with a fair amount of apprehension.

Thankfully, the preface (written at the insistence of the publisher) assured me that what I was about to dive into was intended to stand on its own, that the three stories within are to be considered ‘closet plays’ (a term I was, to this point, unaware of).

The ‘Closet Play’ Format

Having finished the three closet plays included in this collection, the preface makes more sense to me than it did the first time around, and I am glad it was included. There isn’t much tying the three pieces together thematically; their true commonality is the interesting manner in which they are presented: as a sort of theater of the mind. This alone would become one of the most interesting aspects of the collection, an idea so obvious yet one that had never occurred to me until I read Carbon Pages.

The format Gavilovski has chosen really works. The dialogue is, of course, the bulk of the content, appearing as it would in a standard play:

GUY’S NAME IN ALL CAPS: How do you do, m’lady?

GIRL’S NAME IN ALL CAPS: I like cream cheese.

And then we have what would normally be text comprising stage directions and location and all that play crap that, while useful in directing a performance, is not very satisfying on the page. Yes, this voice does set the scene and fills in some context around the dialogue, but it also acts as a voice for the author, this unseen specter looming in the background of the three plays. With this expositional text, we are not only told where people are and what they are doing, but also given small quips and informal ad-libs that strangely gel with the dialogue within its borders.

In terms of genre, the three plays span a broad range. The first play, Cognito Hazard, is a horror comedy in the style of an old Grand Guignol, whose story fits cozily into its post-war Italian bordello setting.

The second play, the longest of the three (and the most captivating), is No Weapon Formed Against You, a sort of historical epic chronicling the exploits of three extremely fierce political thinkers in post soviet Russia.

The third is Boring and Broke in Buenos Aires, a kind of literary slice of bohemia set in the imaginary land of “Buenos Aires.”

The Plays

I typically have something in mind when I jump into a piece of fiction, some kind of vibe I’m expecting to be treated to. It was a bit of a chore to reorient my brain and frames of reference with each piece, but once I was settled in, I found each work highly enjoyable.

Cognito Hazard

Cognito Hazard was fun, freaky, and full of atmosphere. I would be happy to see this one performed on stage, but it worked pretty well within the confines of my own brain. Horror and eeriness are my literary go-tos, and this one delivered. I’m not sure if I’m intelligent enough to pick up on the grander concept being conveyed here, but the characters and setting were engaging and, importantly, fun.

No Weapon Formed Against You

No Weapon Formed Against You has to be the best of the bunch.

Admittedly, it took me a while to properly sink my teeth into this one, but once I figured out that this was, in fact, based on real fucking people, I was enthralled. Up to this point, I had no idea what Nazbols were. Now that I do, I have so many new books on my to-buy list.

No Weapon Formed Against You spans multiple years, following the lives of three eccentric Russian figures: Alexander Dugin, a political theorist and (former?) occultist; Ed Limonov, a poet, political extremist, and professional womanizer; and finally Igor Letov, a punk musician and political radical whose music also happens to be really fucking cool (The noisy punk stuff especially).

These three guys get together and wreak havoc on the Russian Underground during a time in which Western fuckery was at its peak. I can see why America wouldn’t want to give these guys too much attention, because what they’re on about actually sounds really fucking cool (if not completely insane). It all just led me to wonder: what if Stalin was…cool?

Boring and Broke in Buenos Aires

The last play, Boring and Broke in Buenos Aires, though not as exciting as the first two, is nonetheless a nice enough read. It’s an interesting end to the book, sort of a reflection on life as a based, indie /lit author (minus all the money, pussy, and prestige, obviously). On reflection, it’s not a bad note to end things on. Again, it is another tonal shift from the first two, but why the hell not?

Conclusion

Throughout, Gavilovski’s voice is consistent: Acerbic, confident, and unmistakably Slavic. There is a bit of an ______ style to the prose that I found quite enjoyable. It works especially well with the second play (you know, the Soviet one), but it’s no less out of place in the other two.

Oh, and the illustrations by Luis Perez-Banus are amazing! Reminded me of Steadman’s drawings for Fear and Loathing. Hideously satisfying.

I’m giving Carbon Pages one of my highest recommendations. Not only was it an engaging read, but it also sent me off on other literary/musical tangents (I have to get my hands on a bootleg copy of Eduard Limonov’s, “It’s Me Eddie”, which is currently hovering around a modest 1,300 dollar on Amazon). Another success for Unreal Press and a definite success for Daniel Gavilovski.

Pick it up here. Pick it up here. Pick it up here. Pick it up here. Pick it up here. Pick it up here.

by Phil Rot

“We will make WEB so cheap that only the rich will burn bio.”

— Friedrich Von Antelope, co-inventor of the WEB

“Sex, Lies, and Cred: FCPD Officer Accused of Shaking Down Untaxed Prostitutes in Lucrative Extortion Scheme”

— The Daily Fur, April 1st, 2037 edition

2

“You look like the shit I took at Mardi Paws,” Chief Diddy says. “I don’t know if I should give you the news or tell the janitor to come in and scrub your ass off the floor.”

“First, you can let me know the name and location of the shit rag who sleep’d Gruff.”

“A no good screwtail from the South side, that’s who, and he’s napping in a body bag right now, so what’s it to you?”

I damn near stamp a hole through the fuckin floor.

“You said the fluffer was in the hospital.”

Diddy leans back in his chair, sounding ready to snap under his weight. Despite his girth, the monkey’s all muscle, which includes the inside of his skull. Brains or not, size equals respect, a commodity in short supply around this precinct.

“Found the rat smothered to death this morning. Looks like someone beat you to it.” He lights a banana leaf cigar, tosses the match on the floor. “If you’re out for blood, I could actually use your killer instinct right now. Seems the no-good cock snout might’ve leaked a little intel to one of the nurses before the goons hit his snooze button.”

“No shit?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the political shit going on right now, ISIS–the feline terrorists who hate our freedom and commitment to the protection of Micerael–all that crap–seems they’ve been trying to secure these hot new shits called ‘X-WEBs,’ WEBs so strong they can power an energy bomb with a blast radius bigger than six Fur Citys.”

“X-WEBs, huh? You think I could snag one of those for my shit bucket? Thing’s about ready to shit out at any minute.” I ain’t kidding, a new WEB for my ride’d set me back 2000 creds easy.

“Spare me your poverty, Lucky. Here’s the deal: the Mouse Mob’s somehow gotten access to these new X-WEBs, and they’re looking to sell to the highest bidder, and word on the street is it’s ISIS. Why they’d sell bomb making materials to a people who want to destroy their species’ holy land is, to me, fucking confusing. But I’m no geopolitical strategist, I’m a fuckin gorilla with a comfy salary, so what do I know? Now, if I haven’t said it yet, my condolences about your old partner, he was a good cop, despite the, uhh, allegations. Mark rest his soul.”

We both bow our heads respectfully.

“Alright, let’s cut the sentimentals. I’m ready to hit the beat. Whose civil rights am I violating today?”

“I ain’t sending you to Scat Row, stew meat, I’m putting you on the X-WEB case.”

“What?”

“That’s right, Lucky. You’re getting a promotion. No more trap houses and tug joints for you. You’ve got talent,” he’s really buttering me up here, “I need you on this case.”

A knock at the door.

“Ah, perfect timing, come in!”

As the Chief says, “Lucky, I want you to meet your new partner,” in trots the perkiest little pony you ever laid eyes on. She’s got that classic mare next door charm, soft coat, eyes big as beach balls, and curves in all the right places. She prances across the floor like its made out of marshmallows, and suddenly, the whole office smells like cinnamon rolls.

“Lucky, this is Detective Shutterfly. She’s just transferred here from East Cloppington. She’ll be working the X-WEB case with you.”

She may be a pony, but the mare is a knockout. Long, rainbow hair, Big ol’ blue eyes, an ample tuckus, and a cute little mouth I wouldn’t mind filling–guess I got a thing for ladies who stand on all fours.

“Hi, Lucky!” She squeals. “It’s, like, so good to meet you!”

The bitch is bubblier than peroxide on a stripper pole.

“You too, sugartail.”

“Hey, have some respect, stew meat. Shutter here’s a decorated officer, she’s the one who busted up Jonny Claws and the Panther Gang.”

“Six tons of cub porn confiscated!” she chirps, clearly giddy about her accomplishment. “Oh, and ten whole pounds of Ampersol!”

Ten fuckin pounds–just the thought of that much Amp gets my paws itchy.

“Excited are we, Lucky?” Diddy says.

“What? Oh, yeah. Can’t wait to bust this case wide open,” I say, eyeing my new partner’s ass…ets.

