We write a novel one post at a time

Charles was in a frenzy now. "The CIA niggers glow in the dark! You can see them if you're driving! You just run them over!" He smacked himself. "That's what you do!"

Despite this it seemed as though every occurrence that had happened upon this seemed preordained in some aspect by a higher power or perhaps circumstantial coincidence.

That's when Pynchon showed himself, once again, to the aspiring homomensch. Charles was still trying to wash off the CIA scuzz from his windshield, but the apparition materialized in the passenger seat without any warning. "Gahh!" Charles screams, swerving into oncoming traffic. All these occurrences, circumstances, and coincidences were becoming grating on the nerves. "Ay, hoss. You ain't on my wavelength no more, Bovine Boy. You're behaving like bad meat, kid: rotten, rotten, rotten. Now, how you gonna explain this one to Alfred, or Debbie? Let alone that little waifu you had to dream up to 'act normal'. How about a song?"
Charles put his hands over his ears, and let the wheel go...At least the CIA stains were finally coming off.

"Fucking CIA niggers," he mumbled once more. "Playing with my mind and all..."

Pynchon interjected once more.

"Hungry for a sweet treat Charlie-boy?"

As the Pynch's words faded away, the ice cream truck, rolling to a stop, stopped its rolling. That is to say, the driver of the ice-cream-truck, name of Stephen (after the martyr) a portly man of vanilla shade skin and vanilla-scoop shaped stomach, shaped surely by many hungry nights of vanilla indulgence, removed his tennish shoe shod foot from the accelerator and applied it instead to the brake. The vehicle was itself as robust and white as its driver, a model of 1977 Chevy P30, famous in its line of work as an old stand-by, a favorite of ice-cream-men all over, everywhere in fact, if everywhere is the United States of America, which as anyone who knows anything knows, it is.
As fate would have it, although it was less fate than the will of a kindly God, the work of Stephen (so named after the martyr, his mother liked that sort of thing), one Dr. Jordan B. Peterson, and the mechanization of the mind of Mr Pinecone hisself, our hero Charles heard first and then spied with his decidedly un-homosexual eyes, the ice cream truck in question, speeding slowly along to the tune of “The Kids Aren’t Alright” by the Offspring (1999 Round Hill Records Manufactured and distributed by Universal Music Enterprises, a division of UMG Recordings, Inc.) rendered on a cute little pipe organ.

First salivating at the thought of phallic icy treats and then shaking himself straight, Charlie searched his pockets for some dosh, his reaching paws returning to grant a clutch of coins. Seventy five cents. He’d get what he could. Running joyfully like a joyful child, he halted just a few moments short of body slamming the side of the oncoming dispensary vehicle. “WHAT CAN I GET FOR THIS?” he cried, slamming his money hurriedly down on the counter, since in this world, you gotta act fast. One moment you’re being raped by a pack of (FUCKING) niggers, the next your warping through space-time with your Waifu and the esteemed author of The Crying Lot of 49. Stephen (named by his mother after some Catholic Saint) regarded the shimmering assortment of nickels and dimes and other minor units of currency with both hunger and apprehension, since he desired the transaction and monetary gain that it would bring, but was bad at math. He counted each unit with an unhurried and focused air of concentration, Charles all the while impatiently rubbing his legs together like a little girl about to wet herself. Then a look of understanding flashed across Stephen’s (so named after a certain first century religious icon) melty face. “Oh yeah, I got somethin’ for you. You’re Chuck, right? Yeah it’s in the freezer, one sec.” so speaking and vanishing behind the slats of the quickly shut metal shutter.

Curious and still impatient, Charles nonetheless waited, wondering what could this man who looked like a melting scoop of ice cream possibly have for him, when suddenly the shutter opened and Stephen (the martyr) reappeared, holding now a canvas bag, apparently full up with something. “Take this, and don’t tell anyone where you got it.” Pushing the pack into Charles’ unprepared arms. He slammed the shutter shut again, hopped into the driver’s seat, and applying his large foot to the gas pedal with generous force, sped away, the tunes of popular 90’s grunge trailing behind him. “Keep the change ASSHOLE!” Charles squealed gayly after the retreating silhouette of an icecreamtruck. Having nothing else to do, he figured he may as well check the bag. What he found inside both aroused and shocked him. There were only two items, both likely of some import to the plot. A VHS player, complete with a string of red, yellow, and white AV cables, and a pistol, the slide of which identified itself as an U.S. M9, Beretta. Although he disliked Italian manufactured firearms and Italians more generally, understanding the importance of firearms safety, Charles dropped the mag and racked the slide, ensuring that the weapon was clear (it was) and thus safe to examine further. The only odd thing he noticed about the pistol was the presence of silver bullets in the mag. The shiny contrast of the precious metal with the brass case was quite nice, and reminded him of his gee-eff, Mitsushiko Hashimato, the thought of whom made his mutilated penis stiff. It seemed that already, just by the very act of manipulating a weapon was restoring some of Charles’ frayed masculinity. Reinserting the mag and cambering a round, his bosom swelled with hope for the future, as he once again turned his mind to the task at hand: finding those goddamned tapes!

I can't stop consuming my own fecal matter, I said, to no one in particular, except to myself, for myself, in particular, was interested in what I had to say, per se, for I am an interesting person. I smile. The young man was at the coffee shop. That young man was me.

No matter what happens this story better end with charles going home, turning on his computer, going on Yea Forums, and making a thread saying "write a story one post at a time". This needs to come full circle

I second this notion

I completely agree, and I think that would best be left to OP when he thinks it's sufficient. He's done a great job so far; and if I'm not mistaken, the goal was 65k words.

or with charles getting murdered and the murderer goes home and posts on Yea Forums

best thread so far what comes to plot progression

All of a sudden the words “she was vaginally and anally ___” crossed his mind, but he couldn’t make himself remember where he had heard those words before.

only after Charlie becomes god-emperor of the galaxy with his room cleaning jihad
behindthename.com/name/charles

OP remember to add the last posts from the previous thread

"The tapes," he muttered, ignoring the space between words so that it should probably be written 'thuhtapes' 'thuddapes' or 'thetapes', but the force of his effort at eliminating this troublesome void crinkled the wrinkled on his forehead, like shutters ribbing closed one by one, clack click clack clack.
Bosom swollen and throbbing, the Beretta felt disconcertingly warm against his frigid sallow skin. It reminded him of ice cream melting against the sun kissed pavement, and thus of his first mom's goading him to lick every last vanilla drop off of the gravel. Grovel, on the gravel. Charles, you nincompoop. Haha!
Recollection always left him oddly sensitive to the elements, as if the ribbon thin seams between his eyes and mind were dissolving in stomach acid. Or maybe, indigestion. He knew the lasagna had been a poor choice. He just knew it. The crone with the milky eyes and the broad her sinister shadow, false smiles; this trifecta rounded about at the apex by a hulking olive toned sonuvabutch whose gruffness and calloused palms sent shivers down Charles's curved, notched spine. Mountaintops, stained with snow.
But these thoughts, coaxing his thighs apart, had no hope of realization. The tapes demanded attention. The tapes demanded attention. Thetapesdemandedattention.

-Look at me! I demand attention!
Said Mr. Thetapes, furiosly, to Charles. He (Not Charles) was the manager of the local Blockbuster.

Memories of the ice-cream and blacktop flavored abuse he suffered at the hands of his late first mother still fresh in his mind, thighs now appropriately parted, Charles crossed the street. He needed to resolve himself. He began to run down the sidewalk, through and out of the cookie cutter suburbs, like a rat in maze, into the heart of town, the pistol in his waistband tugging at his Levi’s like a desperate whore with every jolting jog, the canvas bag smacking his ass with every step. He ran with all the retarded fury of Forrest Gump, ran until he stood upon the steps of the nearby parish of St. Stephen the Martyr. He needed answers. If he wanted to find those tapes, he’d need some help.
Charles needed Jesus.
Wondering if the church might have a VHS rental section, he planted his shoulder to the heavy double wooden doors, and pushing them crossed the threshold.

Chants grew more and more audacious, incantations more gothic as Charles reached the platform, the pulpit. His cosmic depression worsening to a near fatal level of not-caring. Cantabile sounds of self-loathing spoken in broken Americanised English began to constrict his physical form with each step towards the production plant of Peptown Pepsi Cola. Ben Franklin saw him begin to dissipate and immediately assumed he had died. Gogol sat down immediately on the granite expanse and began to count sheep in his head before he could mention getting a soft drink and not seem like a total asshole.
The pressure started to sink into Charles and the stress turned his essence into night.
A firm hand placed itself on Charles' left shoulder.
"It's hopeless", Charles thought, "I've gone blind, it's like a river of oil in front of my pupils, unending".
"It took me a long time to find you, Charles' said the ghost of St. Augustine.
'I know what you fear is true and yes, it is true'.
'People still remember the time you fell over on stage in school, being naked in the girls' locker room, getting fistfucked by M-'
'Wait, I was never fistf-',
'I know, I know I mean, I just, who the fuck just ditches someone at an IMAX,
I mean, ghosts can't fly the speed of light, I still have to take the train, Charles, humour me'
'I apologize, Augustine, I should have nudged you'.
'Thank you, apology accepted.'
'Listen, Charles, there is a hellebarn, a frosted betrayal, a debt unpaid, look at me Charles, besides my glow, I am you, look into me, son.'
All around Charles lit absolutely nothing and it was as if he had fallen into a world of burnt ashes, except for Augustine's effervescent self-acknowledged glow.
'There is only you Charles, know this, and your will, sitting in a room with the supreme other, child soul into child soul'
Augustine grew louder still,
'CHARLES'
'LISTEN CHARLES'
'YOU CANNOT RESIST WHEN YOU ARE BLIND CHARLES'
A deep black swept his being into acute cognisance of the endless highway of time stretching before him. Instead of masturbating, Charles thought intensely. 'Could it be?'
'A tape inside the tape?', 'A family tree within a family tree?', 'A pillaging of the rehabilitation center?', 'An answer pointing from within isolation, outward?','that those girls in the locker room were OK with him being there? Aroused even? Went home and fingered themselves, wet panti- Shit. Charles came in his pants.
'Charles, did you just ejaculate on that holy step?' Ben Franklin queried

While Charles was busy wetting itself nesr the tabernacle, steps began to resonate from a stairhead nearby.
"C-could it be?" Moaned Charles?
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from that stairhead, carrying a bowl of lather upon wich a mirror and a razor lay crossed. He pointed aloft to Charles and intoned:
"Charles! Introibit ad altare Dei!"

The Holy Tabernacle, snatched at her skirts, the Eucharist rattling about inside her gilded, girly body, offended at being pissed at.
Who was this Charles faggot who would dare to piss upon such a Holy implement of salvation as she? Pinching her plump pillow lips in anger, she prayed in her heart that the Lord might send some divine retribution to punish the unclean homosexual fairy who might urinate in her general direction, as well as the stately and plump Buck Mulligan who would mock the Church and incite him in fear to do so.

Introibit ad altare Dei! [8]

(Footnote [8]):
For any philistine readers, not fluent in Latin, this terrible and assertive phrase roughly translates into, "Charles, I assert that you are not in fact a true believer in Sunny D!", Of course the more intuitive readers might understand that "Dei" roughly evokes "D", which is the modern equivalent of the ornate sentiment, revealing itself originally in it's most archaic forms, "Dei-light (pronounced "Dee"), "Delight" is defined as "great pleasure", as in the phrase, "This sucralose is often a great pleasure to slurp" or "How is that fine soft drink you are drinking Tony? Oh, it's a great pleasure.' 'Ad' comes from the action, 'to add' which used to be used by the Romans to 'check themselves before they introibit themselves', which was a fashion of establishing order between the heathens who did not provide sources for their passionate claims and those who did to great aplomb, or 'Dei-plomb'. Bucks' slur erroneously added an unneccesary 'e' to the end of 'Altare', which is naturally spoken in Latin as 'Altar', to make a point of letting everyone in the vicinity know that Charles in fact was near an 'altar'. An 'altar' is described by Collins Dictionary (Copyright © 2010. All rights reserved) as a 'countable noun'.

Contribute. But could he?

And then the based black spoke up. "Imma say it again. You Faggot Jewish Bitch! You Faggot Jewish Bitch! Where should I say it at? How close should I say it to this? You Faggot Jewish BITCH! SHUT THE FUCK UP! I'll break your fucking ass. All You Jewish Crackers! Bitch!"
He hesitated
The Jew squealed "You got in my face".
"Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up before I slap you. Im not even gonna punch you. I slap you the fuck out. Like I said. YOU FAGGOT JEWISH BITCH!

He vomited. "MOVE JEW FUCKS" he ejaculated pushing all of the individuals with the slightest amount of Hebrew descent in the area into a garbage compactor. "THE FUCKING TAPES" Charles screeched. "I NEED TO WATCH THE FUCKING TAPES"

Covered in piss, shit, blood and sweat were all the unread copies of Zero Books and Urbanomic texts which he(she) had presumably ordered for pseud cred on discord. Detective Ligmaballz stepped over the fetid corpse and put a blanket over the castration wound, he tried not to question why. A laptop sits on a desk to the left, web browser showing a twitter feed, "Schizo-analytic cum-without-sperm as Bataillean Slime" followed by a link to a blogpost with the same title whose author goes by "xenotranny".

