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Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Page 9--Untitled Document--D.J.R Caron

Lost and alone,

And the subject awoke, dampened by the grimy mists hanging above the labyrinth of alleyways running through the city. Stepping off his mattress of body bags, his eyes violently dart all across his surroundings. He gurgles out a lamentful moan and slumps down to his knees. In the air, the thick odor of caked blood lingers among the tidal wafting of sewage beneath. Clenching his temple, he wanders into the nearest light like a starving moth. Lurched eyebrows clenching, wildly shifting eyes sent spasms throughout his twitching nose and lips.

D[arwin] looks to the cityscape,
Notitia vermes are eating through his nervous system. Infiltration began after the consumption of the spinal chord (citadel of the ego vermis), during which the worms penetrated the center of the vertebrae and linked into a new shape. All of the subject’s knowledge passes through, and is later absorbed, by the collective of primitive ventral nerve cords. Slowly, a metamorphosis takes place as the worms grow their own vertebrae and slither off, but not before doing considerable damage to the host body. Grey matter in the cerebral cortex loses definition and takes on properties in dire need of further study.

veiled in a haze of dying clouds and exhaust fumes.
Now hollow paranoid eyes stare at an unfamiliar reflection in a muddy puddle. Onto deserted intersections beneath the grinding torrent of passing railways, his neck twists in all directions. A passing cyborg, homeless and disquiet, has amassed a large collection of discarded cellular phones. Seeing them, the subject throws himself to his knees in worship. The cyborg, overwhelmed by this tribute, unleashes a torrent of revulsion, disgust and pity. “The more you gorge, the stronger the hunger will become,” he says solemnly, “Remove the stomach before it consumes you; as it has me.” And with an iron fist, he breaks his own ribcage and tears out his human remains. The subject stares up, mouth agape, as their juices trickle down his brow and onto his shoulders. The notitia vermes swell and flail like lemurs in orgasm, absorbing this baptism like a sponge. The cyborg falls to the floor and the subject continues through the dense haze of the night.

Sickle Cell sits by the window,

He held his stomach as his lip quivered. Then he began to cry. They were out there, lurking in the shadows sniffing his discarded needles, his used pornography, the butcher knife he held in service to his lord. And as he kept moving, he looked up into the magnified face of a model on an illuminated billboard. Peeling paper rot scars her creamy white cheeks. The decaying layers of paint look like torn muscle tissue at first glance, but the subject has met hundreds of women like that in his life. He met her for a coffee or some lunch and she gets into her emotions and lets him in. Opening his arms, her tender body feels soft on his eyes and against his cheeks and he just want to melt into her creamy beauty. Then the next day she looks at him like he’s some abomination and hides herself away. ‘Why?’ is what the reader must inquire. In the author’s opinion it is because she is an abomination herself. When she speaks the truth for the first time in her entire sad, parasitic existence, her true form bleeds through that creamy skin and no amount of blush can ever coat it. She tries valiantly and when he sees her again he can’t tell if she’s done up like a crimson harlequin or menstruating out of her fucking little cunt eyes. (Clears throat) The author would like to apologize for going on such a tract, but let it be known that the subject has a notorious past record for knowing legions of girls like the one seen on the billboard. With his eyes held firmly downward onto moist pavement, he continues onward.

blankly staring into the streets of a passing highway.
Tribunals line the arched intestinal wall of the city offices. They place millions of tiny cameras in dark corners of decaying mortar for the sole purpose of mapping the societal genome of the human animal. Occasionally they will find an empty vessel ideal for the propagation of ego division and replication experiments. An empty vessel, the anatomical term for a human being with an excised ego vermis. When such a vessel is discovered, blank abduction vans will storm into the vicinity and capture the subject for biological reprogramming; the act of altering the function and form of the human brain in an attempt to create subservient offshoots of the standardized homo sapien. These experiments were, of course, pushed into circulation by the Instrumentalitist party in an attempt to chemically create followers that would enact their beliefs as efficiently and effectively as the edema harlequins do for the Egomodernists. In short, a biological arms race.

They dream as the car careens off the edge,

Atop a pier, the subject stares into the wide vista of the lake. In the darkness its befouled sparkle shimmers against the sickly pink night sky. His eyes begin to blur with tears. Perhaps he is sure he took one of the many girls to the lake. But the tears stop and he clenches his skull and grits his teeth. Notitia vermes know the girl. Across the surface, he sees a million cyborg faces, listless and dead, fading into nothing. A blunt blow to the back of his head, and the subject falls to the ground. He tries to crawl away, but the officers are on him like a colony of army ants. With handcuff and blindfold, they throw him into the back of their padded truck. Cascades of flesh fluctuate like the tides as the subject’s body enters the final debilitating stages of ego dissimilation. In this case, it has been triggered by a lethal combination of amnesia, sensory deprivation and annelid interference. When the party has arrived at the lab it is noted that the subject's body has partially dissolved in a thick red jelly.


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