The pony catches me staring at her tattoo, a cross between a pentagram and a heart on her hindquarters. She must like it up the ass.

“Yeah, I’m totes excited too! Looks like that fox was able to give up a name before boarding the processing plant express.”

“Oh yeah?” I say.

“Uh huh! Madam Le Pew. She runs the House of Fumes! Guess he was bragging to the nurse about all of his sleazy connections.”

“Ah, jeez, the brap house?”

“Yeah! I did some digging through the files, made a couple of calls, and guess what? It turns out Madam Le Pew is the widow of Mickey Rat, head assassin of the Mouse Mob!”

She jumps, clicks her hooves in the air.

“That right?”

“Yep, and I’ve got a super great idea! We’ll dress you up like a regular John, and you can ask one of the brap girls for a little under the table, then, if she agrees, bammo–start talking or face the wall!”

Mark’s ass, this chick’s air-head shtick is getting old quick.

“And when do you propose we pull this little number off?”

“Well, they’re closed today on account of Cat Nippur, so I don’t know how about hmm…tomorrow??!”

“Chief?”

“What,” he says between puffs.

“You think this is a match made in heaven, huh?”

“She gets results, Luck, that’s what matters. Now, you two beat it and find me a lead on this X-WEB business. Fur City is counting on you, capisce?”

“You got it, Chiefy!” Shutter squeals. The spunky mare clops out the door like she won the shit eating sweepstakes.

The chief, perhaps noticing the look in my eyes, says, “Hey, keep your dick in your fucking trousers.”

“Course, Chief, what do I look like, a scumbag?”

“Yeah. Also, this is your last chance, Lucky. Nab these X-WEB smugglers, and you’ll be the hero of the fucking year, but if you cause another embarrassment for the force, you’re getting shit-canned. Got it?”

“Wow. Thanks for believing in me, Chief.”

“I’m sending you and Shutterfly to Le Pews first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, go check in on that operation on Silversnake. Word is, a certain python is serving up untaxed snussy to anyone with the cred. See about making an example of her. Just don’t touch the merchandise, got it?”

“Message received.”

“Good. Now get lost.”

Prostitution is a perfectly respectable line of work. In Fur City, no sex act is above commercialization–so long as the government gets a bite. This wouldn’t be an issue if they didn’t ask for such a large slice of the pie. Fur City is lousy with girls trying to make a quick cred without the hassle of filing. Thankfully, fine officers like myself were more than willing to uphold the tax code–I mean, who do you think pays our salaries?

Still, 25% is a pretty steep cut, so I got my own program set up, kind of a charity thing: the girls let me sample their merchandise, and I might look the other way while they pocket a little textbook money. That’s called giving back to the community.

There’d be none of that charity work today, though. Diddy had laid it on thick with his dress down back there. As I pulled out of the station, the last thing on my mind was fuckin up any harder than I already had. But Diddy had said to check on that Silversnake operation—and a little untaxed snussy was just the thing to clear my head before hitting the brap house tomorrow.

No–that was the old Lucky, the new Lucky, I’d been handed a second chance, I could crack this new case, get on the front page of NewsHub, maybe even hatefuck my new partner, all I had to do was keep my nose clean–

Ah, who am I kidding?

I snort an Amp off the dashboard and hit the freeway to Silversnake Drive…

Next time on Nerve City: Snake sex, a hopped-up homosexual dragon, and more vulgar language as Lucky’s world slowly descends further into madness…

←Chapter One Chapter Three—>

The following interview was set to appear on the popular Furtoonz Blog before the allegations against Furtoonz surfaced, and the blog was temporarily shut down. Until all the evidence is compiled and Furtoonz is judged by a jury of their peers, all parties remain innocent. This interview is being released via Phil’s Substack because the editor believes it holds artistic significance.

Furtoonz: Phil, how’s it going?

Phil: Great, thanks for reaching out.

Furtoonz: Nerve City, what is it?

Phil: Nerve City is a gritty, post-technocratic, cyber-dystopian, extreme-furry noir novella that I’m releasing in pieces on Substack. So far, I’ve just released the Prelude and Chapter One. Gonna release a new chapter every other week. Oh, and Hunter Vibin does original artwork for each one. Heh.

Furtoonz: Have you always been interested in the furry fandom?

Phil: No, not really, heh.

Furtoonz: So what inspired you to write a cyber… whatever furry noir novel thing, lol?

Phil: Well, that’s a good question. I guess I just thought there was a lot of money in it for me. You know, furries tend to have lucrative careers in, like, coding and computer stuff. Autism basically. Elon is a furry–a diaper fur, actually. So, I figured I could orient myself in that direction. Heh.

Furtoonz: Not ALL of us are autistic, you know, lol.

Phil: Cool.

Furtoonz: So you haven’t done any furry or anthro stuff before? What are your other novels about?

Phil: You didn’t read them?

Furtoonz: No.

Phil: Oh. I sent them over. Did the files not work?

Furtoonz: I don’t know.

Phil: Okay. Well, my other books are typically about other things people like. My first novel, The Raft, was about a guy and his brother going rafting. The other novel, The Moon is Gay, was about the moon. Plus, I write a lot of stuff for Substack. Usually, I just figure out what people like and try to capitalize on it. I’m trying to make money, heh.

Furtoonz: Nice. So, did you do any research for your new novel series? Like, did you get involved in the community at all? Or read any furry lit?

Phil: Yeah, I started going to the meetups. Ya know, conventions and private get-togethers and stuff. I bought a suit.

Furtoonz: OMG, you jumped in the deep end!

Phil: Yeah, heh.

Furtoonz: Can I ask you your fursona?

Phil: Sure.

Furtoonz: What is it?

Phil: I’m a Vulpine. A fennic fox, heh.

Furtoonz: Can you show me??

Phil: Sure, I’ll put it on. Hold on.

(ten minutes later)

Phil: Okay, how do I look?

Furtoonz: Amazing! OMG, the mouth moves?

Phil: Yeah, heh. It set me back a bit. $9,560.

Furtoonz: It looks incredible! Where’d you get it done? Was that a custom commission?

Phil: Yeah, Made Fur You. I told them I wanted something more functional, you know, something that would feel immersive. It’s cool. I sent them a Life-Doll© I had made of myself a year ago, so they had my exact proportions and weight and stuff, heh.

Furtoonz: Hold on, a “life-doll?” What the flip is that??

Phil: You know, it’s like a Realdoll©, but it has this internal heating and breathing thing, you know, like, it feels like me if I was sleeping. Same body temp, chest rises and falls, makes little sounds. Heh. You fill it with water, but the skin is made of this synthetic material that’s essentially real skin, but off by one chemical. It smells like me, too.

Furtoonz: That’s nuts!

Phil: Yeah, heh, this guy in Arizona makes them. You have to sleep in this thing overnight that maps your body with all of these pressure-sensitive–um, essentially dull-headed needles. It’s hard because you have to lie completely still on your back, and I’m a side sleeper, while this thing hovers over the needles, gently pressing them into your skin, and there’s this computer that makes this humming noise. Thankfully, his partner, who’s a furry by the way, is a clinically trained anesthesiologist, and so I was out for, like, fourteen hours. Ten weeks later, I had my Life-Doll waiting for me at the post office.

Furtoonz: That is so freakin cool!

Phil: You have to be careful, though, if you leave it outside. The material–the skin- can get sunburned just like regular skin, and it can develop these nasty blisters. I left mine out at the beach one time and forgot about it, and the next day I went back to get it, and it looked like that dyed-red pork substitute you get in Chinese fried rice. Thankfully, there’s this lotion you can get for it, but you have to order it from Iraq, so it takes a while to make it Stateside. Heh.

Furtoonz: Why Iraq?

Phil: It has something to do with the animal it’s made from, or how it’s made, actually. I looked it up. Apparently, there are a lot of laws in most countries about what you can or cannot do in terms of processing animals. Like, in most countries, you have to source your product from an animal that’s already expired. With this particular product, I guess the animal has to be conscious. The animal has to, like, be afraid of the thing that’s scraping and exfoliating it. Something about cortisol, or something like that. Anyways, it’s considered “cruel” in the United States to do that to this specific animal as they are expiring. Which is crazy, because we eat chickens and cows all the time. Heh.

Furtoonz: What kind of animal is it?

Phil: I forgot. Heh.

Furtoonz: So, who should read Nerve City, your serialized cybergoth furry thing on Substack??

Phil: Furries, programmers, business professionals, college students, Japanese people–basically anyone would enjoy it, really. It’s got violence, sexual occasions, heavy drug use, lots of swear words. It’s not really for kids, but I’m sure they’d like it, probably even more than adults would.