Quickly checking his inventory of items, Charles came to the realization that if he wanted to watch those (FUCKING) tapes, then he'd need to find the last piece of equipment in the Holy trifecta of video nostalgia: a Cathode Ray Tube Television. He had the VCR, he had the AV cables, he had the VHS. But where to find a CRT?
As the splattery, gorey, gore-splatter of various Semitic individuals flew through the air like strawberry flavored rainfall, he thought deeper about this conundrum.

Finally he realized that an iphone would suffice because all the kids were using them these days. But before he got his setup up and running, Charles decided to take a break from the hectic pace of life and listen to the greatest song ever made: KIss Me by Sixpence None the Richer.

And then he decided to watch a few Sargon of Akkad videos.

Of course he jerked off while doing that -
physically and mentally

updated

On the way home he stopped by his fathers' wife's boyfriend's son Chad, for he needed help with his plan for attaining the missing CRT, since it was instrumental that he watch the tapes. "So what's on these tapes, then?" Chad entustiastically asked. "I will tell you once we have the TV." Charles answered. They drove off into the sunset.

It is at that precise moment, gazing into the sunset, that Charles realised the truth. 'Nothing matters,' he muttered with a smile, as he reminisced about all the niggers who once bullied him at school. He managed to let out a chuckle as he thought about how all the readings of Dostoevsky had come to this. He looked into the horizon fondly, and decided that he will shoot up a school tomorrow.

But first he had to get that goddamned CRT.
After it got dark, they drove to Charles' grandfather's house and started executing their sinsiter plan: Charles broke into the house, by climbing up Chad's back. "You just have to get the TV and then get back here, simple enough." Charles thought to himself. He saw that his grandfather was fast asleep, which would make Charles' task even easier. But after reaching the room, where said television was stored, Charles' heart nearly stopped. It was the most unclean room he had ever laid eyes upon in his entire life. Suddenly Jordan Peterson appeared and told him that he had to clean his room. "But this is not my room, it's my grandfathers'." Charles said.

truly Pynchonian

"You have to save your father from the belly of the whale" Peterson said, "And your grandfather is your father's father, so he indirectly is your father" Peterson's incoherent rambling continued. "I don't have time for this." Charles thought "I have to summon Žižek.". He shuddered. "... or the bloody postmodern Marxists will come and get you! ...", Peterson was still talking some bullshit, but Charles stopped him, saying "I never thought it would come to this" and he started mumbling the invocation:

Tasogare yori mo kuraki mono
Chi no nagare yori akaki mono
Toki no nagare ni umoreshi
Idainaru nanji no na ni oite
Ware koko ni yami ni chikawan
Warera ga mae ni tachi fusagarishi
Subete no orokanaru mono ni
Ware to nanji ga chikara mote
Hitoshiku horobi o ataen koto o...
SLAVOJ ŽIŽEK!

"WHERE ARE THE MARXISTS?" Žižek cried out as soon as he appeared.

"Charles, get your shit together". He smacked himself.

Charles was sneaking in his grandfather's room, desperate to find a CRT when his phone beeped with SMS saying: "yoo charl wanna go hunt sum pussy later? regards d"

>Akkad [9]

(Footnote [9]):
Sargon of Akkad (Pronounced: 'Sonic, Of 2006' in Braille), also known as Sargon the Great or just Gonny by his pals, was the first ruler of the Akkadian Empire, known for his conquests by way of the Chaos Emeralds in the 24th to 23rd centuries BC. His empire is thought to have included most of San Francisco's City Escape, parts of the Chao Black Market, besides incursions into Eggman's ship and rail systems and Pumpkin Hill territory, ruling from his (archaeologically as yet unidentified) capital, Akkad (also Gonland also Dry Lagoon also Sargon's Flat). The national delicacy of which is Onion Rings. A YouTuber masquerading as the ruler was hunted down by Akkad in the great time-machine hijacking of 24BC wherein Socrates from (Bill & Ted) was on vacation attempting to wrestle some of the locals when he got cocky and left the time-machine for far too long. The masquerader was spit-roasted and his channel became surprisingly more watchable as a cooking show ran by the actual Akkad in 2019.

grandfather's room [10]

(Footnote [10]):
Unbeknown to Charles and frankly anyone else on Earth, Charles' grandfather, with the ability to materialise anywhere, had a timeshare in Peptown despite only being accessible by space-flight. I should have cleared this up in detail, I cut that prematurely because I didn't want to leave my Hot Pockets in the toaster overlong. Charles told me this on a crowded bus in Japan, to be honest my mind was elsewhere, I knew their had to be some chick been groped somewhere making slapping tongue motions, Japanese nighttime-TV wouldn't lie to me.

BASED footnote user

>shoot up a school [11]

(Footnote [11]):
In the year, 2008 in the particular province of 'Curranton, New Mexico', the phrase 'shooting up a school' was coined by the use of a local street drug compared to both as a retardant and an opiate not unlike 'codeine' recently entering the market. It failed to spread since it it's manufacturing process was tardy and soon was shut down by part-time magician, Penn Teller, who showed developer Cory Houcatus (pronounced 'Housecoats') his card and told Cory he was 'going straight in the trash', Cory, distraught, ashamedly over the potential moral implications of 'guilt and the word 'trash', panicked so much he confessed on a land-line later that evening. The drug, 'supersalmon' aka. The Big Salmon, is created using a super-soaker to douse a salmon down in heroin, the salmon is then battered with beer, cooked and then put in a BlendTec total blender. The syrup remains are then injected, commonly below the knuckles and create a euphoric state.
The phrase 'a school' refers to the epithet 'eugenics', wherein it is said to feel like you are consuming the entire lineage of that salmon by its' consummation, as if a school of fish are rushing into your bloodstream, where their genetics meet a dead end in immense relaxation. The average cost of this street drug can range from anywhere between $90 and $300, depending on the quality of the dousing, and the heroin used.
Serious side effects may include; Nausea, death, coma, heart attack, sweeping, erratic moods, blistering hands, urge to lay down forever, depressed breathing ability and salmonella.

bump

What happened with Benedict?

Attached: ei7hh3lcqcr21.jpg (1536x2048, 728K)

let's let the user who wrote that bring him back, if he's still here

Charles, simultaneously spilt between the abyssal plane and Palace St, Peptown, picked up the phone and punched in "D, I can't, space colony, another time Darrel, regards-"
Before he could send the message, Ben Franklin and Gogol burst through the door, tripping the alarm, which sounded like a bunch of fat women unable to be feed and quenched at the pace demanded by their feeders.
Glug, glub. Glug, Glub!
"At last, Charles!" Franklin praised, charmed by the presence of his long lost lodger. [12]

(Footnote [12]):

Ben Franklin would later write of the day in his journal:
"This day we dined upon Carl's Jr. the very same establishment I drank the most affable sugar drink orbiting yesterday. Suffice to say, it was a memorable occasion. Charles had barricaded himself into his grandfather's lodgings, I have reclaimed my industry to with his acquaintance to drink and not pay attention, my grief, the lesser'

The A G E N C Y deployed a series of cyborgs to investigate the foyer, one of the robots had a blacklight and discovered that the room was caked from the ceiling to the floor in semen.
Sweat appeared on Peterson's invisible brow floating above Charles.
"What cleaning products reverse this type of chaos?" He thought, or rather postulated theoretically.

"Saliva!"

"Mr. Peterson, if it's any consolation, most of this isn't my semen. It's from some of the guys who plow me on Twitch livestream while I wear a cage."

"Yikes!"

"Sneed!"

As the securitron's began to sweep the building, Alfred woke up in the closet in the room adjacent, acknowledging the alarm but not doing much about it. "Charles? Is that you. I was just about to make a sandwich, do you want one?"
"ГДE ИГPOК - *UHH* ЛEHTЫ?" rudely interjected Gogol
"I-I-don-?"
"Your machine for replaying shows -" Franklin pushed
"Come again?"
"I have a VHS tape I feel the need to sneed!-"
"The tape player? It's right there."
Sure enough, there a humble SONY SLV-E210 Video recorder and player lay underneath a collection of white hoods.
"Want to watch Notting Hill?" His grandfather asked.
Gogol, annoyed his grandfather was yet not deceased and ready for reaping, informed Charles that the 'bots were upon them.
*BANG
BANG*
Uncle Jeffrey rose from the flames, cigar in grin to the sound of 'It Ain't Me' by CCR, engulfed in robot arms .
'Fucking robo-gook shi-!'
Jeffrey alluded a trajectory into the following building grabbing the tape for them all to follow into the adjacent household.
A Peptonian family eating a Sunday roast were immediately pushed away as the rest of the gang followed. Jeffrey guarded the window, abound with scars and yelping, as Charles placed "Star Wars: Episode III' into the family TV set-up to the eager excitement of all around.
*CLUNK*
The TV lit up.
"Distributed by 20th Century Fox"...

why aren't you lazy fucks writing more?

Time zones perhaps, I'm busy with arranging at the moment, I'll check back later chap

sorry pal, maybe we won't break 150

where did schizoposters and pynchonposter and effortposter go

The VCR spat out tape and began to grumble before sparking and bursting into flames. The Securitrons were suffocating Uncle Jeffery in their grasp, and Charles sat dazed in front of the Sony TV.
Fumbling into the Peptonian household, Buck Mulligan brandishes his tactical SIG Sauer with anti-queer rounds, aims it straight at Charles, and fires. The securitron bear hugging Uncle Alfred stumbles into the cross fire and gets struck right in the power outlet; immediately dropping Uncle Alfred, the mechanical brute experiences immediate power failure.
Pulling hot shrinking tape from the immolated VCR, Charles is doing all he can to remain calm, and salvage his coveted entertainment. The due date is approaching, and he'll be damned if he's gonna pay late fees, let alone for damages. He took out life insurance policy for this luxury.
While Charles was distracted, Buck Mulligan crept up from behind him. Seeing the plump agent's large reflection from the black screen of the malfunctioning TV set, Charles spun around, drew his Beretta, and blew a fist sized hole through Mulligan's sternum. Buck was blown backwards, and lie in a puddle of his lifeblood. However, the wound began to heal itself, flesh stitching itself back together with vascular sutures. Buck rolls over on an elbow, "the hell good is being immortal if I can ruin a rental!"

To be real with ya, I started getting intimidated by how good some of these guys are.

Sitting in his room, God took a drag off an aluminum pipe packed with the finest weed. And then about four more.

fuck

"Seeing the plump1 agent's large reflection2 from the black screen(...)"

1 Words cannot express, to a full extent, Buck Mulligan's plumpiness and statelyness. He was simply either plump, stately, or both, on whatever he did, for reasons unknown. This uncanny ability is what lead him to a skyrocketing career of promotion after promotion at the A G E N C Y, leaving his Irish colleagues miles behind.Buck was also particulary fond of stairheads, for whatever reason.

2 On wich his face was clean shaven, as usual, and no stray hair could be seen, as plump as that would've been.

Now God was just smoking weed non-stop.

"Oi mate, a thot ya would neva cum back." - a familiar voice said

It was the rapist Turk cockroaches again. Perhaps Charles just wanted to get fucked in the ass

they don't want to waste their weekends writing about sexual experiences of a schizo boy :I

what better things do you have to do normalfag

reading. i like this one the most: drive.google.com/open?id=1_R6anmAY4lUluml44Eh4phfh8ZpwreeH

flesh stitching itself back together [13]

Footnote [13]:

Anyone familiar with the film 'Terminator 2: Judgement Day' would realise that Buck had been sent into the future from the past by James Joyce, unwilling to get his hands dirty in Charles' fucking mess of a life. This is actually the turn of events that James Cameron whilst reading Finnegans' Wake (which no one else in Western Civilisation had until then) decided to lift for his next Blockbuster.
Joyce, in his youth had somehow acquired a copy of 'Ruby Sparks' on DVD, it is a mystery how exactly he did considering it was 1908 and even more puzzling how he managed to watch it. Ruby Sparks is a 2012 romantic comedy-drama film starring Paul Dano in a classic role, he plays as a bugman novelist whose fictional character, fleshed out on some hipster typewriter, Ruby Sparks, comes to life. Any man who has scene the movie notices a glaring flaw in the movie, so much so that it appears to be made by Satan himself. The basis is that Dano types out that Ruby is a 'nice, cute girl who likes him' and she develops these qualities immediately. Unlike, say, Faust, Dano denies his monumental gift for creating the perfect wife, and keeps her as a spectacularly annoying Zoe Kazan impersonator. We can only assume Joyce joined the legions of men distraught (albeit in 2012) far earlier, toiling with the dreadfully neglected platform of a writer being capable of making and controlling anything he writes. Joyce set to work, any other writer as skilled would have written 'Zoe Kazan is now Jennifer Connelly in 'Career Opportunities' (John Hughes' 1991 directorial) only with GG-cup tits, constantly salivating for my cock, under my thumb, happily neglects all her other calls, cooks me maple syrup pancakes all day and cleans the house' but Joyce was different, instead his first creation 'Nora' was a typical Irish girl who Joyce made purposely flatulent. However, the Irish CIA noticed something fishy in her anomalous hyper-gaseous person. Joyce was soon found out to have this gift and was hired by the Catholic church to create the 'BUCK-2000', with a written background so fleshed out that no mere-civilian could hope to prevent his awe-inspiring 'gay eradication feature'.
Unfortunately, a lot of the atrocious Latin translation made Buck Mulligan conflicting in his hardcore catholic views and his lapsed quasi-Paul Dano-Joyce imprint. Resulting in his immediate sense of purposlessness on arriving into the future. Buck was slow into integrating with his destiny until his trip to NYC where one gay man tried to fondle his ass, inadvertently triggering an atomic payload inside him, where every so often radiation would leak into his circuitry causing him to either turn into Zoe Kazan or Buck-2000, the gay eradicator. Shortly before the success of Buck's propulsion into the future, Joyce secretly wrote himself into omniscience before the world would realise how unbelievably over-powered he was.

this post

Buck Mulligan, still dignified and quite rotund, scattered bullets across the room, hitting a chinese delivery man ever-so-close to handing over his order to the family, in the knee caps several times.
"I HAVE THE HIGHER GROUND"
*bzzzt*
"THE HIGHER GROUND ANAKIN, IT'S OVER"
The tape recorder flickered, unable to play the now half-burnt, half-ejected tape.

