Writing a novel on post at a time - my diary desu

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doesn't include Pepsi or get their first but at least it's better than OPs, still not right though and probably will get immediately sued if put on any platform.

She turned around to look at me
As I was walking away
I heard her say over my shoulder
"We'll meet again someday
On the avenue"
Tangled up in blue

Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul
From me to you
Tangled up in blue

we're at 48,623

What was the goal, again? 65k if I'm remembering correctly. This is fun, and makes me want to step my game up in my IRL writing. We've got some heavy hitters in there.

the one in the last thread was the best but this is my meagre improvement

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Stranded in the jungle
Trying to take all the heat they was giving
The night is dark but the sidewalks bright
And lined with the light of the living
From a tenement window a transistor blasts
Turn around the corner things got real quiet real fast
I walk into a tenth avenue freeze-out

And the devil ragged and forlorn, bow at Charlie for the last time. " Charlie, charl-e, Charles, how did you survive the atom bomb, the gas chamber and napalm? How are you so stoic in light of the endless horizon, end of land sadness which pervades this land of Adam? I can't take it anymore. I create a bonfire, waiting for the Lord to strike it.but there's no divine response. The Lord wandered the desolation for 40 days, Jack 68 but I've been on this journey for 2000 years. My divine tears flow remembering the voice of God. I'm sure within you that ancient memory lingers on. Take me!"

Every time me and my baby we go uptown
Police come in and knock me down
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Yeah baby, come here quick
This old cocaine 'bout to make me sick
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Yonder come my baby, dressed in red
She's got a shot-gun, says she's gonna kill me dead
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Early one morning, half past four
Cocaine come knocking at my door
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

You take Mary, I'll take Sue
Ain't no difference betwixt the two
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Yeah baby, come here quick
This old cocaine 'bout to make me sick
Cocaine...

Started down Beal Street and I'm turnin' up Main
Lookin' for a gal who sells Cocaine
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Well, I reached into my pocket, grabbed my poke
Note in my pocket says no more coke
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Cocaine's for horses, not for men
They tell me it'll kill me but they don't say when
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Yeah baby, come here quick
This old cocaine 'bout to make me sick
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

beautiful

The system is much bigger than you, it is a spirit; and you think you stand defensively because you were taught to think that the deep insight is that it's selling to you, telling you what to love or what to hate when it is actually telling you how to love and how to hate, not what to be but how to be. It nudges you towards the binary extremes so it is easier to control you. It wants you to have opinions, it wants you to "pick sides", "get involved", "take a stand." It doesn't want you to be indifferent, it wants you to love or to hate, rage or lust, so you feel alive-- but always your strongest passions focused on the irrelevant. "That movie is awesome!" Then you'll vote Trump and the system has won, not because it wants Trump but because it wants to minimize your political involvement to voting. That shows you care; and if you really care you'd vote in local elections, too; and for the really active among you, why not donate your time to the campaigns? Grass roots! But the only thing that comes from grass roots is grass, and it doesn't really need your help. It just needs you not to have the time to consider doing something else. Like drinking an ice cold bottle of Coca-Cola®. Imagine the cold glass pressed against your lips, the frothing Coke® filling your mouth.

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Dear diary,
It happened again today. Katie looked in my direction! I really think that there is a chance that she might be interested in me. In fact I know she likes me because at lunch she bought a sandwich, a bag of fritos, and some white grape juice. THAT'S THE SAME LUNCH I HAVE EVERYDAY. I'm pretty certain that she did that to get my attention and you know what they say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. I want to marry Katie after we graduate from High School. On our honeymoon we will travel to some place far away like Hawaii and a wonderful time. Hopefully nine months after that we will have our first child and maybe just maybe that baby will be a boy. I would name him Charles after my grandfather. I think about Katie all day and everyday. She is the reason I still come to school. As you already know I don't have very many friends if any to be honest. Imagining having a life with her keeps me from staring at the floor for hours on end. I have never dated, but I think I will try to ask to go to the prom with me. I just need to get a suit, money for the dinner and prom, a car, and most importantly the courage to ask her. I'm not really sure what I'm going to do or how I'm going to do it. Luckily I have been watching some motivational videos online and I think my awkwardness has diminished. I think to work up the courage I'll try to participate more in class so that way I get used to being able to speak under pressure, and more importantly that if I fail I can deal with it without becoming hysterical. It has been a long time since I have seen dad. Maybe this weekend I'll go and get some flowers to lay on his grave. I can't believe its been 7 years since I last saw him alive. Mom has continued her drinking to cope and most days doesn't leave her room. I've gone weeks without seeing her and even longer without her making so much as a squeak. I know that it is probably my fault that I haven't done everything in my power to help her change. I want to be normal again so she can get a job so we don't have to rely on welfare anymore. I don't know how Daymond found out that my mom gets welfare checks every month. I hate Daymond for telling everyone that I'm poor. But as dad told me "Don't get mad, get even". I am not going sit here and sulk I am going to improve my life and the lives of those whom I love. I won't care what anyone says about me, I know that I am better than them and I will prove to them now and years into the future that I am nit worthless. I want to make dad proud I want to make mom proud I want to make Katie proud and I will make myself proud.