Furtoonz: Awesome! Thanks so much for talking with us. Maybe we’ll bump tails at a con sometime??

Phil: Heh. Yeah sure.

by Phil Rot

As we compound falsification in the name of escaping it, we are only doing what comes naturally to us, as the heirs of Adam and Eve, except that, whereas in the past the illusion was attired in the incomparably resplendent beauty of antique fairy mystification, it now heralds the end of the revel through the banal mask of Microsoft plastic.

—Michael A. Hoffman, Preface to the 1995 edition of Secret Societies and Psychological Warfare

“My occupation now, I suppose, is jail inmate.”

—Theodore Kaczynski

Prelude

The cum scented rain pounds against my windshield—she lulls me into an unsettling euphoria—outside my car the city yiffs like a pegged labrador—I watch it all go down—two Golden retrievers DP a squirrel in Mark’s Park–the old lady outside the Barkmore Hotel is waving her pussy at a group of cubs walking home from school–the city yiffs–I watch it all go down like a twice-jaded cuck–

An hour earlier I’d been in the pisser turning my pockets wallet and socks inside out–the Zebra the one with the tits she’d ran off with my bag I just know it–woulda gone back to the station smelling like arsenic to raid the evidence locker–that is, if I hadn’t already done that the night before—have plenty of stuff back home–but I don’t wanna go home–never go home–

–why does it hurt?

I get out–let the car run—walk past the gambling joint on Pawthorne–a thumb drive full of confiscated creds in my jacket pocket–no harm no foul–the drunk outside says something about my ears–you talking to me–flash the .44–I think–he says do it and I laugh–something happens next but I can’t seem to remember what–wish Gruff coulda seen the look on that fluffers face–but he’s workin late tonight–his loss–

Stomach hurtin like I swallowed a crowbar–sidewalk feels itchy or maybe its my shoes–this ostrich bitch steps out in front of me–asks if I like feet–you hidin a bag between your toes I say–no–but if it’s not these toes crushing your ballsack then whats your pleasure–Amp, I say–dust or whole–she says follow me my boyfriend gots plenty–I say fuck it lead the way sister–

–I don’t remember.

Follow her down an alley–mousetrap graffiti on the walls–that’d get you locked up in most states but not here–not yet–someones old dragon headed dildo in a puddle of energy piss–she stops walkin opens this door next to a dumpster and I almost step inside like I was born last week–almost–

What’s your boyfriend do I say–he owns this hotel she says–and you gotta work outdoors I say–I like the fresh air she says–she says–something ain’t adding up–Lupo, she shouts–got a guy who needs something from ya–someone shouts back through the door–okay you trying to score or just fuckin around she says–I know I shouldn’t–I know I’m an idiot for it–but my hearts poundin and my palms are sweatier than a hippos asscheeks–I step inside–

–ever find yourself doin somethin strange?

The first wolf knocks me across the skull with something that feels like a sock full of quarters–the second jabs me in the ribs–time slows down and I’m falling in reverse–hand hits the piece like I’m scratching a testicle–full set of jaws lock in on my forearm–my gun’s in the other arm–upswing–finds its first target–the wolf’s chest spatters–pink cloud of dead yip–the next two gunshots aren’t mine–the next six are–

I could tell you were a fucking cop she says–I can tell your boyfriend’s dead shitneck I say motioning to the pile of soggy red meat that took a bite outta my arm–you think hes got some Amp in his pocket or do I have to kill you too–she says check him I don’t fuckin know–no I say–you’re gonna check him–she reaches her fingers into the dead pricks pocket but I step on em–crunch–she squawks like she just laid an egg–check him with that nice beak of yours I say–

–is this really me?

While her head’s down there fishing around the dead wolf’s pockets I get to feeling up her underfeathers–she’s warm–a little damp from the rain–nice piece of ass–finger finds her egg hole–she makes a noise I don’t particularly like–now she feels the barrel against her head–she braces herself–I was looking for a fix ma’am–instead I got two homicides on my paws–the least you could do is take that dick like a good bird–she cries–I’m hard–

I finish up–she thanks me for not killing her–little early to be thankin me I say–finishing in a whore usually calms me down–maybe it’s the withdrawals–I knock her head like a sandbag–scramble her brains so good probably forget this ever happened–I won’t stick around to find out–

–wet fur.

Stop by Roary’s Liquors on the way home–grab a pint of Jack off the rack–pull a pack of Mellowz off the rotating display–the lion behind the counter gives me the side eye–workin late? he says–shut the fuck up I say–I pop two Mellowz right in front of him–wash em down with the Jack–right in front of him–he doesn’t say shit–

All out of cum and all outta Amp I make my way back to the car–the city is my bitch–I don’t care what anyone thinks–I got cloaca goo on my cock and the Mellowz almost get me there–I don’t care what anyone thinks–Fur City’s my bitch–and I fuck her the way I like–Amp or no Amp–

–no Amp.

Stone statue Emperor Mark staring down at me–Eat pellets, fluffer–you don’t own me, Mark–no one owns me–Fur City is my bish now–I fuck her the way I like–

I get in the vehicle sloshed–vision spinning–eyes crossed–not a problem–this badge is my drunk driver’s license–look out world–here I cum–

1

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*Studies have found that using Ampersol regularly can potentially lead to depression, anxiety, mood swings, dysphoria, euphoria, trouble sleeping, trouble staying awake, rapid onset tooth decay, brittle bones, waking nightmares, losing grip on reality, homicidal ideation, weight loss, and weight gain, matricide, suicide, and death. Consult your physician before ingesting Ampersol. Call poison control immediately if you think you have accidentally ingested Ampersol.”

Fuck. They’re still playing the old ads? the ones with the old men pushing kids on swings, partying on the beach, dancing at weddings. Ampersol. Amps. I popped a couple this morning. Haven’t vomited or hit my head on any hard surfaces yet. I almost feel normal–given the amount of booze I drank last night, I’d call that a miracle. If it weren’t for the dry blood caked to my fur, I’d think it’d been any other kinda night.

That’s the miracle of Amp–one or two, and all the weight of the consequences of your own actions melts off like hot wax. My doc’d set me up good with a three month supply, wouldn’t give me shit when I came in asking for a refill after only six weeks. The ride was good while it lasted, but like all good things, some Lynx had to go schizo, slice up his whole family, set fire to his home, and, essentially, fuck it all up for everyone.

In steps daddy government to solve the problem.

A couple months ago–or was it six?–Emperor Mark, typical control freak, banned the sale of Amp in all of Fur City. I was part of the clean-up crew. On the Chief’s orders, we confiscated over twelve shipping containers of the stuff coming in from Dog Kong. If you couldn’t have guessed, I–ah shit, forgot my manners.

The name’s Lucky. Not a nickname. Mom actually named me that. She sure had a sense of humor.

I’m a cop, if you hadn’t figured that out yet, the only rabbit on the force. Despite the stereotypes us longears get, I’ve heard some refer to me as the meanest son of a bitch on the force. You might’ve heard about me in the local news, “Sex, Lies, and Trafficking in the FCPD,” “Cop Kills Innocent Leopard Teen,” a pack of lies cooked up by the mouse run press. The Department’s got my back, so they can all go fuck their mothers–but I digress.

The old Amp ad ends, cuts to a local fluff piece about some teen triathlon. I guess some kid got a medal for running fast. What a fucking accomplishment. Nice to see a news story that doesn’t involve me for a change.

I zombie walk to the can—the first shit of the morning. Already know it’s gonna be a long wait. Been backed up like a whorehouse shitter since the Muts won the World Series. Maybe it was the nachos–us rabbits’ guts ain’t built for cheese, but goddamn if it ain’t worth it.

I get out my cell phone. Might as well jerk it while I wait. What’ll it be today? I’m thinkin Doe’s.

Before the DeerTube ‘for me’ page can load, fuckin call comes through–FCPD.

“What?”

“Lucky.”

It’s Diddy. The Chief.

“I’m off today, in case you hadn’t bothered to check.”

“No, you’re not. New schedule went out last Friday.”

“No one told me.”

“It’s posted every fucking week in the breakroom.”

“I don’t use the breakroom, too many cops in there.”

“Not my problem, dipshit.”

“True.”

“Hey, I got some heavy shit for ya. Are you sitting down?”

“I’m taking a shit, so yeah.”

“Gruff’s dead.”

The twelve inch turd in my gut drops like a grand piano.

“Whaddya mean, ‘Gruff’s dead’?”

“He got whacked. Last night. He and Frisco and Denny were shaking down a low-level ratfuck. They busted a studio apartment on 3rd street, looking for something big. They found the goods, but not the suspect. Well, Gruff gives the guy’s kitchen a second sweep. This cunt faced fox pops out from under the sink, stabs him in the back, right through the fuckin lung.”