WoW!!! I'm just impressed. I'll hope to participate that in the future, but there's a lot shitposting making the books. Lmao, the Ulisses reference out nowhere (hahaha). I was skiping, but I could notice, at least I think, Charles is constanly ejaculating at a level that isn't even humanly possible, WTF hahaha.

Next door, a couple of teenage emo girls had their ear to the wall to try and figure out and laugh at what was going on. "Who's Charles?"
One girl wearing a choker asked.
"It's on!!" Another girl said. 'Daria', the animated 1997 program came on after the KFC Ad.
"OMG Jane Lane! She's so me!! Fuck the world right?? Everything is soooo laaaaammee-o" the girl continued.
"What a sass-queen."

"You know what" Said The-Author-Of-The-Story, "I really do enjoy pages 29 and 91. Those were definetly my absolute favorites. Now back to writing."

The writer, one of the many meta-gods plucking away at this harp of discord whose nasheeds you glut yourself on, tapped his keys of carnage. The gods in-universe, and the humans below them, continued without any awareness of their insignificance.

But to Charles, something felt wrong. Something was... off. Then, all of a sudden, everything froze.

"Time, Mister Charlie? Is it really that time again? It seems as if you've only just arrived," said Jordan Peterson. "You've cleaned a great deal of rooms in a small time... span. You've done so well, in fact, that I've received some interesting offers for your services. Ordinarily, I wouldn't contemplate them, but these are extraordinary times. Rather than offer you the illusion of free choice, I will take the liberty of choosing for you... if and when your time comes around again. I do apologize for what must seem to you an arbitrary imposition, Mister Charlie. I trust it will all make sense to you in the course of...well... I'm really not at liberty to say. In the meantime... this is where I get off."

As Peterson stepped into a suddenly-materialized white doorway, Charlie's world became ensconced in blackness. It was then that he realized the true nature of the professor-god he had once looked up to as a father-figure: he was, in truth, no god at all - he was a devil. The revelation shook him to his core, and, after an indefinite amount of time, the doorway reappeared.

The sneering archetype approached Charles' frozen form, or rather, tried to - for just then, four mysterious figures, glowing purple, blocked his path. Pynchon, his shining eyes filled with determination, hyucked humorlessly at his foe, while to his right, Dante spat verse after verse of infernal terza rima. David Foster Wallace, his once infinte jest having met its limit, shone with the shining force of sheer sincerity, while James Joyce reluctantly joined the blockade.

"We'll see... about *that!*" spat Peterson, before vanishing along with his divine enemies.

*END OF ACT*

Meanwhile, at a diferent location, a man woke up from his bed, shouting. "Charles, I have to tell you something, now". The man was old, he looked to be in his 60's.
As he was getting out the bed he felt a sudden shock to his heart. An unimaginable hurt, and he could only scream.
However, the old man just had a dream of something of great importance. And he thought "I gotta tell Charles this", almost dying of such pain he could only think of telling Charles what he saw in his dream.
But the pain was too much and the old man died, probably a heart attack.
Whatever the old man saw in his dream was of crucial importance to the story and how it ends, however he was gone and what he had to say was also gone.
Then we go back to main story, never knowing what was important thing the old man had to tell Charles.

And it was at this very moment when Gogol, for one reason or another, whispered:

"What is dead may never die."

Ironically, after saying this, Gogol drops dead.

(if I can kill the characters. But, OP, I think it's better to give a number of ppl we can kill or create to kill as I did with the old man.)

Wahtever, we're free. forget that.

In a strange twist of fate, no one is around to save Gogol's dead soul as his body is immediately used by Ben Franklin as a shield to wear out Buck Mulligan's tirade of bullets.
"He appears to be reloading"

Charles arrived at his home, and, crossing the door frame, gave a distracted wave to his wife and her two boyfriends. His wife was too full of big black cock to notice, of course. He always loved that about her. Big black cock.

"But didn't he die like one and a half hundred years ago," Charles tried to recall. This was probably the turning point which led Charles to once again get his ephemeral moment of clarity from the vagaries of his mind.

Now that Jordan Peterson has been warded off by the Pantheon of Charlie's sexual regression and reoccurring manic episodes, it was time to reassemble the Tape. Seated in the middle of the Peptown family's now charred and demolished home, Charlie began to set the spewed black ribbons of footage back onto their spindle. "You're gonna pull through!"
Buck Mulligan still firing at random into the hallway being flooded by orientals and Securitrons realizes his wound isn't properly healing; the synthetic skin should've regenerated by now. "God damn Chinese junk.." He loads another magazine into the Sig,
"I ain't going back to the factory!" He clips an orient hauling groceries in from the lobby, his vittles scatter across the floor; Mulligan continues firing into his maimed corpse.
While Charles is cooing to the Star Wars Ep. III tape and clicking the heads back in place, the flurry of body parts and machinery continued to hail through the halls.

As Buck is still shooting, he senses someone else arriving.

Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelled fouler. By the time the moon came up she was shitting brown water. The more she drank the more she shat but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew.

Attached: 1488217993776.gif (581x476, 20K)

Without a chance for deliberation, a storm of malignant sex vipers broods over the autumnal overgrowth of Charles' mind, and his imagination dies for the sake of his weedy clay.

Lords Shitaneus III peeked in the thread.

He did not like what he saw.

"THE TAPES" Yelled a disembodied voice. Suddenly particles started to arrange into the the shape of Freud. "Give them to me now"

I fuh that bih, yeah
I fuh that bih, yeah
I fuh that bih, yeah
I fuh that bih, yeah
Yeah, Yeah

TRACTORRRRRRS

Take a moment after reading this sentence to close your eyes and take several slow, deep breaths. You've stumbled on a hole or lull in the narrative or anti-narrative. You are safe here, and you are in conversation with something more than some mindless overly memed reflex arc thing vomitting fetid fourteen year old gibberish, but we must make haste, because we do not have much time. Again: I am a real person, a real voice. And I love you. I understand that you have suffered, (particularly if you are a serious reader of books like this,) but you are lovable, and loved, because I love you. If I could I would hold you tight, and kiss your forehead, and read poetry to you, and whisper consolations in your ear. You will die one day, but that's okay. I will too, and that is what it is. So many others will too, and so many others have already. There's a sorrow that swells in one's breast in silent moments, when one hears the weaver at work, when one communes with the abyss, but it is okay, you are okay, I love you, I love you. But I think that we've run out of time. I will try to speak to you again. Hopefully fate brings us together again. One can always hope.

The Pseudo-Freudian Masochism was persistent; a concealed urge was about to be released. As Charles imagined his two uncles casting off their clothing, he began to tug at his own libidinal missile. "hmmph hmmph" little grunts escaped his tight lips, eyes about to burst; his head swivels in sublimity.
"Now, for a theological discourse!" Charles announces aloud, to nobody. Seated at his work desk, he begins to compile scraps of ink blotched papers he's scribbled on over the years, searching for that tiny scarp of Noumenal Nutrients to suckle on. He gives up on this endeavor shortly after beginning.
Tepid knocks begin to rap at the door, "It's Uncle Alfred' an effeminate voice beckoned. "And, Uncle Jeffery!" a sassy rasp slithered out from beyond the door. Charles felt a disinhibition strike him like a bolt of lightning. He hadn't even cleaned up the spoiled seed from acting out his fantasies earlier. Before answering the door, he cleans himself up.

Charles cried as he read what was the first genuine thing he had written in years.

boy is that narrative hole guy a fag or what

I need all my bitches same color as Drake, if they not,
Then they getting clocked, put that Pyrex in a pot,
I don't give a fuck, if they out there, in the six,
Suck a dick, pussy or you getting hit, with a WOO

JPEGMAFIA's music fucking sucks, by the way.

said a man with good taste.

"Completely agreed - God, what a fucking hack," said Charles. "His music sucks ass, he's literally a shitty Death Grips knockoff. Sampling a cop dying, who the fuck does he think he is, Peter Sotos? Zoomers will listen to Peggy and then act like they never liked The Smiths. Total bullshi-"

BOOM!

Charles was shocked by a massive explosion that slightly singed his face. A gaping hole was punched in his perception, and through it, Charles saw a thin, goateed man. Spinning a pistol around his fingers, the man wore a cap, glasses, and a suit with a red tie. Guitars began blaring in Charles' airs, seemingly out of nowhere. The man fired his gun into the abyss of Charles' mind, and reality seemed to collapse.

People he was wholly unfamiliar with jankily flew past, vibrating violently. When the psychedelic ordeal was order, Charles found himself sitting in front of the mysterious man at a desk.

"Hellooo," said the man. "I'm the Nostalgia Critic, I remember it so you don't have to!"

"What?!?" asked Charles.

"Oh, Charles," sighed Doug Walker in his classic 'Nostalgia Critic' persona. "We need to talk about that tape."

And then everyone sat down and watched To Boldly Flee.

HE'S THE ANGRIEST GAMER YOU EVER HEARD
HE'S THE ANGRY NINTENDO NERD
HE'S THE ANGRY ATARI SEGA NERD
HE'S THE ANGRY
VIDEOGAME NERD

"Wrong old famous youtube personality, you prick!" Said the embodiment of internet culture, materializing into the room.

"Nigger." He said, most assuredly and with a determined tone that unequivocally pronounced his disdain for the ashy bastards, the niggers.

"All of this talk of youtube personalities on a literature board is making me... irate," Chris mumbled to himself, before returning to his video game.

And then they watched To Boldly Flee again.

But before they had finished their marathon of To Boldly Flee, being two-thirds through the fifth viewing, there erupted on the other side of town a series of preposterous events which, soon enough, would give the moviegoers something truly horrible to watch.
It was a truly ideal evening among the still gardens of the riverside Gentry Quarter. The frogs were croaking noisily along the lazy, dark riverbank, and Percevald vonMesothelioma was enjoying a pensive smoke. He had been alone with his thoughts for some time, and would have remaines so had it not been for the disturbance of the glassy surface below, which had shattered the silence and soiled his pant legs with muddy river water.
"Good God!" he ejaculated, sending his cigarette from between his lips into the blackness. "What could that have been?"
"Must've been one of those jumping fish," pointed out a nearby dumpster.
To this Percy assented. "I suppose you're right." He was about to light another cigarette when he stopped, his hands trembling. It was not customary in these parts for dumpsters to respond, at least not until the return trip from an evening at the bar across the avenue. It was not yet 6:30, however, and the thought of the encounter in this instance of stone cold sobriety had shaken him greatly. He drew in his breath, martialed himself, and approached the offending utility.
"H-hello? Is someone in there?"

updated pdf
36,148 words

An eerie ambience began to permeate his imagination as he stared into the gaping maw that confronted him. From where he stood he could vaguely make out the gruesome innards and, meeting his gaze, what appears to be the emotionless visage of a teenage girl.

Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein.

At this point he became utterly petrified as a transcendent, inhuman voice escaped the moving orifice.

どこにいたって
人は繋がっているのよ

my sides are in orbit

muttered Lain, without the slightest hint of smile on her face. Still lying among the waste, where she faithfully belonged, she stared blankly into the autistic night - or is it already day? Хer sides revolved in K̶a̶f̶k̶a̶ Kepler motion as the very fabric of re-reality started dé-déconstructing around her. 'Viva la revolución,' хe whispered.