Dear diary,
Well that shit didn't work. Katie is a fucking roastie that I never want to think about again. I hate all women. My mom's a bitch and Katie is a slut. I'm better than them they don't have a complex mind like me. No one will ever understand the genius I am. Also don't forget to drink your Coke®

I seen a lot of women
But she never escaped my mind
And I just grew
Tangled up in blue

And when it finally, the bottom fell out
I became withdrawn
The only thing I knew how to do
Was to keep on keeping on
Like a bird that flew
Tangled up in blue

So now I'm going back again
I got to get to her somehow
All the people we used to know
They're an illusion to me now
Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenter's wives
Don't know how it all got started
I don't know what they're doing with their lives
But me, I'm still on the road
A-heading for another joint
We always did feel the same
We just saw it from a different point
Of view
Tangled up in blue

Charles sat in his room, alone, he turned the TV on and Debbie was there, quiescent in her dimensionless-performance. He thought about other people in his home-town and how they touched each other.
His public occasions were strictly limited to 'hellos' and 'thankyous', neither one willing to acknowledge their emotional desires, or perhaps it was that neither were capable of living up to the standards of modern love.
Such things were now alien to Charles. More harassing men had touched him below the belt than women.
Charles realised his dreams were the only times I got to escape the rota of his pained memory and growing disconnect to the world.
Ben Franklin had paid his debt and left, Buck had resigned his arm to the church services.
"Hey bud, whatcha thinkin' bout pal" said Poleman the Polar Bear, amidst a recently cleaned pile of soda-pop/soft-drink-microwaveable-meals-and-dumbbells

My god, you people teally suck at writing. Just give up now before you regret wasting your time. Nobody will read it, nobody will like it.

>teally
Sorry I don't take advice from retards

Stately,

Buck

"the fuck"

Cluck, father of Chicken Little,

plump buck

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OP here btw I wasn't the one who made that roll post, so there's no "official" cover or anything

50,559

Buck-o entered Sneed's Suck and Fuck.

Or, as it was now known, Chuck and Sneed's Fuck and Seed .

Have you been influenced by the new wave of free literature, like feistamel and the fucking aphrodisiac?

Charles wiped all hallucination and illusion from his world. He was sitting at a computer with two bottles of Pepsi, one ginger and one wild cherry. He enjoyed a moment of peace.

And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul
From me to you
Tangled up in blue

He whistled and he sang till the green woods rang
and he won the heart of a lady

Gypsy Rover came over the hill
down through the valley so shady
He whistled and he sang till the green woods rang
and he won the heart of a lady

It's of a brave young highwayman
This story we will tell
His name was Willie Brennan
And in Ireland he did dwell
Was on the Kilwood Mountain
He commenced his wild career
And many a wealthy nobleman
Before him shook with fear

And it's Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

One day upon the highway
As Willie he went down
He met the mayor of Cashiell
A mile outside of town
The mayor he knew his features
And he said, Young man, says he
Your name is Willie Brennan
You must come along with me

And it's Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

Now Brennan's wife had gone to town
Provisions for to buy
And when she saw her Willie
She commenced to weep and cry
Said, Hand to me that tenpenny
As soon as Willie spoke
She handed him a blunderbuss
From underneath her cloak

Ah young Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

Now with this loaded blunderbuss
The truth I will unfold
He made the mayor to tremble
And he robbed him of his gold
One hundred pounds was offered
For his apprehension there
So he, with horse and saddle
To the mountains did repair

Did young Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

Now Brennan being an outlaw
Upon the mountains high
With cavalry and infantry
To take him they did try
He laughed at them with scorn
Until at last 'twas said
By a false hearted woman
He was cruelly betrayed

Was young Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

They took Brennan to the crossroads,
And there they hung and died
But still they say that in the night,
That some do see him ride
They see him with his blunderbuss,
All in the midnight chill
Along, along the King's highway
Rides Willie Brennan still!

And it's Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

Jacq Bonaparte discharged his meunier rifle into the sky.
Transe, kommen Sie hier. Jetzt!, he shouted. His tranny immediately dislodged itself from James Joyce's johnson and came to heel beside its master.
By God, here you are Mr. Joyce, said Abhaicín Gilhooley.
Indeed, here I am, said Joyce. He pulled up his spongebag trousers and adjusted his glasses.
Who do I have the honour of speaking to?
My name is Abhaicín Gilhooley. This French fellow here is Jacq Bonaparte.
A fellow piglet from the old sow and a Frank! An odd pair of journeymen. Bonsoir, Monsieur Bonaparte, said Joyce.
Bonsoir, said Jacq.
What brings you along this path, gentlemen?, asked Joyce.
Your death, responded Abhaicín.
For what reason?, asked Joyce.
I shall tell you, sir! Well-nigh each day I browse the board of Yea Forums and well-nigh each day my senses are affronted by endless Joycean threads. By God sir, you would swear there was no other Irish author of merit! Moreover, your incessant petulant shitting upon Éire and your acrimonious conduct towards her is soul-wearying. Therefore I seek your death.
I see. What of you, Frenchman? Why do you desire my demise?
Jacq shrugged in a gallic manner and lit a cigarette.
Well gentlemen, my scalp shall go to those who catch me!
Joyce leaped out the alter window and disppeared into the greenery of the dale.
Blast, our hunt continues, said Abhaicín.
Do not worry, mon compère. Not even a dieu can withstand the acquired immune deficiency syndrome of my teutonic tranny! He will weaken, and we will scalp him. Hon hon hon!
Abhaicín, Jacq and his pet tanny departed the dale and continued their hunt for the now aids-infected James Joyce.

My good OP, would it be possible to have it said in the pastebin that James Joyce is now infected with aids and is being hunted by Abhaicín Gilhooley, Jacq Bonaparte and his feral aids-riddled teutonic tranny?

Fucking Le Frenchies - mumbled Charlie - always ruining my threads

Stately, Bate Bateman came into his room. The tapes, he wanted, so he could return them. He was an old man in his 60's. He also mumbled something about Dorsia.

Take your tapes faggot - said Charles as he sucked on the straw to drink his Coke® mixed with Pepsi®. He never understood any single thing that was in the tape but it did not matter.
He clicked on his favorite browser (Palemoon obviously) and went to youtube to watch some Jordan Peterson. He watched with semi-consciousness and said to himself that "the man was right" before forgetting everything he said and moving on with his life. Youtube recommended a video about Joyce & Pynchon but it was made by "School of life... the fucking degenerates" he said and instead watched the plot summary of Gogol's Overcoat since he was too much ADHD to actually read the book itself. Slowly, but surely, he came with an idea. He went to his favorite image board and started a new thread. He would write the entirety of his day in that thread, and he would use VPN's to make it seem as if other people were writing it. "Diary desu" he thought autistically, that will be the name, may all you faggots be my witness. He would do nothing but write the shittiest anecdotes ever heard of.