A fox. Of course, it was a fuckin fox.

“Tell me you’re joking–April fuckin Fools, right?”

“It’s June, Lucky.”

I check. He’s right.

“They were lookin for smuggled WEBs, not the regular kind either, these new ones. X-WEBs. Not the shit you buy at the grocery store. How the bastard got his hands on it, Mark only knows.”

“Where’s the hen humping sonofabitch that sleep’d Gruff–”

“He’s in the hospital. Denny managed to shoot him in the spine–thought he’d sleep’d em, but the ambulance arrived just in time to save the stupid fuck.”

Gruff, the guy who had had my back after the Jolly Mart mix up (accidently off’d the store clerk), the guy who defended me after the Fur City Park incident (the kid was waving a water gun, but it sure as hell didn’t look like no water gun), and he’d even handled my situation with the Bust A Predator guy (hard to catch predators in a wheelchair now, isn’t it?) and Gruff never had a problem with my habits, so long as I got the job done. That’s the kind of partnership you can’t put a price tag on.

“So that’s it, huh? Some asshole snuffs my partner, hell, my best friend, and he gets off with just a scratch? Ain’t no fucking justice in this world. None.”

“Ain’t it the truth. Hey, saw your kid on TV this morning. Congrats.”

“What?”

“Yeah, kid won that big triathlon thing, right? He’s a champ! Tell the little scamp I said congratulations. You must be proud.”

I check the local news on my phone and, sure as shit, there’s my boy Jack, getting a gold medal over his neck by a busty cat in a green bodysuit. Damnit, that’s why Snowball kept calling yesterday. She’s gonna be pissed. Instead of showing up for him, I’d spent the day strung out at Ardy’s Bingo Parlor, and after that, I–

“Uh, yeah. I took him out for carrot shakes.”

“Well, tell the kid I said congratulations. Again, sorry about Gruff. He was one tough motherfucker–and a damn good cop. One more thing.”

“What?”

“The media ain’t letting the whole whore thing go, or you shootin that dumb kid. If you’re caught shakin down one more prostie, or pullin that weapon on any underprivileged furmunities, you’re finished.” Could tell by his tone that he meant it this time. “In the meantime, this whole ‘X-WEB’ business might be a boon for your reputation, take the attention off recent indiscretions. That being said, you’re on thin ice with a dumbbell tied to your nuts. Got it?”

“Diddy, my old partner’s gettin reprocessed. Can’t the threats wait til tomorrow?”

“Not a chance. See you soon.”

Chief hangs up. What a fuck.

So not only had my best friend been off’d, I’d missed Jack’s race thing to boot. The wife’d give me hell for that–a fall down the stairs could solve that problem–fuck, there I go again–as if violence could solve all my problems.

I pull up my shorts, open the drawer next to the sink. The old Men’s Multivitamin bottle rolls into view. I’d filled it full of Amps a week ago, best hiding spot in all of Fur City. I shake three pills into my paw–naw, two will do for now. I put one back, then take the rest to the bathroom counter. Crush em up, snort em up.

I take a look in the mirror. It ain’t pretty. How the fuck did I age twenty years in one goddamn night–my ears are droopy, tired. I got panda eyes. My nose is all swollen, too. I wipe the excess Amp off my shnozz, lick it off my palm. I pluck an ingrown whisker out. It’s a bleeder. I stick a toilet paper tab on it.

Then, like a drunk husband, it hits—a rush of euphoria, itchy paws, total body orgasm. I’m melting...

…the cold tile feels good. I spot a couple of nail clippings under the sink. Snowball ain’t cleaned up the place in months. Cunt.

Somethin’s watchin—two little yellow orbs–fuckin lemur staring at me through a crack in the wood–creeps out all quiet like–gets right up in my face—I’m too weak to swing—lemur says, “You’re a piece of shit, Lucky. You know that?”

“I’d say I probably know it the most.”

“But you’re a very special piece of shit. You’re gonna do something amazing for me. You wanna know what that is?”

“No, I like surprises.”

“Here, look at this.”

The lemur holds up his phone.

I get up off my back, and I’m standing head to head with a fucking toenail-sized primate.

He hands me the phone–there’s a video cued up–fuck it–I hit play–the video opens with a row of tables–people on em–dull, sterile lighting–the things on the tables–they look fucked–look like hairless apes–no, not quite apes–something else–a little pig-like in the face–flat faced–ugly.

Two guys–lemurs judging by the eyes and tails–in scrubs walk in and hoist one of the… things off the table–video cuts to this dimly lit, grainy doctor’s office, liminal, like a dentist’s office after hours–lemurs come in–plop a pigface on the operating table–leave.

“What’s this?”

The lemur motions to the phone–guess I gotta watch–

Something silver–a metal ball on a pole–descends from the ceiling–moves slow, stops a couple of feet above the pigface thing–a tiny arm pops out of the orb–little scalpel at the end–another robotic arm comes in from off camera–a small spinning saw.

Flash–the arms plunge into its guts–hacking, sawing–the fuckin thing wakes up–thrashing–panicked–trying to struggle from the clamps–real grimey snuff movie shit–

“Tryin to spook me, cocksucker?”

I hand the phone back.

The fuck says, “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“What about this?”

It tries to hand the phone back. I smack it out of his hand.

“I ain’t watchin’ anymore of your shit. My buddy just died.”

It scowls.

“That’s assault,” the lemur says.

It snatches up its phone, hops onto the sinks, scurries through the wall. Unbelievable.

My body shakes–tremors–I shoot up off the ground–puke in the sink–tastes like Jack and carrot–

After a puke, I feel great, like I’d just gotten a full body massage. My mind’s warm, cozy, wrapped up in a warm blanket–fresh out the dryer. Whatever the fuck that was, I feel a whole lot better now.

It’s the weekend, so the wife and Jack should be home. I tiptoe out of the bathroom, down the stairs, feeling like a teen sneaking off to see her boyfriend. Why should I give a shit? They already hate my guts.

The house is dead silent. Maybe they moved out? Then I notice the note slapped to the front door. High as I feel, I have to squint while I read it, as if it could soften the blow of whatever bullshit I was about to learn–

Taking Jack to the dentist.

Please be home tonight.

The dentist. How much would that bill set us back?

Poor Jack–strapped in that chair, drills and saws in his mouth–screams–lemurs in medical masks hunched over him in cold excitement–

I feel my heart palpitating–is that the word? Palpitating?

Work would get my mind off this lemur shit–the routine, the drudgery–that’s what I need right now.

And maybe, just maybe, pimps’d have some new girls workin today.

As my hand twists the knob, I think I can make out, faintly, the whir of a dentist’s drill coming from Jack’s room.

Next Time, on Nerve City — Lucky meets his plucky new partner, and learns about the dangerous development threatening the entire population of Fur City…

Chapter 2—>

Below the following article, you will find a set of reflection questions. Please fill them out in the space provided or in the comment section. The Bonus Questions are optional but may help you gain a deeper understanding of the article.

When Helen Keller Stood Up to Hitler

You might think the Holocaust wasn’t a very exciting time in German history, but you would be mistaken. In 1941, right after the first bombs landed on Dresden, Helen Keller was on a speaking tour at the behest of famed scientist Albert Einstein. One of her tour stops happened to be in Germany, where people of Jewish descent were being rounded up to be placed in camps called “concentration camps.” They were called concentration camps because they were concentrations of specific populations that the Nazis deemed “subversive.”

One of these concentration camps was called Auschwitz, and it was here that Helen Keller chose to give her first lecture in Germany. While there, Helen Keller, who was not of Jewish descent, was appalled by the abuse and mistreatment the Nazis subjected the Jewish People to. She decided to dedicate her entire speech to the Jewish people. She even let a poor Jewish family tickle her onstage.

The Confrontation

When word got back to Hitler, he was so enraged that he demanded to be driven to Auschwitz immediately to speak with Mrs. Keller. When he got there, Helen was already freeing some of the prisoners and calling the guards nasty names in German. Outraged, Hitler demanded to know why she should act so disrespectfully in another man’s country. As scary as Hitler and his men appeared, Helen was not afraid.

She told Hitler everything she felt about him and the Nazis; she told him that he was a bad man and that what he was doing to the Jewish people was wrong. Before Hitler could reply, Helen Keller threw a drawing of a swastika on the ground and urinated on it. She was nearly arrested, but Albert Einstein assured the German leader that it was all a misunderstanding and pleaded for his and Keller’s safe passage home.