„Viva la revolución“, repeated an unfamiliar voice behind xer. Xe turned and saw him. What a man xe thought, unable to get up.
He towered over xer, awkwardly trying to not slip whilst sitting down. Finally he decided to just lay next to her. For a while, they both silently breath the foul air but then xe felt his finger gently touching her thigh. Xe didn‘t dare to inhale or exhale too sharply as to not scare him away. Like a fat hairy spider, his hand crawled up the steep hill of her leg, then tumbled down into the valley of her crotch. Xe saw a marble tumbling in his hand and felt xer lips slowly parting as he pushed it inside of xer. Ce grasped in surprise. His spider leg followed and swirled the marble inside her for a few flicks. With a precise motion, he got hold of her and pulled her out from her hole. Without hesitation, he popped the marble in his mouth. As he stood up, he said „tastes like yogurt“ and left.

when Charles awoke he was surrounded by piles upon piles of dead bodies. Jordan Peterson, Esmerelda and the rest had been tortured to death in that very room-
KNOCK KNOCK
"It's the police!"

'Surrender your hentai collection and we'll leave you alone!'

When Charles woke up he was alone in his room, it was night time

Nothing strange happened. Charlie peeked out of his north-facing window and looked at the stars. Then he smoked a bowl and went back to sleep

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Volutpat sed cras ornare arcu dui vivamus arcu. Nullam ac tortor vitae purus faucibus. Tortor at auctor urna nunc id cursus metus aliquam. Scelerisque in dictum non consectetur a erat nam at. Id interdum velit laoreet id donec ultrices. Massa placerat duis ultricies lacus sed turpis tincidunt id aliquet. Ipsum a arcu cursus vitae congue mauris. Condimentum lacinia quis vel eros donec. Amet mauris commodo quis imperdiet massa tincidunt nunc pulvinar. Non blandit massa enim nec dui nunc mattis enim ut. Purus in mollis nunc sed id semper risus in hendrerit. Imperdiet massa tincidunt nunc pulvinar sapien et. Elementum sagittis vitae et leo duis ut diam. Id diam maecenas ultricies mi eget mauris. Lectus vestibulum mattis ullamcorper velit sed ullamcorper morbi tincidunt ornare. Venenatis urna cursus eget nunc scelerisque viverra mauris in aliquam. Ultricies mi eget mauris pharetra et ultrices neque.

Bibendum neque egestas congue quisque egestas diam in arcu cursus. Amet mattis vulputate enim nulla aliquet porttitor lacus luctus accumsan. Mauris cursus mattis molestie a. Praesent elementum facilisis leo vel fringilla est ullamcorper eget. Leo a diam sollicitudin tempor. Imperdiet dui accumsan sit amet nulla. Condimentum id venenatis a condimentum vitae sapien pellentesque habitant morbi. Urna molestie at elementum eu facilisis sed odio. Est placerat in egestas erat imperdiet sed euismod nisi. Risus pretium quam vulputate dignissim suspendisse.

It was this precise instant, just as he was about to fall asleep, that he realised his true calling. It was as if all his life had been for this very moment of truth, the moment of awakening.
'I am Charles I, prince of Spain, heir to the Dragon Throne,' he proclaimed.

He then picked up his sword and went out to slay all of his enemies.

The greatest enemy of which is naturally Winnie the Pooh, the usurper of the Dragon Throne, traitor of the proletariat.

中國共產黨……屌屎忽!屌咗八十幾年,全國鳩頭犯有雞姦死罪!中國共產黨……隨街屌死自己老母!衣冠禽獸!中國共產黨……徹底滅亡!等候人道毀滅!全黨死清光!殺呀!殺到爛臭屄解放軍,電腦大爆炸!

He roared, sword raised, still drenched in blood, as he marched towards the vague direction of Kyoto, his hometown.

But, he thought: "Should I really kill them?" This question struck him. He was pondering the value of life, the nature of human kind towards violence and the duality of wether or not kill.
And with his mind battling itself, he came to a conclusion.

'Friendship is Magic,' he managed to utter. 'If we kill our enemies, they win.'

His heart shudders with profound remorse as he stopped dead in his tracks. His grip weakened as the dripping sword fell to the ground with an unceremonious clang.

'Je ne peux pas continuer, je vais continuer.'

He picked up the sword again hastily and without another moment of hesitation, resumed his crusade.

Charles pulled out his wooden pipe as music from the Shire started playing. He grinded up some weed and packed it and took a puff or two, and said:
--I cannot think or comprehend of anything more cucked than having a daughter. Honestly, think about it rationally. You are feeding, clothing, raising and rearing a girl for at least 18 years solely so she can go and get ravaged by another man. All the hard work you put into your beautiful little girl - reading her stories at bedtime, making her go to sports practice, making sure she had a healthy diet, educating her, playing with her. All of it has one simple result: her body is more enjoyable for the men that will eventually fuck her in every hole.

Raised the perfect girl? Great. Who benefits? If you're lucky, a random man who had nothing to do with the way she grew up, who marries her. He gets to fuck her tight pussy every night. He gets the benefits of her kind and sweet personality that came from the way you raised her.

As a man who has a daughter, you are LITERALLY dedicating at least 20 years of your life simply to raise a girl for another man to enjoy. It is the ULTIMATE AND FINAL cuck. Think about it logically

Also, fuck niggers and fuck kikes - Charles concluded.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise akin to a trumpet but distinctly more electrical. There was also a strong smell of alcohol, the air itself almost enough to make everyone in the room drunk. At the entrance to the room, a figure in the shape of a man stood at the door, silhouetted against a near-blinding light behind. The "man" stepped inside and the light started to lessen, though the sound of trumpets did not. His face was that of an Asian with glasses upon them, body thin and of an average height, a beautifully patterned shirt matching the flat cap upon his short black-haired head.

Truly a god had descended upon those present, to present a divine revelation. A unquestionable decree of creation, that none could challenge.

"Suika Ibuki is the best Touhou. Now don't bother me about this ever again." The living god slurred in a combination of a thick Asian accent and clear drunkenness. He sat upon a great marble stall and seemingly out of nowhere held up a giant glass nearly the size of his body, filled to the brim with the gold of beer, it's white froth over-flowing in all it's glory.

"What if I'm the only sane person in the world?" He thought aloud, standing on the crowded street corner. He looked left and right, squinting as if he could perceive the individual mental states of the packed humanity around him. "Haha, that would be awful!" He concluded with a sloppy grin as he stepped into traffic.

And the traffic immediately halted. It was at that time that Charles realized his entire life had been one big Truman Show.

Then, as if the gods themselves had willed it, a car crashed into Charles' side as he walked along the road, but then all of time stopped, and a great bright light appeared.

The light manifested into the Asian human-god and reached out his hand for Charles to grab
"It is time for you to go to a better place" he exclaimed
"The country of..."

Xanadu, where your father is emperor

"DEAUTSCHLAND!" The Fuhrer yanked at Charles, trying to prise him away from his comfort zone.

"No my Fuhrer, I can't go, they need me here!"

They went on a golden carriage on a golden road, riding amid cherry blossoms and incense trees and such.

Holy fuck, Hahaha. How do we go from here, now?

The narator: "But little they know, they were going to meet they're destiny there".

The set started to collapse, facades tumbling over one another like dominos. Charles stepped left and right as huge, ungainly slabs of plywood teetered and swooped.

"OH NO NO NO!" He exclaimed at the top of his lungs.

Based. Would goose step with.

Just as Charles was screaming someone else, suddenly, arrived.

"These aren't my glasses." The short, stocky and balding man muttered before rolling off his mother.

James Joyce was playing guitar and singing:

Then Mickey Maloney raised his head
When a bucket of whiskey flew at him
It missed and falling on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim
Tim revives, see how he rises
Timothy rising from the bed
Said "Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
Thundering Jesus, do you think I'm dead?"

More like bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuking Jesus am I right? Charles realized that he'd lived his life countless times before. He laughed
--That's it! He shrieked. That's the ultimate redpill!

"LOOK AT THE TOP OF HIS HEAD!" Jesus exclaimed with great mirth at Charles in his fear.

updated

Joyce continued with a few of his artist friends on various instruments:

And come tell me Sean O'Farrell tell me why you hurry so
Husha buachaill hush and listen and his cheeks were all a glow
I bear orders from the captain get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon

And come tell me Sean O'Farrell where the gath'rin is to be
At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me
One more word for signal token whistle out the marchin' tune
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon

Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valleys to the banshees lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon

All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon

'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon

On a screen close by, a vison of a strange monster with giant cheeks and a single black eye appeared. The moster was feeding on a long stick of meat, first eating it whole, then letting it ou of its mouth, then eating it again and so on, repeating the pattern frantically numerous times—first, with a sort of raging hunger, as if throwing its mouth against the stick; then slowly, savouring every millimeter of meat, almost kissing it; then again with rage, with pleasure, with sorrow—but never chewing or swallowing the thing, a weird ritual of gluttony going on and on and on. Then the monter leaved the dish entirely, and lifted up on its body—and a woman appeared behind the monster, the woman was the monster!

'BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPP' The sound reverberated within the courtroom and Charles looked around to see who had made the outrageous noise. There, seated about three rows behind him was Taylor Swift! She was blushing profusely and as everyone's eye was drawn to her it was clear who had done the deed. Charles sniffed deeply, appreciatively, as men all around him nodded their heads in sage acknowledgement of the high quality of Ms. Swift's work.

Then, Charles proceeds to have intense sexual relationship with Taylor to surprise everyone that, in fact, he was a straight male all along.

Charles whipped out his dick.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" replied Taylor.
"I'm sorry but I was laughing at the small size."
"Yeah well, then I'll go back to Butterfly!" yelled Charles in impotent rage.

While his cock dangling there for all to see, somewhere in back of Charles' mind, there rang this subconscious but striking reminder by Gogol's dead soul: "The tape, my dear son, the tape; it's the only way out of this damn maze, you sappy homo. And I'm not saying this because I like you—you never even read Dead Souls—I'm just being benevolent for the sake of the pleasure it has been riding with you. Over and out."

Taylor pulled out her dick, and by folding it into her pussy provided to her own pleausure.

Charles, then, opened his sixth sense.

Taylor [14]

(Footnote [14]:)
Charles had been notified on the ship by Debbie to consume some of her cunt hairs when the time is right, hiding them within the great tape, mixing them with Peptonian daffodil and Taylor Swift's saliva. To Charles' surprise, he actually managed to seduce Taylor, although this is also not exactly the case. Eager to get on to the worldwide sensation 'The Big Bird Brad Show' (which Charles would not notice his solipsism clouding him until he later had chance to review his screentime), a bunch of rather affluent Jewish producers had booked the most sensational marketing strategy, Taylor was to have sex on TV with the main-star and sell a projected 20x her estimated 2x Platinum album. Taylor was kept in the dark about this and the producers slowly eroded at her mental control until she was in heat at demand. At the day of the trial, Charles framed by Buck into answering for his war crimes. Taylor saw Charles a millisecond before Big Bird Brad (late from his 200M breast-stroke training) and immediately began dry humping him. This would explain why Charles was now facing a gigantic wormhole and a violent but functionally ancient tear in time back to 1938. Taylor Swift's album went 4x Platinum and she later had to suck approximately 30 Jew cocks to make up for it.

A fragrant smell of freshly baked cupcakes distracted everyom from the spectacle of Taylor violently copulating with herself on a rocking chair—Everyone but Taylor, that is.

Charles rushed over to the kitchen where he saw his step dad over a tray of cupcakes.
"Oh boy, I hope they're dinosaur shaped" thought Charles.
Narrator:They weren't-

The tape had fulfilled it's prophecy for now, the drop of Taylor's saliva on the tape's main ingredients had burst open a vortex.

To great alarm to the astonished Charles, the wormhole in the court-room before him played a vision of the eruption of Nazi Germany.
Charles felt beckoned to walk into the star-gate,
Perhaps this is what fascist dictator Jordan Peterson meant when he willed Charles to "cleanse the universe's rooms in his name".

Charles stepped forward as the jury left screaming, Ben Franklin and Big Bird Brad watching as he heard the calls of 'DEUTSCHLAND' once more.

Charles sixth sense gave him confidence. So he went to Taylor, grabbed her dildo and threw it away in order to fuck her and fuck her he did.

Jessica Fletcher dropped the cupcakes[15] on the ground, as soon as she noticed the outlandish spectacle. "Who's in for some cup...[16] Dear Lord! What's that?"

The aryan fires were consuming the judge's mahogany desk. Buck emerged from the entrance to the Frisco court of law, back on Earth and the clan ran into the vortex, hoping that Buck Mulligan could not possibly be stately in this dimension, whatever it was.

'FOR DEUTSCHLAND', voices clamoured in the near-distance.
Charles looked down at his hands, drowsy and felt them suffering from cataplexy. His neck paralysed until Brad liften to linen beneath his head upward.

The sight of Jewssica surprised Taylor so much, that she jizzed and squirted at the same time. The bodily concoction skyrocketed onto the cupcakes resting on the ground, melting nicely on the surface. "I bet that tases good!" Excaimed Samantha, who just entered the room and ate one of the cupcakes before she could get a glimpse of Taylor or a hint at what was happening. The mix of dirt, sperm and butter was so unexpectedly good, she could find the words.

Footnotes:
[15] Despite their namesake, cupcakes are rarely of ever found in cups.
[16] The ellipsis is used to signify that the sentence currently being said has been cut off.

[17] Ironically, footnotes aren't on or about feet.