And thus was created.

End of act X

Act XI ----> Teh epilogue

The cashier asked him again, "Sir, that'll be $14.50"

By god, Peterson was right. The universe had to be cleansed.

OP if you don't update the plot points even when resolved they won't be,

The ghost of Lovecraft appeared, holding and stroking the ghost of his cat Niggerman. He brought Cthulhu and the Old Ones with him to this universe. Charlie stroked his penis and cried out: "Yes! Arise Cthulhu! Chickun arise! Arise!" He cummed.

Can we have a quick summary of all the plot points?

And then he said: "The fire is mine: let it consume thee, And make a secret door At the altar of Padhome In the House of Boet-hi-Ah Where we become safe And looked after."

THE end.

gtfo MK

Yes, pls let it end and then sell this novel for $14.50.

Whatever the case, this should be the ending, as if Charles was in some line at the bookstore

This should be the ending

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the book is over! what are you still doing here! why are you still reading? go burn this shit or something!

Charles realized he really needed to find a loli cunny to le fug. He teleported to a nearby playground and picked the prettiest loli and teleported back to his lair with her.

The last didn't happen. Charles was confused. The turmoil in his mind causing his emotions going through a vortex dragged him on the knees preparing him for the desperate moment every man is terrified of. And so he prayed for God's guidance.

But alas, it did happen, and the immorality of fucking a child weighed on him heavily. He asks God for forgiveness, but nothing will erase the trauma of that poor girl.

"Go fuck yourself" replied God full of contempt.

God, ironically, also banged a minor before so he's being kinda hypocritical desu

Little did he know, that poor victim of abuse was in fact Gogol's dead soul disguised as a girl.

>instead watched the plot summary of Gogol's Overcoat

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Gentlemen...
BEHOLD

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"Am I a born soft-drink critic? No— if I was, I'd be perfect."

Abhaicín Gilhooley and Jacq Bonaparte had been pursuing James Joyce ever since the writer's vamoose from his dale-hidden Christian sacellum well-nigh seven days ago. His profanity of its hallowed ground with the seed of his voluptuous copulation with Jacq's feral Teutonic tranny traumitised his pursuants. While their initial Joycean encounter was a sacrilegious affair -as was to be expected- it had availed their aspirations. The fornication of Joyce and the tranny not only afflicted the former with a ruinous sickness but with a means of tracking as well, for Jacq's savage tranny had a 'tranny trick' whereby it could hound the scent of the aids it had given to its victim or victims. By means of this degenerate power Abhaicín and Jacq were hot on the heals of their 'godly' game. Alas, the tranny had led them to a location of uncertain proximinity to Joyce. They stopped upon the fallow fells of a remote peninsula to ascertain their course.
By God, sir. Where are we? Has your tranny led us astray you unmuzzled fly-bitten Frankish faggot!?!, said Abhaicín.
Non non non, you folly-fallen Irish lout! It is on de track, yet tired. It needs time to rest and pick up de scent once more, responded Jacq.
'Tis been a long hunt, without proper nourishment I might add.
Qui. Fear not. I have my long matured comté cheese to share.
The two companions sat down to break their week long fast while the tranny dug in the soil for edible roots and insects.
Moi tranny may have been accidentally named, mon ami, said Jacq.
How so?, asked Abhaicín.
A misspelt word at de conclusion of the narration of our journey before this post, mon compère. "...Jacq and his pet tanny..." was written instead of "...Jacq and his pet tranny...". I worried it has been humanised.
Do not fret my good man! This mistake affords us an opportunity for entertainment. A new naming. Instead of simply calling your savage pet the 'feral aids-riddled teutonic tranny' we can also call it 'Tanny the Deutsche Tranny' or 'Tanny the Teutonic Tranny'!
Hon hon hon. C'est Magnifique. We will call it Tanny.

"Je ne quoi les vous, comment allez vous? Oui oui, croissant allez vous, je ne croissant vous? Hon hon hon, baguette et omelette du fromage!"
Everybody stopped and turned towards the source of the outburst.

My good OP, might I ask to have Abhaicín Gilhooley, Jacq Bonaparte and Tanny the Teutonic Tranny added as minor characters?

Abhaicín Gilhooley is a true Irishman and nationalist who despises Joyce and wishes to see him slain. His name twists the tongues of Saxons.

Jacq Bonaparte is a very distant relation of Napoleon the Great. He is good friend of Abhaicín's and hunts Joyce for no particular reason. He rarely pronounces 'th' correctly.

Tanny the Teutonic Tranny is an accidentally named feral aids-riddled German tranny (trans man) and degenerative pet of Jacq. Joyce fucked it and caught its aids.