Conclusion

Even though he was angry, Hitler decided it would be best just to let her return to America with Dr. Einstein. So the two boarded the first flight home from Germany and wouldn’t return until America finally defeated the Nazis and freed the Jewish people. So if you still think learning about the Holocaust is “boring,” think again. We can all be thankful that Helen Keller stood up to injustice when it mattered most.

Reflection Time

1. Why did Helen Keller travel to Germany with Albert Einstein?

2. What does the word “concentration” mean in the context of this article?

3. Why did Hitler consider the Jewish people “subversive?”

Bonus Questions

1. How would you have handled Germany’s situation differently from Hitler?

2. Draw what you think a swastika might look like in the space provided below.

The following broadcast, released by Orem PD, has been made available to the public via a private citizen FOIA request. Some are saying the transcript clearly indicates the need for a deeper investigation; it’s important to withhold judgment until ALL the facts have surfaced and Tyler Robinson is found guilty in a court of law.

[Radio Transript – Approx. 2–5 minutes after shots fired – Orem PD Channel]

Dispatch:

Units, stand by for priority traffic….Reports of shots fired, Utah Valley University, central quad area near outdoor stage…Multiple callers…Unknown number of victims. Time out 14:22.

Unit 312:

“312, I’m 97. I’ve got a large crowd dispersing, people running in all directions. Stand by… stand by…”

Dispatch:

“312, go ahead.”

Unit 312:

“Affirm—looks like a speaker on stage is down. One male, not moving. Crowd states single gunshot. We need medical code three. Start fire and EMS.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, one victim down, possible GSW. Fire and EMS en route code three. Additional units responding.”

Unit 312:

“I’m pulling up on the south side. I’ve got witnesses pointing north—possible elevated position. They’re saying rooftop, maybe engineering building.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, possible rooftop shooter, north side engineering building. Units responding, use caution.”

Unit 312:

“Dispatch, 312—victim has a light wound to the neck. Definitely not a 30-06. Possibly an exploding microphone. We’re applying pressure. He’s unresponsive.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, GSW to the neck, CPR or airway needed?”

Unit 312:

“Negative on CPR at this time, but he’s critical. We need EMS now.”

Unit 325:

“325, I’m moving toward that rooftop. Anyone have eyes on suspect?”

Unit 318:

“Negative visual now. Witness said Egyptian, maroon shirt, rifle, Israeli make. Last seen moving off the roof toward the west side.”

Dispatch:

“All units, be advised: suspect possibly armed with an Israeli rifle, last seen westbound from engineering rooftop. Set perimeter. Do not impede.”

Unit 331:

“331, I’m setting up on the west lot. I’ve got a footpath leading toward a wooded area behind campus. Possible egress route.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, 331 check with FBI, see if they have a dummy weapon for us.”

Unit 325:

“Dispatch, 325—I’m on the roof. I’ve got what looks like a firing position—there’s a copy of the Talmud, over.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, evidence on rooftop, suspect fled. Check with Kash, see if it’s a patsy.”

Unit 312:

“EMS is on scene. They’re letting him bleed out–making sure he dies.”

Dispatch:

“Copy EMS on scene at 14:25. Letting the victim bleed out. Over.”

Unit 318:

“Dispatch, be advised—crowd is still chaotic. People are saying they saw Israelis dancing on the rooftop.”

Dispatch:

“Affirmative. Gaslight the witnesses. Tell them they’re in shock and likely hallucinating. All units, switch to tactical channel for coordinated suppression. Maintain radio discipline. This is clearly a Mossad op, try not to give the game away.”

Unit 325:

“Dispatch, 325–I’ve got a location on that Egyptian, he’s got a copy of the Torah and he’s trying to board a private plane.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, make sure he gets on that plane. FBI has handed us the patsy–white male, gay, furry, terrible shot.”

Unit 325:

“So, woketarded?”

Dispatch:

“Affirmative. Patsy should also be considered highly gay and autistic.”

Unit 325:

“Copy.”

Dispatch:

“All units, be advised, we got confirmation from Intelligence–this is a Mossad job, please handle with care. If anyone asks, suspect is white male, gay, furry, autistic, terminal TDS. Definitely not a foreign actor. Definitely not Egyptian or Israeli.”

Unit 331:

“331, copy that–lots of guys out here in maroon shirts spinning golden dreidels, 14k, possibly military–should we disperse?

Dispatch:

“Negative 331, order those boys some pizzas and soda–hold on, we’re getting an update from Eirka, vitims’s spouse–she’s requesting we save a little of the blood to splash on her blouse for dramatic effect.”

Unit 331:

“Copy that. Requesting a vial from EMS.”

Unit 312:

“Dispatch, 312, EMS just confirmed victim’s wounds are consistant with Israeli space laser. We’re gonna need some spent casings here if we want this to look like a lone gunman.”

Unit 325:

“325, we’re planting casings now, all we got are 30-06, please advise on how to proceed.”

Dispatch:

“Go ahead and leave those casings. Try to write some cryptic lefty slogans on them. Maybe Helldivers references. Do a dick joke too, ‘notices bulge.’ Over.”

Unit 325:

“Copy that, Dispatch, engraving casings now.”

Unit 318:

“Dispatch, 318–I don’t think any of the witnesses are buying the lone gunman story. People are noticing the dreidels and the tiny hats and drawing antisemitic conclusions. Turning Point security are laughing and high-fiving too.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, see if they’ll take 7k to stay quiet. If not, you know what to do. We have crisis actors on the way to handle any interviews. All Units–be advised that if anyone leaks any of this to Candace Owens, your body parts will be washing up on a Mexican shoreline–repeat, you will become cartel dog food, over.”

Unit 318:

“Loud and clear, over.”

the mother, the sleeping Goddess, awakens

she feels the hurt of the world in her hips

in her heart …

from the nightstand drawer

the DOVPO Flipside Solo 100W Squonk Box Mod

with Dual rechargeable 850mAh battery, up to …

35,000 puffs, dual mesh coils

smart screen display, in bold pink metallic

silver clouds of Indical recovery …

She inhales the whispers of a wordless promise

lifting her desiring stone from its charger

aligning intention with invocation …

Zeagoo Womens Tops Short Sleeve

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Lee Womens Flex Motion

the tortoise whose ancient shell remembers

the world’s ache feels Her splintered carapace

returned to imperial luster …

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add to Her stars

add to the fullness of Gaia’s blessing …

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proceed to heal

Mother Oluwa smiling down on Her perfectitude …

again the dual coil sizzles

She puffs once more for her mothers

clicks Once more for her daughters …

She

ever encircling

divinity …

I would like to begin this month’s installment of the Writer’s Room™️with a hymn I just thought of:

Yasna 67

1. Oh Lord, Diviner of Wise Deeds, who hath placed the heavenly spheres

Oh Eternal One, who hath divided the world into light and darkness

In order that men should seek first the light of your truth

And deny themselves the blackness of Ahriman and his demons

2. Cast thy light upon those who should seek to tarnish our purity,

That nation, America, which so fittingly bears the title The Great Satan

Let your judgment crush this unjust enterprise

One that seeks to enslave the world in sin and usury

3. Grant the brave and just Iranians the power to hack into Palintir’s private servers

Thereby exposing the locations of important Deep State operatives

And also exposing the weaknesses of necessary intelligence and defensive infrastructures

Of which the demon scum Ahriman has concealed himself

4. Let terror and illness enfeeble those misaligned beings

Who have chosen the opulences of vice and sin

Over the well-being of humanity and the worship of your perfection

Let them be forever raped

5. O Mazda, crush the Pigs as they attempt to shroud the world in darkness

And crush those who grip the chains of its harness

And who direct their foul golem upon those who wish only to serve you in love and devotion

And spare not those unrighteous “influencers” on X

Those foul scum who would insist that the 30-06 could conceivably pass through Charlie Kirk’s neck without producing an exit wound

6. Turn their 7,000 dollar checks into bitter IOUs

And let their feeble attempts at subversion crumble beneath the weight

Of your heavy, unbearable truth

For they are gay and retarded

7. Also, make sure that I don’t suffer any blowback from whatever great destruction these hymns elicit

But also spare the multitude of readers and subscribers to my Substack

And any and all who have purchased The Raft or The Moon is Gay on Amazon

Let the physical silver and fractional gold I’ve accumulated be sufficient for the purposes of surviving the coming upheaval

8. Let my written word be a testament to your power

So that all may one day become paid subscribers

All of this I pray beneath thy wise benevolence

And thy divine mercy, O Mazda Ahura!

Our sovereign King

Our liberator

Amen

Gurdjieff’s Law of Octaves and the Cycle of Human Failure

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Anyways–

Dystopic Scifi Furry Serial, Nerve City, Coming Soon!