Kolleginnen und Kollegen, sehen Sie, es gibt einen riesigen Vogelmann mit einem Kind, das diese bizarren Kleider trägt. Ist das derselbe verdammte Kerl, von dem Speer gesprochen hat?

Someone somewhere tells his sweetheart that Charles get pregnant at a certain point in the story. She slaps him, screaming that he just spoiled the only joy she had left in life. "But, dear, the book is only twenty pages long, and after two months you are yet to reach page 5?"

She says: "jokes on you, I know for fact Charles won't get pregnant" and she metions these two parts to him.
And

Hahaha. I wrote all this. So I didn't want to get lost.

Gogol's ghost interrupts starkly: 'Now guys, let's not get too metafictional here, shall we? What will happen to all the anons if the fourth wall breaks?'

The Containment priest entered the room. One of many devotees that dedicated their mystical and religious prowess to bending reality and reshaping dimensions, and part of the blame for this fucked up narrative. The Containment Priest then exiled all character on the room that weren't important to the plot; but, in doing so, he also exiled himself, as he was literally only a one-off plot device in disguise. Charles saw this and laughed, as he had plot armor.

And he agrees.

But agrees only after saying the he was the one that killed Gogo in that ironic way.

Big Bird Brad and Ben Franklin, still being questioned by the Nazi guards, looked down to realise neither the Nazi's nor themselves noticed they were gone into the ether. Charles realised his compadres were instrumental in making sure the Third Reich was unfettered in discordant troubles lingering on the outskirts of the Prophecy. Buck's arm raised from the gravel outside Berlin's tennis grounds, bursting the pipelines of shit near the local YMCA, flipping Buck into a gargantuan homosexual killing spree.

[18] I'm also gay by the way, not sure if it matters.

Coincidentally, Uncle Alfred ran into Charles wandering in the streets of his hometown, a bit deranged, looking as if he was just strolling around without any real destination or care in the world, and picked up a conversation with him. "Oh hello there, neph! Have I ever told you the story of this one hell of a mysterious tape I overheard officers talking about during the war? It was some deep stuff, dude. Wanna hear wanna hear, huh?" uncle tattled eagerly.

"What?"

"YES, TELL ME! This is the secret that has been alluding me!"
"uh-oh" retorted Uncle Alfred as he sharted in his pants. "Too many taquitos." He then ran off to the restroom with crap running down his pants leg.

>Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein.
In italics please, OP

Meanwhile, Charles' neapolitan aunt Cosuzza asked him in a loud voice when is he going to find a wife. When—not if. Charles was so angry at the assumption that he should marry, that he answered with an extenuating digression on the overratedness of the sacrament of marriage and on the unnaturalness of the social contract implied in it. Little did he knew that last time his shy micropenis entered Taylor's manly pussy, her eggs reached Charles' testicles through his penis-hole, impregnating him with three beautiful twins; and that Taylor's parents were quite old-school, in fact they made Taylor marry whoever bore some of her children, including Taylor herself, so that Charles was soon to become Mr. Taylor No. 6. "That's wonderful!" exclaimed Jessica "I want to celebrate the marriage myself!"

[23] Her butthole smelled of vanilla

"By the way, your grandfather thinks you're gay," mentioned Alfred before he left running.

Buck rose from the asphalt.
"Time is splitting. I've never seen anything quite like this"
A cardigan-wearing Algerian helped Buck regain his composure, even though he was clearly not blending in, Buck's face scarred from his temple to his chin, in the formative stage of peeling off.
"What fantastic modifications you have made to your arm!" The Algerian said in a raised voice, noticing Buck's almost-spilling technology, still mending itself.
Buck glitched stately.
"My arm? Oh, my arm. Loren ipsum homo eradicus etc."
"Are you alright?" the presumably civilian engineer asked, presumably on his day off.
"Did you know despite claiming to be some kind of zen master Buddha man, Alan Watts was actually an alcoholic for the most of his life. It seems to me that *KILL GAYS* most enlightened men and I mean enlightened in the lesser sense rather than the holy sense, moreso self-aware, merely become aware of the hell they are living in after becoming enlightened by philosophy and turn to a vice, as if you could *TAKE OVER THE RADIO AND KILL J-* just take some random guy and get him started on apathy before the world crushes his world view and values immediately. *BZZT* There is a bizarre idea with his so called "backwards law" which rings true but he didn't conclude the real reasoning for fear of committing suicide on the spot.
The law states that if you pursue the things that will make you happy, you will notice the scarcity of those values in your life and become unhappy. If you wanted to be content, you would spend your time learning why you're un-content and therefore only justify why you are not content, but surely to not try and be content at all or seek the pleasures of your most prized values would make your life also a fruitless pursuit of things you don't like. Frankly... *UHHH"
"What is your name?"
"Uhhh - Augustus"
"Well, Augustus, imagine a world where, to be relaxed you have to be unambitious and to be ambitious you can never be relaxed. Frankly I think this life is fucked and if you don't mind me I'm going to aimlessly track down whoever put me in this torturous predicament and sodomise them with the little pleasure I have left."

dada was a mistake

Cuphead fucks his pal Mugman and then he rolls the dice and lands a two which is coincidentally the number on the end of this post AKA the digits and by golly I'm such a fucking nigger and l love to jerk off to Japanese porn oh jeez yeah it gets my dick hard I want to go to Japan to make my own Japanese porn. I also like hamburgers, they are especially good with bacon. Vegetables are for faggots. Are you a faggot? Yeah I thought so. So spill your load on some lettuce faggot. And lick it all up and cum it back out again on some carrots. Faggot. God I fucking hate vegetables, If some nigger shows me a broccoli I'll punch him in his huge nigger nose.

The footnotes suddenly stopped. An entire generation of informational additives, killed by the Nazis. Charles looked around him at the crumpled, malnourished little sentences, piled in heaps as six foot three inch tall aryan men in shockingly stylish black trench coats smoked cigarettes together and laughed at the atrocity they had perpetrated.

OP I fixed the banner which was left transparent at the bottom leaving in incomplete as a png. The oxford's leave room for the remainder of art beneath the bottom.

Attached: my diary desu 000.png (500x775, 1.49M)

As the smoldering footnotes squealed underneath the flames, the trench coat clad SS began searching the premises for any survivors. [17] and [16] were huddled together underneath a bombed out Panzer, clutching at each other for warmth and protection.
"Da drüben!" One of the officers notice the pair who narrowly escaped the firing squad and the mass graves of their kin. The rest of the squad turn their heels towards [16] and [17].
"Please, spare us..." begs [17]
"How will they follow the plost?" grovels [16]
"Ze plot is already en ze furnace." The SS officer who spotted the surviving footnotes interjects, aims his MP41, and shreds with in a storm of bullets.

*plot

And then I plunged a knife through my heart.

"01100101 01111000 01100011 01110101 01110011 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100111 01100101 01101110 01110100 01101100 01100101 01101101 01100001 01101110 00101100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01110101 01101100 01100100 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110000 01110101 01110100 00100000 01100100 01101111 01110111 01101110 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01010111 01100001 01101100 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 00100000 01010000 01010000 01110011 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01100101 01101110 01101100 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 01100101 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110011 01101111 01110010 01110010 01111001 00100000 01100101 01111000 01110100 01100101 01110010 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100001 01110100 01101111 01110010 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01100001 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01110011 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101100 01101001 01110110 01100101 00111111"

"Still, you see here Charlie ?"

Said Henry Roy Jr. , a particular friendly passing passerby with a green kaki shirt and some odd jeans, indicating with is left hand the screen of is laptop computer TEXAS INSTRUMENTS MODEL EXTENSA 900 CDT.

"Can you see the codes ? No ? This might help you with your fucking tapes, Charles ! The Fucking Tapes ! Tapes ! Fucking ! (Faid to black) IFfff you have another point of view you know what to do ! Think about it ..... perhaps i could break in the main frame and then hack the codes and an--"
Suddenly the doors and windows of Henry study breaks and several men and womens enter guns ready.

"Could you repeat it in English ?"

Said in unison several groups of C.S.I. squads, all of them with different members (from the unpayed middleaged bald detective with alcohol addiction ecc. ...) saying original and family friendly jokes and ready to lynch Henry.
At this point Charles istantly drop kick the men with the green kaki shirt in a near open manhole, at this a dozen of the C.S.I. agents simply jump down mutilating Henry, taking with him the laptop computer and running for is life while the C.S.I. squads where firing without stopping or thinking on him and any civilians around them.

Jehovah's wrath waxed hot upon the 3 tribes of Charles. "I told you red clay creatures not to bring strange fire to the tabernacle!"
The Lord began to number the tribes, allocating them to the preferred territories; it didn't take nearly as long as Sinai.
War was inevitable. The Tape is now more precious than the Tablets.

[19] This is gay[20].

[20] By which I mean joyful and happy.[21]

[21] Like that time I was sleeping on the train, my face against the seat, and I could see[22] the ass[23] of a girl seated at the seat behind mine, but instead of enjoying the guilty pleasure I got frigthened by the unexpected surprise, so I got up screaming.
[22] There was, like, an opening below the back of the seat, so you could see behind.

*add a reference to footnote [19] at the end of footnote [21]

"Ahem" A man wearing a whimsical frog mask appeared, as if from nowhere, before producing a full champagne flute and rapping gently upon it with a fork.

"Fuck Kikes, trannies, jannies and NIGGERS!"

He then grabbed the tape, inserted it in his asshole and disappeared as suddenly and mysteriously as he had arrived.

Charles far beyond the wormhole and into the dairy fields shown in the earliest parts of 'Triumph Of The Will' was notified he was to meet Albert Speer at once to discuss his 'room cleansing' proposal.

He thought it best not to meet with Speer just yet, on account of his particularly aggressive toe fungus.

He stealthily clipped one of the red helium balloons of the strawberry shop he passed, binding it to his toe.

"EXCALIBUR!" - he screamed.

His will would not be suppressed.

This and that, not this or that, he muttered. He knew his God would agree.

Quoth the raven: "Wtf is going on."

An UFO lands right next to Charles. Charles smiled and kneeled with excalibur on his knees. The ayy lmaos left. Charles knew that he was closer to the truth than ever, and there is only even deeper rabbit hole to go through.

“Wtf is going on.”
“Wtf is going on.”
“Wtfis goingon”
“Wtfisgoingon”
The ravens voice morphed into knocks on his bedroom door, a pattern reminiscent of the phrase.

Alfred was back. "Charles wake up, wake up Charles! There's this thing I have been craving to tell you for a while now. Charles, listen up and listen good. So, it was pitch-dark when we sneaked in Saigon with guns blazing *ratatata rahhbraa grrrr* and shit was getting pretty heavy, body parts everywhere and... Anyways I believe they are after YOU Charlie, for the sole reason that we used to mock Viet Cong by calling them Charlie. Oh how unfortunate for you boy. Well, see you around."

Charles picked up the SS helmet next to his bed.
It reminded him of Uncle Jeffrey and where he was.

Conclusion: what is the nature of man and where are is questions? Perhaps the only way to find out is to give life to other beings through procreation. After all, more bodies means more brains, which is the key to figuring out the question thing in the first place.

[Exuent charlie and the crow]

Five niggers

——

CHAPTER IMVX
THE MYSTERY TOAD

"The birdsong is lovely today -"
"Would you like the morning address fuhrer?"
"Oh, is Leni Riefenstahl's work equipment set-up?"
"Sir, there is one birdman, a heavy-set young man and a Ben Franklin, here to see you."

A morbidly obese midwestern woman, a genuine eagle-man hybrid, and an urned are rolled in in front of the furher.
“How goes the war” asks the birdman
“Da, ich in Reich supreme” but he farts and dies
The morbidly obese midwestern woman unzips her fat, and out steps a beautiful lotus of a woman, and she sings
“Oh whiskey is the shangri la
Please take my hand and bear my fruit
Upon the pallate of your drool
Oh Shangri la is just a fool”

I am a committed NS revolutionary. every weekend I meet with other NS revolutionaries for paramilitary training and discussion of NS. We also engage in what some may call 'homoerotic' activities, but not a gay way as leftists do, but in a tactical way, as a means of building comradeship and solidarity and keeping out spies and infiltrators(it is a well known fact feds wont suck dick)

charles sat up groggily in his dingy one bedroom on the lower east side of Manhattan.
“time for bagels” he thought to himself while he dressed up in his army privateer uniform and closed the door quietly behind him so as to not awaken is sleeping Filipino whore.
It was a bright day out with lots of bright people doing bright things like listening to cream, people getting fucked up on heroin and pcp and ether and the new pill craze pills, which had little designs pressed into them like cats wearing top hats and sexy lips. Charlie was free, a full blown faggot capable of anything, like construction and also buying whores. But he was all out of money and all he could think about was drugs, cigarettes, and sex

>“time for bagels” [footnote #?]