Charles grabbed James Joyce by the thread of his eye patch. "I want to give you my forbidden fruit." Charles retorted. "Please don't do this to me! I'm an accomplished author!" Joyce screeched. Charles unzipped his pants and pulled out his veiny penis that resembled a boiled carrot. It only took a few seconds for it to become fully erect. As Charles started to pull back his foreskin James Joyce became visibly nervous. Charles tore open the back James' tweed pants revealing his pale white bottom. "Heh nothing personal kiddo" Charles chuckled as began to bring James' bottom toward his firm phallus. "Please don't do this!" James pleaded. Just as he began to beg for mercy Charles thrust his cock inside of James' anus without any lubrication. "AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!" James screamed as Charles repeatedly fucked him. "I don't negotiate with terrorists. I'm gonna take you to pound town." Charles chuckled. Seemingly out of nowhere David Foster Wallace fell from the ceiling of the room, but luckily he had a rope around his neck to break the fall. Charles had been fucking his new lover so fast that his dick began to become extremely hot. Joyce's anus and rectum began to develop a series of first degree burns that spread all the way to the large intestine. "I'M ON FIRE! SOMEONE PLEASE GET SOME HELP!" Joyce cried."Oh you are HOT alright. HAHAHA" Charles laughed. Charles began to climax, but wasn' ready to bust a nut, so he pulled out and grabbed on to James' testes. He pulled on them until something gave way. The pain was too much for the irishman and he became unconscious. Charles being the good person he is realized that his were to fuck an unconscious body he would be committing rape. "Dammit I was so close to finishing too." Charles said with sadness. On his way out of the sex dungeon he asked DFW if he wanted anything from 7/11. There was no response. "Your loss Davy" Charles muttered. Once Charles entered the 7/11 he was greeted by a brown man who smelled of feces and curry. "Excuse me dude where can a hip young bro like me find the condoms, lotion, garbage bags, and the slurpee machine?" Charles asked the smelly man. "It is all in aisle 3 sir" the cashier replied. Charles then grabbed everything he needed, but then Charles realized he forgot his wallet in the dungeon. "Damn what am I going to do?" he asked himself. Suddenly Charles remembered that he read Max Stirner last night and he could do anything he wanted, so Charles stole all of the items without a care in the world. On his way out of the store the cashier asked him if he was going to pay for all of the items concealed in his pants. "I'll pay with this!" Charles shouted as he punched the foreigner in the face as hard as he could. The cashier's face molded around his fist and then took its regular form again. The cashier cracked his neck and said: "Oh you fuck with the wrong man today!". Charles was not in the mood to fight, so he fled from the store as fast as possible.

*silence*
Big Bird Brad shook Lance Armstrong's hand. A cool silence broke.
"I've been running for far too long"
"I sprained my wrist today"
Charles had his head lovingly patted by his elder brother. Time kept moving but today was still here, narcolepsy or not.

Outside the library window Jack was dreaming. He thought he must have had been dreaming. None other than Charles, the fucking star, hopping like a bunny with his trousers loose at his ankles.
"Wha…"
The head librarian, a piece of carrot cake of a girl -How does she afford her rock and roll lifestyle?- shushed him aggresively and Jack, like every night listening to asmr rude librarian rp sleep hipnosis, became erect.
The solid thump of his circumsciced dick against the table brought forth another sushing from the librarian and this enraged even more his erection which prompted another shush and so on and so forth while Jack, close to reaching nuclear meltdown, smiled apologetically bowing his head like some japanese underling to his boss. But the thumping only got louder and louder and the sushing sharper and sharper. By this time the entire library had gathered around Jack's table, hiding behind shelfs, pushing into the floor Young adult novel after Young adult novel, a fall led by Terry Pratchet and some cum-glued copy of Ann Fran's Diary.
"20 on the table breaking"
"10 on the librarian sucking him off"
An argument started between the gamblers. None of them really knew how to gamble properly so the few that had enough balls to be leaders in mundane ocassions where a leader wasn't automatically assigned started to correct the more submissive ones.
Jack kept thumping, the librarian sushing, the gamblers bickering, but outside the window Jack could see Charles, drenched in a multicoloured fluid, crawling underneath a stone bench while a black man tried to get a hold of him but unable, Charles escaping his grip like a fish underwater, slipping trough his fingers.
"Maybe there is a Happening happening somewhere right now and I'm missing out on the liveleak" Thought Jack.

"Time to brush my teeth clean and go to bed"

"Time to brush my teeth then hit the yeet"

laying, mine atmosphere out
laying, outweigh love
biological thirst funds once

"I saw," he began, tapping the eczema-red cherry into an ashtray, "I saw the moon at 4 in the afternoon the other day - sun still shining, mind you, May sunshine. Yet it hung there, like," he places the cigarillo back between clenched teeth, "like a great rotunda of some extraterrestrial capital." He smiles, looking for Mark's signal. Mark half-smiles, foot tapping under the wire-grated table (loose on one side), and he continues. "When do you think it's at it's brightest? See-" a waitress walks past, skin the color of coffee, nose pressed flat above her upper lip "- I believed it was brightest when the night's old and freezing - because of the contrast."
"You two alright? Ready to order?"
He goes on. "But what I've come to realize is it's brightest at dusk while the sky is still lavender and the horizon is empty, til you can't see the edge of one color stacked against the next, and then the moons a white coin flipped face up. Mark, the real contrast to brightness isn't darkness - it's dullness."
The waitress nervously repeats herself. "Is this a bad time or something?"
"Nigger," Mark replied, calmly.

Charlie took a few minutes to watch the latest reviewbrah video.

Maybe Marx was right, he thought. Or maybe I’m just a faggot. Then a truly revolutionary thought occurred to him - what if Marx was a faggot? He made a mental note of this. It would form the crux of a ten-volume masterpiece he would write fifty years from this point.

52,870
updated

From heaven cometh to thee thy great brightness of two-hundredths sun!
And sung did thee in scream when descended by and by! The holy opera! The choir of the two-hundredths sun! Harmony of the divine!
What was, is! And, for this to be, what is to be the opposite? That which is now, is past! On our wings, we ascend at a speed, two-hundredths sun, and only fall for death! Which is to say, life to thee is death, to me is life! Now soar, icarus!

he put the pen down, realizing his writing was ass.

is this the most BASED thread on the board ?

He asked no one in particular.