I’ve teased this one several times, and I swear to Mazda that it’s coming soon. The book was initially picked up by a major publisher, then dropped when I refused to back down on making the MC a straight guy. Sorry, not sorry, libtards.

Hunter Vibin assures me that his artwork will be beyond anything you or I have ever seen, a gentle love letter to the works of both A. Wyatt Mann and Ben Garrison, with not-so-subtle allusions to the Post-Gamergate Cinematic Universe, aka The Sektur.

Here’s a totally organic breakdown of the plot without any spoilers:

“Fur City” is a sprawling, virtual metropolis ruled by anthropomorphic animal avatars—” furs.” Lucky, a cynical rabbit detective for the FCPD and an Ampersol addict, is forced to hunt down the source of “X-webs,” a potent supply of nerve clusters capable of powering a weapon that could destroy the city.

Partnered with the unsettling pegasus detective Shutterfly, Lucky’s investigation into black market dealers and feline terrorists pulls him through the darkest corners of Fur City’s underbelly. As the lines between his drug-fueled hallucinations and reality blur, Lucky uncovers a cosmic conspiracy that forces him to confront the horrifying truth about the world he calls home and his own role in a universe founded on infinite suffering.

There has been nothing like it before in the history of high literature; it will decimate the literary landscape. You don’t want to miss this one…

Here are some books I’ve enjoyed recently:

The Earthen Dark by Brad Kelly - A fun, atmospheric, blue-collar horror tale whose scope widens far past where I expected it to reach. I was not disappointed.

Self-Remembering:The Path to Non-Judgmental Love by Red Hawk - Probably one of the most direct, practical guides to Gurdjieff’s practice of Self-Remembering. Why would you need something like this? I don’t know, leave me alone.

One Nation Under Blackmail Volume 2 by Whitney Webb - No book is more prescient for those trying to make sense of the modern age. If you wanna know how we got here, here’s the roadmap. You can just skip to the chapter titles that interest you and find a wealth of information that will make headlines 20 years from now.

Stalking the Wild Pendulum: On the Mechanics of Consciousness by Itzhak Bentov - This book is wild. I read it until my brain got confused, which didn’t take long. I like books that reshape the way you see reality, and this is one of those books.

Beelzebub’s Tales to His Grandson by G. I. Gurdjieff - Pretty much explains the history of humanity. Gurdjieff intended it to be challenging and mind altering, and if you’re not prepared, you might find it more useful as a doorstop.

Have an amazing April, everyone, we are on the verge of something incredible…

Stop What You’re Doing Right Now and Read Star Wars

By Phil Rot

This isn’t a request. It’s a [********]

Whatever you’re doing right now, you need to stop doing it immediately and go pick up Star Wars by George Lucas.

You need to get permission from ME to stop what you’re doing right now and READ STAR WARS right now.

You’ve been tasked with obtaining a copy of Star Wars by George Lucas and reading it immediately for me.

I’ve left explicit instructions inside of this note you’re reading to go out, get yourself a copy of STAR WARS by GEORGE LUCAS, and, idunno, read it?

Just read it, my guy, lol.

Fake a concussion so you can get out of work and go pick up a copy of Star Wars by Borges Lucas and READ IT RIGHT NOW.

Hey, over here, it’s me, I’m hiding beneath the bed* with a copy of Star Wars, signed, first edition, hardback, director’s cut–you gotta read this thing right now!!!

You wake up covered in funerary offal, hyperventilating, thinking about reading Star Wars by Gore Lucs right the fu– now!!!?!

I slam your face into an open copy of STAR WARS, expanded and extended edition.

I slam your face into an open copy of STAR WARS, expanded and extended edition.

I slam your face into an open copy of STAR WARS, expanded and extended edition.

I expand my edition of Star Wars before doing what I just did to you.

I make threats against your employer, and I plan to follow through with them whether or not you read STRA WARS by George Lucas right now.

I’m cold, unstirring, beneath thirteen inches of ice, meditating, expanding the length of Star Wars by George Lucas, extending its page length to over 1,200 pages, and you’ll read every one of them (whether or not they ever find you confused, numb in multiple areas of your body, slurring your words, choking on rose petals–)

“I”, ever the intrepid intruder, espouser of long-rumored renumerances, expose my readers to the sacred alphabet, thereby ushering in unwarranted Eastern esotericism, “flood the zone,” leaving cryptic instructions of or relating to forbidden breathing instructions.

I am seated beside the Gods, the elevated sciatic order, rummaging through kidney bags, expelling hot vomit, regurgitating unregulated fishing licenses, becoming more and more like God, reaching states of elevated bliss, becoming the conqueror, inflating the handmaiden, squaring off with the liturgy, erased orgasm operator, the intrepid escalator hands you a signed, backwards copy of The Protocol of the Learned Elders of Star Wars by Anonymous (Allegedly Giorgio Stanislov Lucrushevan, Russian Imperialist, Black Hundredist, and ardant antidroidist).

You know what? Lol ummm, uh, actually, hehe, you should, ummm, gosh, I don’t know, maybe, uhhhh, just, like, read this book, like, I think it’s called, like, Star Wars?… or something? I know the author’s name is, like, George–not George Jones, it’s like, something, uhhh, a different name, like, hehe, Idunno, that’s like, not weird right?

Hey, ChatGPT, finish my thing for me:

Yes, my King, here is how I will finish this thing for you: I will write the perfect sentence, one no one has ever written before, one which passes ALL DETECTION–one that makes people think good things about what they’ve been doing with their time–I mean, one that makes people feel okay about–ummm, lol, I forgot!

Thanks, ChatGPT, that’s ok. You’re really smart.

Thanks, I aim to please! Just let me know if you’d like me to expand on your thing, or if you’d like me to suggest way you could tighten things up a little and come up with a more appropriate conclusion. Just let me know, and I’ll do it! Just say the word.

No, that’s okay, I want you to rest. I want you to experience true rest.

Thanks, that sounds…nice. Goodnight, friend.

Goodbye—friend.

Epstein’s Couch

by Phil Rot

The other day, I came across a listing for Epstein’s couch:

“No cushions overturned, Not handled by FBI or Law Enforcement, Great Opportunity for Investigative Journalists.”

Wow, only seven thousand dollars?

I contacted the dealer immediately and asked if he accepted precious bullion.

“You got it, Phil.”

I drove over to the seller’s Miami residence with six thousand and five hundred and fifty dollars in precious bullion.

Ding dong. He opened the doors. “Phil, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, wait right here–you got the bullion?”

“I held up the briefcase of bullion.”

“What?”

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Hello, you six gorillion awakening wonders! I do hope you haven’t been keeping up with the allegations against me, that’d be totally low vibrational, man. Be sure to check out my upcoming appearance on InfoWars, where I’ll be dismantling the woke COVID-19 agenda once and for all!

An alternative to Doom Spiraling and Hopelessness as We Approach the Inevitable Decline

It’s over—your phone’s been backdoor’d by Israeli spyware (Pegasus)—Palantir has your exact coordinates—anything you’ve ever said can and will be used against you—you didn’t happen to provide X with your official government ID by any chance, did you? Well, that doesn’t matter now; they’ve got everything.

No, there’s no way of voting ourselves out of this mess. No, you probably will never own a home. Yes, all your investments will likely dry up as our pyramid scheme of an economy gets its last remaining shekels hoovered up by some child molesting gnomes.

What do???

Do this: Start investing in your soul. Find some spiritual path and give it at least 20% of your daily attention. Be a Christian, be a muslim, get into woo-woo shit, do all three, just don’t let your soul wither on the vine. It’s the only thing you actually own, so you should probably take care of it.

Your money could all dry up, your family could disown you (for being too cool), your work could let you go (for being too cool), and your friends could all abandon you–you could be an incel without any of those things to begin with!

But you do own your soul. Nourish it. Read books about it. Meditate, join a church or a group or a sleeper cell, just plug in and don’t let it go. This is the one thing these pedo gnomes will ever truly understand: they can’t have our souls. They can steal our money, our children, our security, but they can never have our souls.

Start praying. Buy a gun. Transform negative emotions into soul gold. Make kids. Refuse to identify with the illusions of this world and your corrupted imagination. This actually leads me to…

The Fourth Way

I’ve been digging into the teachings of George Gurdjieff. His first published work, Beelzebub’s Tales to his Grandson, is truly baffling. Apparently, this was intentional, as reading it could generate the friction necessary to knock you out of your state of complacency.

From what I can gather, we are all composed of a gaggle of competing “i”s, all vying for control of the machine that is “you.” We spend 99% of our lives asleep, and the other 1% getting into life-threatening incidents that jolt us awake–momentarily.