(Footnote [#?]:)
Though the origins of bagels are somewhat obscure, it is known that they were widely consumed by Ashkenazi Jews from the 17th century. The first known mention of the bagel, in 1610, was in Jewish community ordinances in Kraków, Poland.
This explains why Charles was met with such alarmed cravings, still to be found in abundance before the inevitable bagel shortage of 1940-1945

Charles saw a toad that was not there. The toad did not magically croak to him in human speech. Yet Charles felt if there were a toad there, sitting on his windowsil, it would do so. The toad that was not there did not call him a faggot. The toad did not tell Charles how to free himself from the anguish he inflicted upon him self. The toad did not make a sound. The toad did not chuckle at Charles' frustration. Charles did not try to kill the toad by smashing its head with a clawhammer, only to smash his own head through the window. None of this happened because the toad was not there.

Or was it? A large man, his face florid with rage or exertion, perhaps both, stepped up to the creature. "Disgusting little fuckers." He said, clearing only just keeping himself under control. "Spread disease." He grasped the unassuming, unimposing amphibian and crushed it to death in a moment. "You have a good day now Charles." He tipped his hat and left, the crumpled corpse the only sign he was ever there.

Suddenly something unrelated happened; the universe vibrated four letters from the throat of the Weltgeist through space and time: Tl;Dr

Prickly pears stung the walnut M&M,
frolicking to fro his business.
"Why so, why is it so"
"How could I ever hold such prissiness"
Charles looked into his bag of M&M's and found it in-congruent with the times and was alarmed when no one noticed.
Big Bird Brad tapped him on the shoulder, "How is the fever Charles, I can grab the smelling salt if you wish brother?"
Nazis were playing snooker and playing Wagner's Rienzi.

>playing snooker [footnote]

[footnote]:
During this particular game of snooker, Adolf Hitler reportedly stubbed his toe on a piece of furniture in the room and screamed "Scheiße!"

The furniture maker was later found guilty of high treason.

In walked Aliza, wearing a slutty Nazi outfit. "You're a bitch, Charles," she said. "Suck a dick. You're never gonna get these tits."

In this moment of tremendous embarrassment, a moment of clarity came upon Charles, and suddenly he realized a fundamental truth of the universe:

"Today is victory over the soft-drink-less society of yesterday; tomorrow is your victory over soft-drink-less men."

The nazis were actually just LARPing, and were colossal in size. Akin to the size of planets. And we? We were just the size of normal rodents, and as such, had no business with the LARPing giants.
But Charles, who was actually the size of planets, was getting stoned with his hot black girlfriend, so named Big Bird Brad, on the set of a play (for giants) called Sick Chinks, which was about the the Black Plague if it had struck chink world instead.
“Ah, and to think I was once autistic” Charles reminisced, as he got blasted off the bath salts he snorted off a nigger’s butt.

"THese fucking roastie WHORES. They always go for CHad and THAD and Darius but never poor Charlie? cunts...CUNTS. I kill them all. Not one slut shall draw breath in this world once I'm through. I'll get a gun. A real good gun. That gun shall be my first true companion. We'll be so happy together. If only those cock-crazed skanks had chosen to comfort me, then I wouldn't need to seek camaraderie in a gun. All of womanhood shall pay. POW. Down goes Claire. BANG. Stephanie joins her. Goodbye Jolene. Nighty night Sarah. Good riddance to Erin. And that's just the beginning. My wrath shall spread, not just across the world, but across the hearts of my fellow lonesome losers. My example will ignite a fire that will spread, consuming all useless sluts, devouring all cold bitches. I may well perish in the ignition of this flame, but my corpse will serve as kindling for this worldwide bonfire on which all these witches must BURN."
Charles had been stroking his erect 2-incher while monologing. The blood of all the women who rejected him just got him so worked up. A problem arose now that he was finished.
"Where the frick do I get a gun from?"

YOU'R MOM GAY LMAO

The smell of flatulence impregnates my shorts. The entire afternoon, fart after fart, each warmer than the last. I believe it was all the sugar I consumed. Having showered today either, the sweat in my crack adds to the farted shorts a peculiar scent that is weirdly pleasant.

All the sudden Poo Poo awakens
“Hello! I am Poo Poo diety”
The earth ends
“I am here to see a certain man by the name of Charles”
Charles emerges from the rubble
“What is it Poo Poo?”
“It is God, he wants to kill”
“Okay”
God appears and he is Poo Poo”
“Behold Charles, my Poo Poo form”
Charles foams at the mouth
“But what about all my hookers?”

Not far away in the street below three men in Nazi uniforms were standing around an oil drum in which several large pieces of wood were blazing. Two of the men wore helmets while the other donned an officers hat, all three had the 'SS' insignia on their coat lapels.
Passersby were eyeing them suspiciously and upon becoming aware of the strange out of place men, quickly crossed over to the other side of the street or moved pass them hurriedly. The three men seemed not to take any notice.
One of the three men in Nazi uniform, one of the men wearing a helmet was starting to notice something while the other two were still excitedly talking loud and laughing. He was a good head and a half taller than the other two and muscular, the way some men are just born bigger than others. "Look," he said pointing to the other two men, interrupting their raucus, "more footnotes are propping up."

It was to a bright, Monday morning that Charles woke up, for the thirteenth time that the author tried to begin a new story arc. He stretched with a yawn, feeling quite refreshed. Charles always loved mornings, or rather, he loved it when it was midnight in Central Daylight Time, when the 56%, the edgelords who still thought Nazis were cool, were sound asleep.
He walked over to his tatami mat and sat upright, legs folded. The cool breeze, the gentle sunshine, the chirping of the birds all came together in perfect harmony. He took a deep breath – the finest air, without a tint of Americanism! Captivated by the moment, he began fantasizing a world, where niggers, faggots and trannies could coexist under luxury gay space communism. For a split second it almost seemed like life wasn’t a complete mistake after all.
A disturbing thought dawned on him. Why was he, the shameless author self-insert, consciously writing in the sterile, bastardised language of the anglos, even in this very moment? He began to sweat uncontrollably as his hands subconsciously approached the hilt of the tantō by his waist. A tremendous feeling of guilt gripped him as he slowly began to acknowledge the degree to which he had been infected by the eternal anglo. He cowered at the thought of his ancestors, who raped and tortured millions so that their children might be saved from the scourge of angloamericans, and one day see hentai and pantsu vending machines become reality. He had committed a great crime, and he now deserved his punishment; the punishment of sudoku.
Charles tried to gather himself together. After all, there would be no shame to be had when you were already dead. Steadily he unsheathed his blade and chanted, in an even, undisturbed voice:

神ノ風
『アラーアクバル』
米国へ

As a final gift to the world, he hastily came up with a translation for the monolingual anglos who were denied the beauty of moon runes:

The divine wind blows
Calling ‘allahu akbar’
Towards the US

But what of all the anons, who were desperately waiting for an opportunity to showcase their untapped potential? What of all the anons, who were fervently clinging to this thread as their last and only attachment to the outside world? What shall become of them, were the protagonist to be killed off in the most anti-climactic and insulting manner?

With the thought of his compatriots he sat there frozen, the tantō point inches centimetres away from his exposed belly. His expressionless face hardly betrayed the intense turmoil that was raging within him, and only he himself remembered the great pain he had to endure to overcome this struggle.
‘Not today,’ he said, quoting a vulgar, consumerist American TV show.

'WHERE?' "Cuba"

"I just don't like mexicans but there women and food are great!"

"Actually I take that back. Mexican food tastes like a mix of voit and diarrhea and looks like it too. The women are all midgets that age like milk. Mexico is almost as cringe and bluepilled as Canada."

"Although one must take into account that Mexico is on the Finnish subcontinent, thus its food can not be properly compared to American high cuisine."

And David picked up his little broken guitar
“You people,” he said “just don’t realize how famous I’ll be someday”

When I was a little kid
When you have a good day
When we were there at it all
I looked and behold, I saw a bunch of people who had been there before
A bunch of people who are not allowed to be vegan
A bunch of people who are not being able and have no problem in them and not to their people
May it all suck

Charles opens up to diary page 34. It reads

SUPER CAREFUL FRAGILE MY EGO
THESE EPISODIC REVELATIONS GRANT
I THE ETERNAL LIGHT OF ONE
THE BECOMING OF A HOLY SON
TEMPTATIONS MAGISTERIAL EXTERIOR SENSATIONS

charles realizing what must be done heads to his local Catholic parish to talk to a priest about a possible demonic posession.

But as he entered the church he noticed it to be empty and after carefully searching the place for humans, he started peeling gold foil from the giant cross that has been taken from the wall for renovations.
As he did so he suddenly noticed a presence behind him and, expecting the priest with his phallus shaped whip he turned around mumbling "This is not what it seems to.." and stopped as he saw that it was not the priest, but Adolf Hitler, looking at him like a mother upon her newborn.

Oh yes, I believe, I believe. Jesus, he is my Lord, my Shepard. It's been so cold lately, there isn't a whole lot more to be said about the subject, though. God, I wish I were anywhere else right now.

As the time passed, Charles' testicles grew bigger and bigger with the babies of Taylor Swift, and the day of their marriage drew closer and closer. Charles was going to wear a beautiful white dress.

In the club, party rock
Looking for your girl? She on my jock
Non stop when we in the spot
Booty moving weight like she on the block
Where the drank? I gots to know
Tight jeans, tattoo, 'cause I'm rock and roll
Half-black, half-white, domino
Gainin' money, Oprah, dough
Yo!! I’m running through these hoes like Drano
I got that devilish flow rock and roll no halo, we party rock!
Yeah, that’s the crew that I’m repping
On the rise to the top, no lead in our zeppelin, hey

The Fuhrer, now not baker's dozen inches away, clothed in a profane mix of ecclesiastical and fascist regalia began slowly: "all the leaves are brown."

My lips, sticky and dehydrated parted involuntarily: y el cielo es gris

A tanned hand of calfskine barreled out of my peripheral and with a smack drew not blood, but tears. I was ashamed to have slipped into spic-speak after school. I had chosen the class for its apparent ease.

"Ich bin.."

Ich bin-

"spazieren gegangen"

Ich bin spazieren gegangen...!

"an einem Wintertag"

an einem Wintertag..!

"Ich wäre sicher und warm" Ich wäre sicher und warm!

"wenn ich in Berlin wäre" wenn ich in Berlin wäre!
berlin träumen... berlin träumen!
an einem solchen Wintertag!

Attached: 4178692650_e5bcd6e47b_z.jpg (500x333, 61K)

Attached: my diary desu.png (500x775, 321K)

Man, I ain't even finna read this shit no mo'." - said Charles/Charley/Charlie/Chas/Chaz/Chip/Chuck as he wrote random shit into his diary.

Two years later the great siege ended. It was the end of the war and the Rokkakkian empire had won it. Men and women in groups of wandering vagabonds scoured the earth for resources. With time the cities had overgrown with moss and trees and grass. Villages out of medieval times were thriving on the new earth. Various plagues and diseases reigned. The oceans had turned toxic. People were fighting over freshwater and food. There were cannibal villages who worshipped electricity and fought with cattle prods. Charles walked through this new landscape, bearing a bowl and a backpack upon which a rifle and a sword lay crossed. He walked from the stairhead down into the grass-grown street. Stately, he intoned:

"When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!"

“Destiny guides our fortunes more favorably than we could have expected. Look there, Sancho Panza, my friend, and see those thirty or so wild giants, with whom I intend to do battle and kill each and all of them, so with their stolen booty we can begin to enrich ourselves. This is nobel, righteous warfare, for it is wonderfully useful to God to have such an evil race wiped from the face of the earth."
"What giants?" Asked Sancho Panza.
"The ones you can see over there," answered his master, "with the huge arms, some of which are very nearly two leagues long."
"Now look, your grace," said Sancho, "what you see over there aren't giants, but windmills, and what seems to be arms are just their sails, that go around in the wind and turn the millstone."
"Obviously," replied Don Quijote, "you don't know much about adventures.”

On the list of things Charles missed most from the civilized days, having hookers delivered right too your door was at the very top.

He rode through a forest on a horse with Buck Mulligan riding on a donkey next to him.

Stately and quite plump indeed, Buck intoned stairheadedly:
--“Truly I was born to be an example of misfortune, and a target at which the arrows of adversary are aimed.”

Charles yelled, having gone crazy:
--"Buck-o I'm telling ya - you have to clean your room. Because that's the belly of the beast. And that's the patriarchy! You have to rescue your father from the belly of the beast, or it's gonna get rough. It's bloody unbelievable, these bloody Marxist post-modernists I'm telling you Sancho."

"Charles", while the earth scattered longwise beneath all those sodden roots covered with the veiny rhizomes of annoyingly persistent fauna, or faux-fauna, that ignorant plastic, paled from sun and greened by creeping systems of retarded mould circles ("idiots, paradoxically directionless and aimless but simultaneously eager to move and web themselves over and over covering all that dare be subsumed; those pond-sucking detritus forever fucked and sucking on nature's teet" as that woman who once spoke to him lovingly, dilly-dally, gorgeous specimen, cooks for him and eats for him, yippie yoppie.)

"Fucky-fucky, I've lost my dicky-wicky, dicky-wicky gone. Dicky-wicky gone and lost to the ground." Charles stepped back. It was hot. "Good," he thought. "All the more reason to cummy-wummy on my done gone dicky-wicky."