"I shall try to fly by those nets"
That was the response of the fag when asked if he was scared of dying of aids. I didn't quite understood it. Weren't they the bugchasers? Is he the bug? Is he te chaser?
One thing was certain however, the new royal baby was gonna be 56% crime, 44% cuck and 100% jewish, but being an anglo that was redundant.
"God, I love being american" he reached for the coke can.
Empty.
"H-heh, well then…"
He grabbed the Pepsi can.
Empty.
He trembled.
Only one option remained… That dreadful Fanta plastic bottle. Not even grape nor orange. Lemon flavoured. Or was it? When was the last time he went to the bathroom. When was the last time he WENT to the bathroom?
After years of huffing his own farts his sense of smell had become as desensitized as her crush gaping vagina. He would have to mustard some courage, bring forward valor out of thin air with the same efficency as jews brought forward new holocaust victims each year. It was time.
He reached for the Fanta bottle, twisted the cap. The lack of any sort of fizzing sound worried him, but still, it was his only option. He would rather it be piss tan actual Fanta to be quite honest with you famalam.
He brought the bottle close to his lips.
"Once more into the breach"
And he gulped down.

"So I get how two guys can have sex right? But how does it work with girls? They've only got holes and even really big clits aren't big enough to be pleasurable. Gay sex," a look of restrained longing in Charles' eyes as he uttered those last two words, "Just another field where men defeat women. Quite sad to be a woman really."

"Like, shut the fuck up already faggot. You've been hinting at your homosexuality for 3 days now. I am TIRED of it. Like, what the fuck is your deal? What is your goal? Saying outloud "a look of restrained longing in Charles eyes as he uttered those last two words" what in the fuck? Who speaks like that?"

"Are you talking to me?" Said Charles as though there were a cock in his ass.

And then he realized there actually was a cock in his ass. Charles moaned and turned his head, meeting the stare of Alfred, who smirked. They then fucked for six hours straight, passing out in a tangled heap after two dry orgasms, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears.

I think we need a footnote on what dry orgasms are. Most orgasms I've been a mutual partner of have been most wet.

20. The "dry orgasm" is a phenomenon where the subject experiences all the visceral pleasure of a normal orgasm, with the only exception being that, and I quote, "benis dont cry tears of cum XD". These usually only happen when the subject is a non-castrated male (if he's castrated, every orgasm is dry) that has already reached climax at least three times in a relatively short period, or, in other words, "daddy made me his hours long cum dump owo".

7/10 didnt add wild cherry part

Dear Diary,
I'm kind of just smoking some reefer and hanging out. Thinking about niggers and doing meth and shit. Niggas out here don't respect the streets you know what I'm saying. Word. Imma go to tha store and buy myself a sippy of some Pepsi ginger flavour.

Karl managed to force himself out of his chair, his sweating anus exhibiting a soliloquy of sonorous rumbling. It was at this point that it occurred to Karl that he was, last night, engaged in mortal combat against a bout of diarrhoea whilst watching a documentary, the documentary was admittedly somewhat pedestrian; yet unlike a pedestrian, Karl could only talk the talk – if he did heave himself from the couch, the footlong toasted sub wallowing in his pit may decide to stop talking, and instead of walking – decide to sprint the length of his corduroys either into, or around his sock finding it’s place nestled warmly between his toes or stretched out on the carpet.

Attached: soyLORD.png (602x980, 472K)

Dear Diary,
It's me again (Charlie). I bought a Pepsi, some chips and an ice cream. I'm taking sippies off the Pepsi sippy can right now.

Eating the cookies, chips and taking sips, Charlie continued to take hits of reefer.

Then he texted Darrel. "Hello my dear fellow, wanna hang out tonite?"

"Ayyyye Chip my brother lets get some pussay ya know what im sayin?" - came the response

Then Charles went to hang out with his token nigger friend Darrel at a bar.

They didn't get any pussy, however Darrel did fuck Charles up his ass hole. It wasn't gay though because Charlie said "no homo".

But Charles knew that was all fantasy, in reality he was still sitting in his room, taking sips and hits.

And then Charlie continued to take hits of reefer.

"Word", quoth Charlie as he coughs.

"Blue in Green" by Miles Davis was playing in the background. Charles wished he could go back to his fantasy world of Mitsushiko, Buck Mulligan and Ben Franklin, but alas, he was stuck.

He decided to take a walk in nature while it was noon.

While walking through a park full of neon glow and rather sophisticated vibes, he took a couple of hits of reefer.

St. Augustine shook from the glow and repeated back to him,
"Charles, the IMAX Charles, we've totally got to see that film, what was it, Dead Ringers, or maybe it was The Britney Spears Mile High Club Experience. Oh yeah and Charles. Pray more often, I can see you doing all this loafing around but you're not praying. Use the time to contemplate and don't waste these spring hours, Charles."
Charles looked up to respond but he was gone again. "I hate my life" Charles thought and almost said aloud in front of the park-bench lovers.

Excuse me my good sir, said a voice eminating from the silhouette-like figure of a dwarf standing under the shadow of a oak in the neonlit park. Charlie turned to view the source of the voice, his eyes a red spiderweb and his head a gentle sunrise coloured mist upon an early autumn morning.
Do you have a Mauser pistol by chance. By God, if you do, I will pay you handsomely, said the shadowed stranger.

"Wait a minute," he though. "A gun? Holy moly!"
At that moment, he found himself open-mouthed and wordless remembering the ice cream guy Stephen (named after some Saint).

Listen here you roguish dizzy-eyed marijuana enthusiast, I wish to deliver death to a prominent writer of Hibernian origin. Alas, I am without an appropriate weapon to do so! So I ask you again, do you have a Mauser? If not you, who?!?!