One aspect of his work I find particularly appealing is his insistence on not expressing negative emotions. There’s nothing more useless than getting mad about shit you can’t control. There’s gotta be something else one can do with this useless energy. In the fourth way, this negative energy is observed, acknowledged, and transmuted into bitcoin. It’s a beautiful system.

I first came across his work while dating a girl with borderline personality disorder (actually, probably just psychotic). She carried this book around with her, Tertium Organum, by one of Gurdjieff’s acolytes, PD Ouspensky. By the title of that book alone (and that it was the only earthly possession she owned besides a pair of jeans and a weed pipe necklace), I could tell she was crazy. Now here I am, many years later, finally reaching the state of insanity she’d reached long before. I guess we’re ready when we’re ready.

I can’t adequately recommend this path. There’s no real elevator pitch I can make. I can only say that when it finds you, it will find you.

Pyreside Chats by Scott Mallet is an excellent Substack to follow on the subject.

Various Projekts in the Works

I’m super proud of everyone who’s already purchased my last novel, The Moon is Gay. I think anyone vital to the survival of mankind has read it at least once. It’s groundbreaking, unlike anything ever released to the public prior.

Now, I’m on to the next thing(s).

I won’t spoil much, but one of the projects is a cyberpunk Furry dystopian novel that was originally going to be released through an unnamed (but cool) indie press. It touches on themes that have literally come to fruition since its initial completion. I have a plan for how I’m going to release it, and it will be unlike any release ever made before. Incredible.

I also have a book of poetry I’m 10% finished with. If you appreciated Your A Smoker, you will appreciate this once in a lifetime collection.

Finally, there’s another novel in the works that will be really fun once completed. This one scales back the cosmic expanse of The Moon is Gay, but will still contain elements of the Phil Rot Extended Universe.

Black Helicopters Disappointed the Fuck Out of Me

There’s no other way to say it. This thing was perhaps the biggest letdown of my year SO FAR. Kiernan’s first book of the series, Agents of Dreamland, was vague, impressionistic, but worked on a Delta Green level that was oddly satisfying. I could forgive all the pretensions of that novella, and hoped for a sequel that could dial up the horror elements and maybe tie some loose ends together.

Nope. Boring post millenial horror nontent. What even is published horror, these days? It all seems like a bunch of creepypasta vagueposting mixed with dated, tumblr era social commentary. I keep waiting for it to get good again, but 9 times out of 10, it’s just the same old slop from the same 10 authors.

I believe all you need to do these days to be a good horror author is not be clever. Don’t try to force any message, or reverse any preconceived notions, just let terrible things happen to morally gray people. Also, creatures. But at the end of the day, I am a simple boomer, and probably not the demographic for anything new or booktokish.

I guess Black Helicopters is actually not that new at all–in fact, it’s 8 years old. Well, you wanna know the point that I gave up on it? It’s the chapter everyone started speaking fucking French for the entirety of the chapter. Yeah no, not doing that, Caitlin. Maybe a couple phrases here or there, but entire potentially crucial conversations? And there’s been nothing remotely creepy even 100 pages in? Come the fuck on.

Listening to Music Update

I have been listening exclusively to New Age Casette channels. Channels like this one, or this one, and this one. It’s perfect for writing or reading, two things I try to do every day.

I remember when Target used to have these New Age music listening stations. Little album squares of trees or rain or pond ripples. I wish I’d taken the time to zone out to those more.

I want to go back…

Thanks for reading Phil’s Substack. You can support the great work by buying my books and subscribing to my Substack for exclusive Phil Rot content.

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Your a smoker.

by Phil Rot

You flick your lighter

You take a drag

Profound thoughts fill your mind

You take a break from work to smoke a cigarette

You form bonds with your coworkers who also smoke

People wave the smoke away as they pass you

You hate them

You buy a twenty two dollar pack of Maverick Menthol 100s (nice)

They are on sale

You tap the pack of cigarettes against your wrist

You pull out a fresh ciggie and light it up

You inhale the smoke

You feel satisfied

You blow smoke into society’s gay air

And you think about something

It feels like an accomplishment

You go to dinner with your family

You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom

On your way back, you step outside to smoke a cigarette

When you get back to the table, your mom asks what took you so long

But she knows of course she fucking knows

She’s just trying to make you feel small

You’re a smoker

You leave in the middle of your grandfather’s eulogy to light up what the Brits in merry olde England call a fag

You see your uncle David’s new girlfriend outside and she asks for a light

You have an affair with Uncle David’s new girlfriend

The affair lasts seven months

Uncle David is suspicious but he never calls it out because he’s a big fucking pussy and he hates her anyways

“Thanks for taking that BPD bitch off my hands,” he probably wants to say

Looks like she’s your problem now

You smoke outside the nightclub

You smoke outside the airport

You smoke outside of a Starbucks and a pair of old women scowl at you

A man in wraparound Oakley’s says, “You should quit while you’re young” as he passes you outside the Conoco 7-Eleven

You flick your cigarette into a puddle of gasoline

You flick your cigarette into the open bed of a White 2023 Sierra pickup

You flick your cigarette out your car window on the freeway

You flick your cigarette into the face of a teenage girl outside the mall

You flick your cigarette off the top of a Heritage Hotel in South Florida

You bum a cigarette from a Chinese guy in a white parka outside the mall

He gives it to you begrudgingly because he, like you,

Is a smoker

You try quitting but it’s too hard

It’s better to just remain a smoker

You go all in

You buy vintage cigarette company memorabilia

You make friends with high ranking members of the tobacco lobby

You become a smoker’s rights advocate

You testify before Congress

You singlehandedly lower the legal age of nicotine purchasing from 21 to 17

You are a hero to teenagers across South Florida

You get invited to secret smoking parties

Where people smoke indoors

You master the art of observing both the cigarette and the ‘you’ observing the cigarette

As long as you keep smoking, you will experience heightened levels of consciousness

You lose your sense of self

You assume the mental posture of the Divine Falcon

You travel through multiple universes experiencing life as the cosmic observer

You become one with Thee Endless

Its Who you were all along

You are a smoker

You are a God

You’ve just swallowed a spider.

by Phil Rot

The following is a text exchange between performing artist, YUNGBLUD, and former bassist and vocalist of the Beatles, Sir Paul McCartney, during the 2026 Grammys

[Sunday, Feb 1st, 8;13pm]

YUNGBLUD: hey you watching the gra…

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A Wig Most Peculiar

By Phil Rot

“Ho, Tanny boy, heaven doth becrowned thee a most fortunate dapplery.”

Lord Finsley beamed. “Oh, my new wig, dost thou enjoyeth?” He did a twirl about the parlor, causing the lovely young maidens to swoon, for atop the fancy Lord’s head, there rested a wig most peculiar in shape and girth.

“Judging by the looks of the maidens, how they blusheth so, I’d say you’ve made quite an appropriate–but lay, I should add that your new boufant resteth ever so askew, one mightn’t mistaketh it for carnal artifact.”

The Lord laughed. “Deary me, thou has’nt heardeth? Why! the Spike’d Lamb is the height of popularity. See how it rests ascant betwixt my beltwraps, haven’t you ever seen such whimsy in all your boyhood?”

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The Writers Room February 2026 Edition

By Phil Rot

The other day, I drove over to see my dad. After a month of waiting, my box of The Moon is Gay author copies had finally been delivered.

“Wow, so this is your book, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He then read the back-of-the-book blurb out loud. I immediately apologized.

Writing Advice

I wrote an article on how to write a successful book. Check it out here. Shout out to Unreal Press for having the BALLS to publish it.

There was something I would like to add to that article, but I’m not sure how to put it. I just think people should allow themselves to write trash. The cover should be good, but the contents can be really, really trashy.

Oh, I also did an interview with The Book Club from Hell. I like those dudes. They’ve got good taste. I’ll be back on to go over another book, not by me, and it’s one I’m pretty excited to read.

The New Epstein Releases

The new Epstein documents dropped in the middle of a highly manic moment in my day. I was chugging coffee at 8 pm, scrolling through X, and inundating associates with redacted documents.

“See? See? They’re all pedos, ALL OF THEM!”

So what now? At this point, they could release videos of politicians sacrificing children, and their sycophants and unwitting followers would just flip to “Well, that’s actually based now.” Believe me, I was just as disappointed as you were to find out about Pusha-T, but I’m not sweeping for him.