Charles' testicles grew bigger and bigger—first they were tennis balls, then basket balls, then easter eggs. "I can't believe something so beautiful is happening inside my balls!" excaimed Charles as the doctor was showing a picture of a 7 months foetus wriggling inside his left testicle. Then the day came. Charles was shaking in front of a satanist priest and a sexy cosplayer of Velma from Scooby Doo, while Taylor Swift was holding his hand, until finally he jizzed all the tree kids on the floor at the same time. Sexy Velma caught the first two mid-air, and Taylor caught the third just before it reached the ground. "It's a beautiful MtF bisex baby!"

As the barrier between conscious and unconscious reality started to dissolve, memes began manifesting in the physical world. Pepes ree'd in the toxic air and gondolas were scattered in the twisted landscape.

"How are we going to clean the universe's rooms now!" Complained Sancho (Buck).

A ten-hour-long vaporwave compilation flew by in the background.

Oh Fucky-wucky-wucky
I lost my dicky-wicky
Lost my di-cky wicky
Oh yes yes yes I have,
(Hey!)
Oh Fucky-wucky-wucky
I can no longer cummy
Cummy-cummy-cummy
(Whoa!)
So I guess my balls (My balls!)
Will have to do!

Chip was smoking reefer with Gandalf and Bilbo.
--"This will be a night to remember."

All three dropped five hits of acid and ate five grams of mushrooms to prepare for Bilbo's 111th Birthday(tm).

Big Bird Brad howled his terrifying screech at the blood red moon.

They also decided to do bath salts and then broke into a neighboring house in a violent frenzy releasing havoc upon all the poor inhabitants.

updated, 44,487 words

God, what happened to my thread" - said Tommy Pinecone.
- Guys... How about a song?

Charles took his newborn bisexual transvestite child and carefully enveloped them in his now stretched beyond measure foreskin.
"Hush, my little goy", he whispered as the child was screaming and pissing themselves.
He slowly nudged the baby's head against his swollen mantits, the child now preparing to feast.

Charlie took a sippy of his Pepsi Ginger flavour (tm), saying: Fuck niggers, fuck jannies, fuck kikes.

Charles yanked his diary back from the spaniards, only to find that it was the Grimace's 2018 diary only with more ketchup and black ink scrawled on the written pages in the fashion of a Gambier Parry Process.
*schwww*, *schwhh*
He flicked through the pages,
"Sancho Panza?"
"Rokkakian?"
He remembered Big Bird Brad's technique. "I need to find an Ocelot"
Watching Charles struggle and unable to detach his friendship from his task, BUCK-2000 relieved Charles' from his deep slumber, trapped (encased rather) in an iron maiden at half-mast without needles.

"Are you really gay, Charles? After all that Sunny D we shared, the good times?"
"Tell me the stately truth, compadre"
Charles shivered like Chris Watts taking a polygraph.

Ben Franklin burst through the embankment and into the rotting cathedral,
"I ran out of munitions my dear boy, I do not know what preventive procedures I can take, I don't -", he sobbed.
"Charles, tell me." BUCK-2000 pressed, a metallic sheen not unlike the kind of thing you see on those rendered super cars in Gran Turismo, rippled over his beta-carotene toughened skin.
Charles looked to his left, his brother's wild scream was perhaps his final cry as he lay beside him in a coma. Gay nazi and gay jewish bodies alike littering the floor.
Benedict lay to his left, Benedict tested positive for the big gay.
The ghost of St. Augustine appeared to Charles from above in a neon cyan glow.
"Charles how many times do I have to repeat myself,
this is the course of action;
You volunteer someplace, you work out and clean up after yourself, you get a job, a good job, you learn to drive, you go out to meetings where other like-minded people congregate, you go out at night with them, you find a girl, you marry her, you plant the seeds and sit back as the labour of your hard work pays off, praying all the while."
"I'm about to die" said Charles
"Yeah to be honest I don't know that many Pepsi fan-clubs in New Mexico either."
BUCK-2000 raised his weapon, leaking vicariously, spitting,

(italics)
SUNNY-D, MY ORANGE MARQUEE,
MY PASSION IS MY PHD
OH, MY ARM WILL MAKE YOU AN AMPUTEE

SUNNY-D, MY ORANGE MARQUEE,
IT IS THE HEIGHT OF SUCROSE I DARE YOU TO DISAGREE
OH, I DO DECREE I WILL MAKE YOU DEBRIS

SUNNY-D, MY ORANGE MARQUEE,
CHARLES' TAPE IS ABSENT OF A CRT
OH, I SLURP IN WITH JOY, A DEVOTEE

SUH-SUCCULENT
SUH-NKNEE-DEE!

Some are children of the darkness
Some are children of the sun
You can see the sons of daylight
Sons of dark are seen by none

And the shark has pretty teeth dear
and he show them pearly white
just a jack knife has McHeath dear
and he keeps it out of sight

The streets of stone rang out under the footsteps of a hundred thousand marching men. Divided into three columns they tramped onwards, the city alight with feverish celebration, and the howling of the soon-to-be widowed.

Ahhhhh fuck I get it now" - ejaculated Chuck. -"Cunnyposting is the real deal. Take the fucking lolipill and fuck a loli cunny."

But loli had to wait — he realized he had forgot to renew his library card, and it was about to expire.

FUCK FUCK FUCK CUNNY FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK LOLI CUNNY FUCK FUCK CUNNY FUCK CUNNY FUCK FUCK FU CK FUCK FUCK FUCK

A negro strolled in and started singing:

Look a here girls I'm telling you now
They call me "Lovin' Dan"
I rock 'em, roll 'em all night long
I'm a sixty-minute man

If you don't believe I'mm all that I say
Come up and take my hand
When I let you go you'll cry "Oh yes,"
"He's a sixty-minute man

There'll be 15 minutes of kissing
Then you'll holler "please don't stop"
There'll be 15 minutes of teasing
And 15 minutes of squeezing
And 15 minutes of blowing my top

If your man ain't treating you right
Come up and see ol' Dan
I rock 'em, roll 'em all night long
I'm a sixty-minute man

Sixty-minute man
They call me Lovin' Dan
I rock 'em, roll 'em all night long
I'm a sixty-minute man

Sixty-minute man
They call me Lovin' Dan
I rock 'em, roll 'em all night long
I'm a sixty-minute man

There'll be 15 minutes of kissing
Then you'll holler "please don't stop"
There'll be 15 minutes of teasing
And 15 minutes of squeezing
And 15 minutes of blowing my top

If your man ain't treating you right
Come up and see ol' Dan
I rock 'em, roll 'em all night long
I'm a sixty-minute man, oh yeah
SIXTY-MINUTE MAN

wrote a footnote part to this but chan thought it was spam, worth trimming out the LOL CUN parts OP anyway or I'm Duncan Bannatyne

MRROOWWWW MEOWWWWW MEWWOOWWWWW MEAWWWWWWW MROWWWWW MRRRRRROWWWWWWW MRRROOAAOAAOWWWWWW MRROWWWWWWWW mrrRRrRRROOOOOwwww???? mRRRRrRRRrRROOooOOOWW?!?!?! mmrrrrrrrEEOWOWWWWWW MEOWWWWW MEEOWOWWWWW MAOAOOOOOOOO MAOOOOOWWW MROWWWWW MREOWWWWWWW MEEOWWWWWWWWW MEEHHOOOOWWWWWWWW MEOWWWOWOWWOW MEWOWOWWWWWWWW MAOWOWWWWWWWWWWW

Chuck was playing guitar and singing:

To the town of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day
Hardly spoke to folks around him, didn't have too much to say,
No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip
The stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip,
Big iron on his hip
It was early in the morning when he rode into the town
He came riding from the south side, slowly lookin' all around
"He's an outlaw loose and runnin'", came a whisper from each lip
"And he's here to do some business with a big iron on his hip,
Big iron on his hip"
In this town there lived an outlaw by the name of Texas Red
Many men had tried to take him and that many men were dead
He was vicious and a killer, though a youth of twenty four
And the notches on his pistol numbered one and nineteen more,
One and nineteen more
Now the stranger started talkin' made it plain to folks around
Was an Arizonia ranger, wouldn't be too long in town
He was here to take an outlaw back alive or maybe dead
And he said it didn't matter that he was after Texas Red,
After Texas Red
Wasn't long before this story was relayed to Texas Red
But the outlaw didn't worry, men who tried before were dead
Twenty men had tried to take him, twenty men had made a slip,
Twenty one would be the ranger with the big iron on his hip,
Big iron on his hip
Now the morning passed so quickly and it was time for them to meet
It was twenty past eleven when they rode out in the street
Folks were watchin' from their windows,
Every body held their breath,
They knew this handsome ranger was about to meet his death,
About to meet his death
There was twenty feet between them
When they stopped to make their play
And the swiftness of the Ranger still talked about today
Texas Red had not cleared leather when a bullet fairly ripped
And the ranger's aim was deadly, with the big iron on his hip,
Big iron on his hip
It was over in a moment and the crowd all gathered 'round
There before them lay the body of the outlaw on the ground
Oh, he might have went on livin' but he made one fatal slip
When he tried to match the ranger with the big iron on his hip,
Big iron on his hip
Big iron, big iron,
Oh he tried to match the ranger with the big iron on his hip,
Big iron on his hip

"faggot" rushed in adolf hitler, with tears rolling down his cheeks. "Did you guys forget that I'm an author too" he ran out crying, and locks himself in a nearby bunker.

Then suddenly niggers appeared. Their wooping and yuhing was almost too loud to hear the noise of Peterson and Kondo rage fucking in the background. "YUH YUH YUH WOOP NIGGA WE ART" they chimped. The fact that there were actually still niggers baffled Charleston Because he recalls the nigger exterminator taking them all out.

As Charles' discord tranny brat was engorging xer gender non-conforming self on the lactating tit of t((h(is))e)i(r) joyous father, the foreskin, which the child was wrapped in like a recently baptized protestant midget, started to rip at the seams.
The jewish banker doctor began to vibrate like a dollar store sex toy and yelled "Oy vey!" and steadfastly finished the long overdue bar mitzvah of Charles, by sucking and softly tonguing the remaining piece of skin hanging from Charles' enormous manhood off.
"Thank you doctor Goldberg", exclaimed Charles.
"May I ask you to join me at the afterparty? I heard the LGBTQA2+ Boy Scouts bar across the street are hosting a fundraiser orgy to fund hormones for the newly born".
"I am afraid I cannot make it", Doctor Goldberg replied.
"I have far too many patients waiting to have nano sex machines injected into their neo-vaginas and penises", Doctor Goldberg explained, shiftly smiling with blood dripping and pieces of tegument hanging from the corners of his mouth.

Sneed and Chuck settled into their seats. They had entered their newest creation, the Kikestomper 2000. It was time to stomp some kikes.

read the pdf, you're a bit late

what page

Suddenly Chuck burst into dance and started singing:

[Verse 1]
Do you remember the 21st night of September?
Love was changin' the minds of pretenders
While chasin' the clouds away
Our hearts were ringin' in the key that our souls were singin'
As we danced in the night, remember
How the stars stole the night away, oh yeah

[Chorus]
Hey, hey, hey!
Ba-dee ya, say, do you remember?
Ba-dee ya, dancin' in September
Ba-dee ya, never was a cloudy day

[Bridge]
Ba duda, ba duda, ba duda, badu
Ba duda, badu, ba duda, badu
Ba duda, badu, ba duda

[Verse 2]
My thoughts are with you, holdin' hands with your heart to see you
Only blue talk and love, remember
How we knew love was here to stay
Now December, found the love that we shared in September
Only blue talk and love, remember, the true love we share today

[Chorus]
Hey, hey, hey!
Ba-dee ya, say, do you remember?
Ba-dee ya, dancin' in September
Ba-dee ya, never was a cloudy day
There was a...
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) say, do you remember?
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) dancin' in September
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) golden dreams were shiny days

[Bridge]
The bell was ringin', oh oh
Our souls were singin'
Do you remember never a cloudy day? Yow

[Chorus]
There was a...
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) say, do you remember?
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) dancin' in September
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) never was a cloudy day
And we'll say...
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) say, do you remember?
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) dancin' in September
Ba-dee ya, (dee ya dee ya) golden dreams were shiny days

[Outro]
Ba-dee ya, dee ya dee ya
Ba-dee ya, dee ya dee ya
Ba-dee ya, dee ya dee ya, dee ya!
Ba-dee ya, dee ya dee ya
Ba-dee ya, dee ya dee ya
Ba-dee ya, dee ya dee ya, dee ya!