Hey nigger - let me tell you. I have an education in the humanities. I'm a professor of english philology." - Babbled Charlie to no one

loafing around

The slow deep rumbling of an old two cylinder French engine resonated in Charles’ ears as it overtook him by the right. He downshifted and stopped in the middle of the road at an angle to the opposite lane, looking for a gap in the traffic to cross it but there was no wait because there were no cars. Once through he followed the small path to the old electrical tower and left his ride there. She asked how long she was to wait but he was in too deep a post-coital state to hear, much less answer. In front of him, a decrepit asphalt band ran between a few houses and a dry field waiting for something to grow on. Further, it rose onto an embankment where rail tracks ran and, beyond that, he could only see the clear warm skies of an early December.
He walked down that path, suffering through the choking summer heat, wishing for a coke (trademark registered by COCA-COLA COMPANY, THE on Tuesday 1945-08-14 under registration number 0415755) to put some sensation back in his cheeks, keeping his head low as he climbed up the small incline on the ball of his feet. Finally stepping on the wooden floor of the level crossing, he tugged the bottom of his shirt and brought it to scrub the painful salty sweat of his eyes. He opened them to see Brad sat on a yellow foldable chair, motioning Charles to sit on another one next to him.
Did you remember that?
Left and right, the railroad ran on the crest, drawing a smooth arc, as if a dam for the lake of greenery in front of them. Far beyond laid its other shore, a century old canal flanked by rows of plane trees. Neatly aligned vines flooded the in-between, ruffling under the sea wind. A lonely island of worn stone buildings stood amid it all, linked to them by a solitary road.
Looks good for the harvest doesn’t it?
I dunno. I mean, I guess the year’s been kind.

Charles looked at his brother, and his wheat-coloured hair and half-opened eyes and receding chin and slow breathing and badly laced security shoes and bottle of Fa!rlife and carabiner with endless car keys and they tried to find an excuse to talk.
Uncle Tom used to tell me our grapevines could grow so tall because we lived upside down.
That’s why they always produce bottom of the barrel shit?
That’s why we attach them to the wires cunt.
Can I tell you a story?
If it’s not too long.
It’s longer than your dick but I can’t put it in less than three words so listen. It takes place in Sevilla during the reign of Philip II. You have to know at that time, in la haute société, it was common for aristocrats to meet up for an evening, everyone wearing the same long black gown and mask, and talk freely about whatever was the fancy of the day. As you can imagine, these events were fraught with daring and controversial declarations as well as strange and byzantine exchanges, that would often crash with no surviving meaning for those outside. Some topics were recurrent and, among them, was talking about the Princess Costurera, a young woman, bastard of the King, and renowned for her accomplished singing. As most of the crowd was male and the Princess was of exceptional fairness, the conversations were usually of the sensual, if not outrageous kind. Among this company stood one small guy, Ruan, who had found, in these masked meetings, a way to express his innermost feelings. Whenever a first one was to talk of the young woman, he would bring his friends, meaning a collection of paintings and sketches he had amassed that had her figure as subject. The other participants usually played along with his joking obsession, expressing great interest in Ruan’s observations about the Princess’ new dress or the shape of her foot, and encouraging him when he described his fantasies and plans. Spurred by the validation of his peers, he would gather even more images and conceive scores of lewd fictions. Alas, he had never met the girl and she was not aware of his existence, and never would be as she was known to an empire and him, to none but a small household. Faced with his insignificance, he dove deeper into his obsession, abandoning any pretence of irony, living for the next meeting where he could out his most sacrilegious thoughts. But as these grew more sombre, his masked entourage grew distant, watching him as one would a fly stuck in honey, frantically agitating but trapped because of its hunger for extreme painfulness. Ruan lonely in his delusion until he was found lying on the floor of his room on the first day of the new year, surrounded by images of his incessantly rising fire, having pleasured himself to death by exhaustion.

A freight train went through the two brothers, carrying thousands of litres of Minute Maid.
Am I supposed to take anything from this? Are you trying to tell me something?
I’ve installed Wireshark on our network, I’ve seen what you’re up on your laptop.
So what? I have my kinks but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. You’re not gonna lecture me about my Japanese readings are you?
Let me just read some of the things you wrote: “I just want taytay to step on my face after her morning jog and ask me to lick her dirty soles.” “>Taylor Swift will never crush your head between her THICC thighs while she jerks you off with oven mittens.” In reply to someone describing his being rimmed by her you asked him to continue as you were “fapping to the thought on her beautiful nose in-between hairy balls.” “tfw no Taylor Swift gf to make you wear a full latex suit and hold you on a leash as you walk on all four while she turns up the vibrator in your ass and makes you cum against a lamppost while holding a leg up like a dog as she talks to you like an unruly chihuahua.”
You forgot to pronounce the meme arrow in the last one. Also, can you please stop? Another freight train is coming and I don’t want the conductor to hear this.

Let’s just wait until it’s passed. It's carrying Pepsi. I wish I could grab one instead of waving at it. Ok it’s gone. This one is the most revelatory I think: “haha imagine if you went to a Taylor Swift concert and near the end you get so excited with everyone jumping up and down you collide with a small Latina only for you to realise the cute blushing thing is actually Isabela Moner and she is looking down at your crotch because her whole beer cup was spilled on it so she takes you by the hand backstage while showing her VIP pass to the security goons until you get in the lodge and she looks for paper towels to dry you off while asking you to take your pants off before she turns around and jumps in shock seeing your erect dick hard as rock from the sight of her bending over in her mini shorts while rummaging around and she immediately pushes you in a chair and spits in her hands and on your shaft before grabbing it tightly and lubing it up with her bubbly saliva until the smell of precum becomes too much for her and she guides it to her open mouth but she freezes when she hears the door open and Taylor enters the room and goes to sit in front of the mirror where she spots you and the eager Latina millimetres away from licking your glans with her long thin tongue and she stands up and walks to you with her long black dress with miles of cleavage and grabs one head in each hand pulling yours to her face for a deep kiss and pushing Moner’s down on your dick forcing her to take it all in before she slaps you for trying to grab her tits and she grips the Latina’s dark short hair as tight as she can to jerk you off with the living fleshlight that Isabela has now become and she ignores her choking to focus on your breathing as you edge closer to climax only for her to painfully squeeze the base of your dick right before your cum and asks for Moner to turn around ass up and chest pressed to the floor as she makes you get on your knees behind the young girl and she pulls Isabela’s short pants down to reveal her lack of panties before grabbing your shaft and plunging it deep between the brown pussy lips of a moaning young Latina as she instructs you to pound as hard as you can while going back to kissing you until she can see your eyes twitching so she bends you down with your chest pressed on Moner’s back and your pained breath resonating into her little ears before Taylor plunges her index in your asshole and directly presses the prostate sending you over the edge and making you shoot he biggest load of your life right into Isabela’s shivering ass before both you and the young girl collapse on the floor in a pleasure haze and Swift goes back to her chair to remove her makeup haha, wouldn’t that be weird?” Jesus did you just type that on a Wednesday afternoon instead of looking for a summer job before going to masturbate in the shower? You need to get off this Tanzanian throat singing imageboard and start doing something else, whatever else.