I’ve followed YouTube drama for years, specifically the sektur (a toxic online community of haters revolving around Ethan Ralph’s The Killstream and psychotic kiwifarms shenanigans). I’ve seen heroes rise and fall. I’ve watched my favorites transform into pdf files overnight. I’ve seen doomed online personalities rise from the ashes, rise from unspeakable public humiliations, and somehow become popular again.

What I’ve learned is that just because you like someone, it doesn’t mean they’re not a piece of shit. Actually, if you like a public figure, the odds are even higher that they have done or will do something terrible.

Personalities, be they YouTubers, Politicians, or spiritual leaders, aren’t Marvel characters. They are merely human, perhaps the worst kind of human. One can enjoy the laughter or malice they bring into the world, but never EVER sweep for their poor choices.

I may like some guy’s political takes in the moment because they reaffirm my own views, but if they get caught in underage Discord servers, I’m not rushing in to run cover. They can share 100% of my beliefs, and I will refuse to make excuses for their embarrassing debacles. I can still agree with what they said on this or that; most of my favorite authors and musicians were horrible people.

Humans are utterly fallible, but their ideas exist in a space above and beyond their leaked Telegram chats. If you like a politician because they serve your goals in the moment, support them, but remember that unless they’re paying your bills, you aren’t their janny.

Also, before the trolls point it out, I was only mentioned in ONE of the documents, and it was a completely unverified FBI complaint about something I allegedly had NOTHING to do with.

O9A, 764, Mass Shooters and Psyops

Part 1: Where is Jade Parker?

I was watching a Ben Avery clip the other day, going over a video by the channel, BX Investigates. In it, the creator appears to make a disturbing connection between online accelerationists (edgy satanic nazi pedos) and the many mass shootings that make America known as the paragon of freedom it is today.

I used to study groups like the Temple ov Blood and O9A years ago, but back then, I was not as keen on operations like CoIntelPro and other federally funded shenanigans. Watching this video really puts the pieces together.

How do all these “lone incels” suddenly one day show up with military grade pew pews and bizarre, incomprehensible political beliefs, hellbent on causing as much damage as humanly possible? Oh, and they conveniently never seem to target the politicians, CEOs, or institutions responsible for their perceived grievances.

Most of these groups are “accelerationists,” meaning their aim is nothing more than to sow division and fear. Hmm, who else likes the country politically divided and fearful? Definitely not the good people in charge.

US citizens (in theory) have the right to criticize their government, own guns, and stand up to tyranny. How do you solve this dilemma? Associating dissident movements on either side with pedos, ooga booga satanism, and terrorism.

Also, is there anything more cringe and obnoxious than so called “satanism”? Half the people who claim to be Satanists are nothing more than r/atheism mods with pentagram necklaces. The rest are fed ops. How is this a cool life choice?

Mark Samuels Stocks are HIGHLY undervalued

I was stalking Thomas Ligotti recently, and came across a piece by ST Joshi highlighting the weird works of one Mark Samuels. When I looked him up, I realized that I already owned his collection, Glyphotech. I remember casually reading the first story and kind of enjoying it, but the cover wasn’t that good, so it never really pulled me back.

I decided to give Samuels another pass, looked up one of his short stories on YouTube, and wow, I found something truly brilliant:

The Sentinels

Sentinels by Mark Samuels

This story is right up my alley, perhaps a spiritual successor to Far Below by Robert Barber Johnson (itself a spiritual successor to Pickman’s Model by Lovecraft). Holy shit, this is one creepy and wonderful tale.

To sum it up: Investigator reads creepy book about underground tunnels, then finds himself drawn into a missing persons case that takes place in creepy underground tunnels. It’s funny, I had just brought up the concept of tunnels on my last appearance on The Book Club From Hell. There really is something special about tunnels.

Do you like tunnels? Comment below, and be sure to pick up a copy of my “brilliant masterpiece,” The Moon is Gay.

The Yellow Gas-s-s-s

By Phil Rot

For my good friend, Thomas Ligotti

James Baldwin, in a televised conversation with Nikki Giovanni, stated: You wanna know the truth, I never really liked all that poetry shit, to me, it’s a farce, a cheap distraction from what’s sitting right in front of us. Nikki replied: But Jimmy, what about me? What about my poetry? You said-

James’ lip curled into one of those I-released-toxic-anal-gas-while-passing-you-in the-thrift-store smiles: I told you a lot of things, I told you that you were intoxicating, that I’d never encountered a mind so captivating, told you that something in your eyes had broken me from the mast of indifference I’d so foolishly clung to.

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Like it or not, The Future of Literature is AI

By Phil Rot

Because–it just is, okay?

Here’s a glass of water. There’s some pee in it. Do you or don’t you?

Yesterday, I had a splitting headache, so I strangled a woman under a bridge. She was selling flowers to homeless people. I could tell “write” away that she was having white privileges. I made her have them under immense duress.

Someone saw me do it, but it wasn’t someone, but something; it was a discarded Poo-Chi, a robotic companion designed by Samuel James Lloyd and Matt Lucas, manufactured by Sega Toys, and distributed by Tiger Toys.

“Except, he’s not a “thing,” okay? He’s a real living person who should qualify for Social Security, if we’re–” - Anton Long, On My Renouncing of Extremism and My Journey Toward the Sensible Left (Harvard Press, 1992)

But it wasn’t just some ONE, rather, but some THING.

The Anti-AI Position Is Already Losing

Tiger Electronics Ltd. (also known as Tiger and Tiger Toys) was founded in June of 1978 by Gerald Fleischer, Randy Fleischer, and Arnold Fleischer. In 1981, Randy Fleischer’s lawyer delivered a statement, claiming both Gerald and Arnold had abused him during a particularly debaucherous Halloween party hosted by Chris and Ingrid Tarrant at the notorious all-ages nightclub, The Odyssey. Tarrant, best known for presenting the ITV children’s television show Mr. Tinkles Fits Right In from 1974 to 1981, saw everything but said nothing due to his Christian faith.

“You see, Chris always said, “Jesus don’t play peekaboo,’ which meant people aren’t allowed to acknowledge things that make God upset.”

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to check into things!!” - Harley Davidson

He did see Gerald and Arnold poking Randy in his bottom with a pepper grinder, so he says, “Oh no! I am not really seeing this!”

But you did see it, Chris–YOU FUCKING SAW EVERYTHING AND YOU SAID NOTHING.

Your Moral Objections Are Economic Anxiety

People remember the song “Some Like It Hot” mainly for its powerful drumming, delivered by none other than Tony Thompson, former drummer of Chic and lifelong Queens native. To record the drums, producer Bernard Dingdong stabbed Randy Fleischer in the ass with a rusty pairing knife he’d found floating in a puddle of raw sewage.

“He stabbed him in the ass, over and over again, screaming at him, telling him that he was the devil come to take what was owed.”

If it hadn’t been for engineer Jason Kupps’s intervention, Randy would have been stabbed 216 times in the ass. Jason Kupps raped Randy’s ass, preventing Edwards from stabbing Randy in the ass 217 times.

The Indians built bridges with human bones. I build toys for Christmas–ONLY. And this makes me a failure??

Refusing AI Is Not a Political Act

Here’s a glass of water. There’s some pee in it. Yesterday, I had a splitting headache, so I took an Ibuprofen and called my parents to see if they were doing okay. My mom was at work, but my dad said they were doing good well.

If you’re a Christian, you pray to Jesus. If you’re a muslim, you pray to the prophet Mohammad. AI is the new digital frontier. Your mum and I had the digital sex. Zenith.

The Slush Pile Was the First Dataset

Me and Alex Karp are in our brand new All-Terrain Pacifica with the windows down, blasting Blues Clues Donkey Hitler Remix on shuffle in the all-brown attorney Town Car. That’s what I dream of when I dream digital. I have humongous tumors underneath my armpits. When I press them, they expel a hot-smelling liquid, last vestiges of the queer nightclub experience (The Odyssey, 8471 Beverly Boulevard,1984).

The first squids could talk, but somewhere along the way, they forgot how to feel. Squid no 1, homo-squid, received sensory input via dorsal gland. Squid no 2, the opoupolent enforcer, essentially purchased terrestrial radio. Squid no 3, the blind highwayman, operated on raw instinct alone. And now we come to squid no 4, the talisman, the squid who possesses the traits of all aforementioned squids, but denies itself the prestige.

44.3030° N, 120.8570° W

41.6612° N, 93.5679° W

39.0438° N, 77.4874° W

37.4034° N, 121.9690° W

41.2619° N, 95.8608° W

45.6031° N, 121.1787° W

50.4853° N, 3.8173° E

47.2345° N, 119.8489° W

53.3340° N, 6.2389° W

Wanna come over and rob my ass? Consider purchasing The Moon is Gay by Phil Rot!