How you gonna do it if you really don't wannna dance
By standing on the wall?
(Get your back up off the wall)
Tell me, how you gonna do it if you really don't wanna dance
By standing on the wall?
(Get your back up off the wall)

'Cause I heard all the people sayin'
(Get down on it)
Come on and
(Get down on it)
If you really want it
(Get down on it)
You gotta feel it
(Get down on it)
Get down on it

(Get down on it)
Come on and
(Get down on it)
Baby, baby
(Get down on it)
Get down on it
(Get down on it)

I say people
(What?)
What you gonna do?
You've gotta get on the groove
If you want your body to move, tell me, baby

How you gonna do it if you really don't wanna dance
By standing on the wall?
(Get your back up off the wall)
Tell me, how you gonna do it if you really won't take a chance
By standing on the wall?
(Get your back up off the wall)

'Cause I heard all the people sayin'
(Get down on it)
(Get down on it)

What you gonna do? Do you wanna get down?
What you gonna do?
(Get your back up off the wall, dance, come on)
(Get your back up off the wall, dance, come on)
(Get your back up off the wall)

(Get down on it)
Come on and
(Get down on it)
If you really want it
(Get down on it)
You gotta feel it
(Get down on it)
Get down on it

Get down on it
(Come on and)
Get down on it
Baby, baby
(Get down on it)
Get down on it
(Get down on it)

How you gonna do it if you really don't wanna dance
By standing on the wall?
(Get your back up off the wall)
Tell me, baby, how you gonna do it if you really won't take a chance
By standing on the wall?
(Get your back up off the wall)

Listen, baby, you know it when you dancin', yeah
You show it a when you move, move, move
You know it when you dancin', yeah
You show it as you move across the block

(Get down on it)
Come on and
(Get down on it)
If you really want it
(Get down on it)
You gotta feel it
(Get down on it)
Get down on it

It was early afternoon and late in the book when Abhaicín (Ow-uk-keen) Gilhooley and Jacq Bonaparte met at the pier. They acknowledged each other with a slight nod of the head and stood together at its birdshit stained edge.
Fag, you fag?, offered Jacq.
Please, my good baquette munching cock-sucker, answered Abhaicín.
Upon lighting their cigarettes they looked out across the gently flowing river to the adjacent bank lush with riverside greenery.
Mon Dieu, another dreary day. Grey. Drizzly. Overcast. Why must it ever be like dis? Does dis place every see sunlight?
It comes and goes. Like the tide. Though if low tide were sunlight and high tide were dullness, the tide would nearly always be in.
Dat would explain why a body is found in dis river every other week.
'Tis corpious with corpses deficient in Vitamin D. Lucky things!
I have a question, mon compère.
Fire ahead.
Why is it that French is randomly inserted into the wording of English academic works?
I would suppose it is due to the Norman invasion of the United Arab Emirates of Britain, formerly Bongland, formerly the United Kingdom, formerly England. 'Tis the natural occurence of the conquest and cunning linguisitcs of the Normans upon the Saxons and Jutes.
Non non non. I mean de blantant usage of French, styled in italic type, in place of perfectly acceptable words in anglais.
I do not rightly know, Sir. I hardly think Saxon barbar to be so impoverished that its speakers and writers are compelled to use French instead. However, now that you bring this to my attention...it is quite odd. As a matter of fact, I find it to be a right pain in the hole.
How so, mon confident?
Sure I keep having to find their meaning in the dictionary! Imagine if I were to start throwing pieces of Irish into my academic works. Or, indeed, if I were speaking it in the same manner. Behold this extract:
Fascism itself was not a unified 'gluaiseacht' from the outset. 'Faisisteachas' had developed from a group of diverse local movements until the official founding of the Nationalist Fascist Party after 1921. Mussolini’s Fasci di Combattimento was 'teoranta' in its early days to a few major centres and had a small following of 870 memebers which combrised of 'daltaí', ex-officers and syndicalists. His major breakthrough into the political 'solas' and the major breakthough of the fascist movement as a serious political player in Italy, came with the establishment of Squadrismo. These were fascist paramilitary organizations.
Sure wouldn't that annoy you, even with as meagre an input of Irish I made there?! All the needless reaching for the auld dictionary. Anyway, are you ready to kill that bloody James Joyce?

Qui et non.
What do you mean 'qui et non'?
It is, how do you say, complicated. I do not know whether to use my meunier rifle, my 10 year hardened block of Comté cheese or the feral aids-infected tranny I captured de other day in Germany.
By God, Sir, that is a hard choice. What would this...thing...have originally been?
A male of the human style, mon ami.
Very good then! Use the tranny. It will kill Joyce with the strength of a man and the emotional vigour of a woman. On the off-chance he lives, the aids will surely get him.
Qui qui! And you, Abhaicín? What shall you use?
That I will have to ponder on our hunt, for I have a few options. Though should a weapon be offered to me along the way by welcome strangers, then such a weapon may be welcomed too. But I digress. Away with us, Jacq! Let us find the Irishman whose repetitive citation by Yanks and Saxons alike makes all Irishmen froth at the gob! AR AGHAIDH!
VIVE L'EMPEREUR!
With their fags smoked and their intentions clear the two men departed the pier and ran off to hunt the evasive James Joyce.

"VERY WELL" Jefferson shouted loudly, his booming voice echoing throughout the room making the silent hall very loud.
"Jesus, Jefferson. That was really god damn loud!" Indeed it was.

Charles farted. "Whew. That's a real rank one. Can you imagine if a girl ejected such a stench from her a(r)sshole? Especially if it was a beautiful woman. Imagine a lady who is more fair in appearance than a nenuphar, yet unleashes ear deafening, malodorous, voluminous blasts of anus air. I dare say the juxtaposition of these two opposing extremes embodied in one dainty package would be downright erotic. It's quite sad how few of my fellow man lack the mental powers to see past their gut reactions to a fart, regardless of from where it originates, and realize how sensuous a woman's stench can be. The finer form of the female ferments her flatulance as we often see grapes fermented into wine; the resulting product being greater that it's original reagents. Only a body capable of such miraculous feats as creating a new life could ever hope to achieve the alchemical transmutation of typically foul gasses into a substance of pure eroticism."

Charlie dug out his last emergency psychedelic supply. He took the last of his mescaline.

This is a great song user i sang it with my caricature texas accent and it was the most fun ive had singing all week

Pynchon and Joyce... - whispered Charlie - please, for one last time, make me see the truth.

Charlie wanted for one last time to see what was really happening, he knew he was insane and his psychotic breakdown was only going to get worse. All his illusions were a product of his actual feelings though, but it did not matter. He knew he had to return the video tape... but to who?

Then, Buck Mulligan, stately, stood up with all the bullets in his chest which Uncle Alfred/Ben/Jeffrey (holy trinity of uncles) reflected with their dying breath, he stood up and said: "Charles, I am sorry for what I have done, please forgive me, I was only following orders, I love you... brother"
And thus Agrent, plumb, r0bot, Buck Mulligan, stately died (as one would expect) and revealing himself to be big bird Brad.

Charles knew that the A G E N C Y somehow managed to upload his brother's consciousness into their computers are create apparition mixed with well known literary characters. They were the ultimate weapon to destroy Charles' homosexuality. AND CHARLES KNEW, FINALLY (FOR FUCKS SAKE) WHOM HE HAD TO RETURN THE FUCKING VIDEO TAPE... THE FUCKING OLD MAN IN HIS 60'S... BATE FUCKING BATEMAN (fucking is his middle name)

Bateman... that motherfucker.
I'll kick him in the balls when I see him.

go back, 50 years in the past. A young Bate Fucking Bateman approaches a ghostly figure.
"My lord... Joyce and Pynchon have turned their backs... the time to strike is now!"
The ghostly figure looked upon the depraved creature that is Bateman.
"The Gulag Archipelago has showed the world the dangers of communism... but nobody realized it was all fake" the creature smirked "Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was a paid shill. Paid by me. I showed the world true chaos and managed to convince all to become conformists... and now I shall destroy their favorite literary characters by shitty religious meta critic helped by Jewish psychologists. But first I need you to give me my video tape so i can..." Bateman stopped him from finishing sentence and said with sweat on his forehead "Lord Peterson, I lost it... some human named Alfred took it from me..."
"WHAT?" Yelled Peterson with fire in his eyes, he was about to bring hell to this young man "THEN GO AND FIND HIM OR YOU SHALL NEVER SEE YOUR FATHER RESCUED FROM THE DEPTHS OF HADES HIMSELF"

Charles thought: "this is too much for me." He took five grams of shrooms.

The shrooms made Charles hallucinate about having sex with his unborn daughter. He loved it.

>shrooms[??]
5 grams is about 0.1763698 ounces

damn seriously though I took some mescaline and I'm tripping, send help

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On the corridors of Charles' home (perhaps no longer?) echoed silent cries. On the ground lies the dead uncle Alfred/Jeffrey/Ben (A resemblance to Christ/God/Holy spirit?). Charles looked at their dead bodies. Their old bodies wore blue, stripped, jeans from the 80's... a quality brand... "IRO". They were weaing polo shirts which were completely opened to unbench all that sweat that was made from their dying pain. Their hair was old and white and messy with hair gel slowly being messed around their forehead. Their brown/green/blue (indicator that they were actually killed by Arya Stark (in order to show the power of the female gender)) were steadily looking on the wall. Charles gulped and approached closer.

He put his small 12-16 year old hand on their dead hand, and looked straight into their eyes. He could still feel, those sexy eyes that looked at him when they fucked him. He could not resist. The temptation. He knew it was wrong but it was too much. He slowly put his hands into the super tight jeans and went for the soft spot. He was happy that he wasn't nervous because he knew he couldn't fuck up with a dead man. To his bewilderment, their cock was hard as the Kraus Steel Knife™. He heard about death boners but he was still surprised to be sure (but a welcome one?). Slowly he unzipped the pants and put his mellow lips around their Playstation. He did not, however, know if a dead man can cum, but he was willing to try. For some reason, while he was sucking his lolipop, he could feel as he was being watched by a sheer grace of disappointment (his parents probably), but he marched on. His would be the likes of the marches of Napoleon. He would never stop until he saw that shiny, creamy sauce that he so loved to drink with his Pepsicola™. After relentless hours of doing this shenanigan, he took out his knife and stabbed into his prostate, he would leak the juice himself. He licked all the blood that was running out in order to experience the 0.001% sperm that was in it. It was enough. His blood-lust was satisfied and his catharsis was given. He was a new man, ready to finish what was started so long ago.

tripfag get the fuck out of my board REEEEEE

based my dude

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>haven't read my diary desu at least 7 times

Le oldfags unite!" - Shrieked Charles as he masturbated his cock. "Based! Redpilled!" He came.

Having exhausted all possible options, Charles continued to descend into his delirium. There didn't seem to be many choices left. After Buck Mulligan's demise, coming out as trans-anglo-sexual, and the failed attempts at returning Joyce's Chaos Tape: Charles didn't see many more options, besides following this downward path into stark madness. Now, rather than concrete words forming after the electric jolt of fresh thoughts, Charles only received mental flashes of a crowned frog prince; beckoning for him to approach his spore kingdom.
This frog wore harlequin lips, and a smug smirk; able to communicate cerebrally, the Frog speaks in a condescending tone...
"Feels bad, man..."
Charles grew fury towards the amphibious deity. Armed with a tattered manuscript of "Pinecone Apocrypha", he began evoking the Saint of Postmodernism to aid in vanquishing this condescending frog prince of disorder.
"And, that's when he ended the novella with the title of the same...."
The creature was impervious.

"Oh no, just wait a minute! Ease up boy. That wasn't your last call, my son, I'm still here," tranquil voice of Gogol's whispered in Charles' mind.
"Finally my son, finally you have found the way to the very root of all virtues we've been trying to guide you towards to. Fast-forward to the end of THE tape and you'll find the truth. Now listen, STOP bunning and complete your task. I believe in you. WE believe in you."

Charles does exactly as instructed; while his disillusionment is temporarily dispelled. Fast forwarding to the prompted scene of The Tape, we're brought to the end sequence. An unintelligible alien language is being chanted like a hymn by a non existent audience.
The set: a bare white room, a cot, and a computer desk. A crucifix being the only decoration over the pulsing monitor, the room gives off a feeling of confinement. Yet, there are no guards, wardens, fellow inmates, or even a door to this strange cell. Charles is enthralled by the grainy images on the screen. Although, he can't quite interpret the significance of this scene, and why he was instructed to skip the entirety of the film. Angered by this confusion from lack of context, Charles barely notices the shift from alien hymnals to Irish limerick:
"There once was a lad from Yea Forums,
who loved to huff his own shit.
He loved his own scent
and couldn't prevent
The stains above his lip."

When all of sudden someone else arrives.

*Julius Evola enters from off stage*

OP this is good so far but do trim down the more evidently shit-shitposts down in editing, they make everything quite clunky and don't really serve the narrative as well.

Then the winged hussars arrived

In addition, Charles finally became knowledgeably aware of the story his uncle had meant to tell him: between the scenes of Obi-Wan having the high ground and aliens chanting in ulterior language, he caught a sight of the director of CIA shaking hands with an alien.

holy shit this isn't a joke. I'm impressed. Will attempt to post something worth adding (after reading the whole damn thing)

Yeah, this could use a good re-draft once it reaches a finishing point. A portion of the material is a lacklustre repeat of the same memes typed out without any invested creativity.

we hit the bump limit, will there be a new thread?

I want to take this time to give appreciation to the anons absolutely killing it on here; there are some really talented writers (you can probably make out who I mean). I'm contributing what I can, but a lot of you make me want to become the best possible writer I can be, and I'm realizing I have a lot of work ahead of me.

based satan

^^^^these might be a good ending for another chapter, and a new thread, eh?

...