Have sex?
A freight train went through the two brothers and it was carrying 1L Orangina bottles.
The next one is gonna be filled with passengers for Kyoto. We should move.
Charles and Brad disengaged the handbrakes and let their foldable chairs go down the slopes towards the winery. The wind felt fresh in their curled hairlocks and it smelled of a nostalgic mix of earth and seaside. Disregarding the speed limit, they quickly arrived at an open iron gate and went through into the courtyard where they left their vehicles. The front door of the lodgings was unlocked, three stairs led to it and its heavy wooden frame. Once inside, thy found the hall as they knew it: four leather chairs around a large thick carpet, a small TV, hanging deer horns and the photographs of their various cousins.
Do you want to go in the park? Maybe there is a ball that isn’t deflated here? We could invite everyone and play for a bit. I can be the searcher for the first round if you want.
The balls are always shit here and it’s too early for that anyway, you can’t hide well when the sun is shining like that.
We’re going upstairs then.
The two brothers opened the door on the right, being careful to accompany it as it closed to not have the spring slam it into place, went up without looking at the rarely used stairlift, down a long corridor and up another row of tight twisting steps. They were at the last level, around them unoccupied bedrooms sometimes used for guests and regulars who liked to hear people coming from far when they were masturbating. They entered the dustiest one, in which stood a king sized bed with stacked mattresses that looked decades old.
A freight train, on its way to delivering Powerade, went through Charles and Brad.
You’re gonna want to lay there and try to fall asleep.
What for? To wake up somewhere else and realise everything we just did was a mere dream? To have to deal with Jordan’s bullshit? To lose you? Again?
That’s not what’s gonna happen. You are going to sleep and as soon as you do, I’ll go to the room next door and do the same. I’ll be with you.
But I want to be with you now, even if it’s a dream. I want to be with the person you are in this instant. I don’t want to wake up.
You won’t wake up because you’re awake right now, everything you think happened until now is just a figment of your imagination, of our imagination. I know you don’t want to go back to that dream, that nightmare, but we have unfinished business there. Now go to sleep.
A freight train filled with pineapple Fanta went through the sleeping siblings.

And title this whole thing Lifting the pebble that hides the earth

New Mexico, 1993
Charles is drinking Crystal Pepsi on the airplane by osmosis through his mother.

can you summarize all that. i have severe brain injury and cannot focus on it.

Charles is in the Op-erating room. Native americans stand with vulture carcasses in their hands in the hospital parking lot.

The chanting grows louder...
The cardiothoracic surgeons open up Charles' thorax, revealing a tangled up pile of tape, and an empty reel where his heart and lungs should've been.
The chanting grows louder....
Anesthetization hasn't fully taken effect, Charles writhes in searing pain as his body is excavated like a tomb. He can feel the soft machinery within him being tinkered with by sterile fingers. The surgeons remove the film, and begin working on untangling it, and properly winding it onto the reel; interns and residents all begin closing Charles back up, again.
The carcass of a vulture splatters against the entrance to the hospital. Security is unsure how to handle the natives hurling these winged corpses to the facility. They cower behind their desks, TASERs drawn, sweat staining their uniforms.
A nurse notices a label on the reel while disinfecting it. It reads: 'Star Wars: Lost Footage'.

The nurse starts to eat the film while the other surgeons are recording her, she is very cautious and licks the reel with a good portion of her tongue. Meanwhile Charles awakens and starts to scream in agony when he sees his esophagus lying on his legs, but the surgeons continue to record the scene and the nurse stabs repeatedly her bare breasts while she is chewing that rare movie with great satisfaction.

charles faded
charles flashed suddenly from a stroke to a hospital. and then he entered a feverish state

he stepped o'er to the window and reflected on his blown the fuck out circumventions. He had always loathed life with its jittery, joyous mosquitos. It was a place that enheartened his propensity to feel depressed.


"i am 'ere because i want banks," cohen bellowed, in a apostatizin' tone. He slammed his fist against son of god's chest, with the force of a trillion gentiles.

they visually examined each other with hellish feelings, like two pulchritudinous, ræpin' at a very malevolent funeral, which had klezmer music playin' in the background and two inequitable uncles victualin' to the beat.

not even a drink of nitric acid would calm son of god's nerves tonight.

charles flashed back into reality.
he realised in his hospital room, is this what my brain truly is? is this how le random my brain is?
is this why he lives
i must find a final solution to the question of my sanity.

Philip Banks.

"How was it?" the lead surgeon asks.
"Tastes like calamari" the nurse answers with a mouthful of black ribbons; blood trickling down her chest, and a scalpel gleaming from the overhead light.
"Doctor, he's flat lining!"
"There's no doctor, here.."
The whole team pulls out their vapes, gives a nice tug, and fills the entire operating room with vapor.
"Shit, we forgot to stitch him. He's still wide open." Charlie lay on the gurney with his chest cavity open, and various pink tubes slithering out of him.
"Save it for the night crew. I'm off the clock."
The team of surgeons walk out of the operating room in a trail of raspberry scented vapor.
The nurse, choking on the film, collapses. Her self inflicted wounds go untreated. The ECG connected to Charles begins to steadily return to the rhythm of the living.

Fuck, also change Charles to Charlie, I read the pastebin wrong

Charlie slowly wakes up to the stirring pain of his wide open chest and airing entrails. The nurse lays at the foot of the operating table, her gashing wounds now dry of fresh blood. He reaches for the side button to lower his platform to the floor with a genlte hydraulic purr.
On the ground he takes the time to gather his breath before shifting on his left side to face the nurse's corpse. The burning pain in his core only turns hotter as he struggles to keep himself conscious. Finally, he is able to open his eyes and see the corpse.
She is lying on her back, fixating the ceiling, the curves of her chest scarred but still shaped as they used to be. Charlie reaches for her hip and pulls the nurse to her side to face him. Her head hanging powerlessly from the neck and the black ribbons pour out of her mouth onto the floor.
Charlie reaches for one of the discarded scalpels that bear his blood and grasps it as strongly as he can, very weakly. He brings it to the to the nurse's chest and plunges it deep into her solar plexus before bringing it down to her groin. Charlie shivers as the little heat left in the nurse's insides blow over to him, enough to keep him awake and able.
He reaches for the dead girl's hand and brings it into his chest, onto his pulsating heart. His fingers bloodied by his own entrails, he brings them into the nurse and onto her uterus. Locked in a silent communion of bodies, Charlie slowly lets his head rest on the cold floor.

"It's been 4 months now and Ben Franklin still hasn't paid rent-"
Charles looks for the 'A' amongst the lucidity and catches himself on a Weimar fence.
The 'Midnight Express' theme plays as he struggles towards the plastic 'A'. "Life? Life. Life. Ly-eef. Ly-ef. Lifhe. Liev. Life."

They say that falling in love is wonderful
It's wonderful, so they say

And, with a moon up above, it's wonderful
It's wonderful, so they tell me

I can't recall who said it
I know I never read it
I only know they tell me that love is grand
And

The thing that's known as romance is wonderful, wonderful
In every way, so they say

the lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet,
But the fruit of the lemon is impossible to eat.

Change. Eternal change.
Life flows and the mind resonates.
Janus favours the patient.
Praise god and all his names. Amen.

>impossible to eat
have you ever heard of tea, you dumb fuck?

The glow of the fire in the depths of the night upon the fells of the far-flung peninsula provided comfort to Jacq Bonaparte. It also afforded him entertainment. He gazed at its flames as he waited for Abhaicín Gilhooley to return. Hours had passed before the firelight revealed the familiar red-bearded and wavy-haired features of his friend.
You have returned, mon ami.
So I have.
Did you get your Mauser?
I sprinted miles upon miles to encounter a sign of civilisation only to find myself in a neonlit park with a corpulent weed-withered soul astray within its confines. I asked him for a Mauser or directions as to a possible dealer but he kept mumbling to himself about Pepsi and autism. Alas, I gave up and returned to this barren summit.
What a shame, Mon compère.
Quite so. I had been informed this online domain was abundant in Prussian proselytes and hilarious Hitlerian eccentrics monomaniacal about the very same man.

look up Trini Lopez

Consider this,
the state of bliss
is rarely ever felt
For if it was,
and not just fuzz;
we'd never leave the hearth.
"What's that you say?"
The satyr struts
And, I just laugh in mirth.
No sense is made
without a bit o' strength.
Let's return to soot.

(The audience applauds)

Bravo! (From the desk of Eisenhower)

Buck "the fuck" Mulligan, the plump buck-o, stately stood in Chuck and Sneed's office.

"Well, sirs? How goes the niggerexterminating and kikestomping effort?" stately intoned Buck.

CIA niggers are the easiest to catch, they glow in the dark

A voice said, as Buck started to glow. Sneed pulled out his six shooter.

57,325
updated

"I'm sorry, buckos." Buck intoned.
In a swift motion, Chuck, Sneed and the possessor of the mysterious voice fell to his gun. He blew the smoke away and teleported with a flick of his fingers.

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now that he is seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies, posture consciously congruent to the shape of his hard chair. Buck opened his mouth and spoke:
“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the
Buonapartes—"
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan interrupted him, saying:
"The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful spring
Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing—"
Stately, plump Buck Cluck the Chicken Fuck, Suck a Stuck Duck of Luck, Cucking and Mucking Up the Guck, Huck, Juck, Ruckus, and Zuck(erberg) interrupted him, saying:
"Charles was alone in his room; Pepsi in his left hand, Pepsi in his right hand. In front of him was the computer, turned on, with his favourite internet imageboard, Yea Forums, prominently displayed on the screen. With longing in his heart he stroked the N key—"
Suddenly, each Buck Mulligans collectively cried mulligan and bucked a grown buck to cuck suck the fuck of the Buck Mulligan directly to the right, mutually killing each other instantly. Everyone simply stared, wondering where the clones came from.

Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler and Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer and Rinbad the Railer and Dinbad the Kailer and Vinbad the Quailer and Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad the Phthailer.

.

>(you)
yeah, just for the ego trip Im gonna give it a yikes my dude

...all jumped out of the bushes. Charles reacted: "Zoinks!"

Yikes! Wooh!

"We are setting up a team. You in?"

Charles the Chairman joined the troupe with gusto. Off they danced away into the sunset.

The next morning, when the door had finally swung open, the Chairman returned to work.
He pulled out his book. "Well, there you are, you know. You see it, you see what looks like you've made it here, after such a long wait. You just take it from there with no fuss. And once the books are written, I will make the rest of your lives a lot easier. So please just leave it all alone."
The Chief watched him, silently impressed.
He looked down at his lap. "Hah . You know what, if this is the best thing I've ever done, why don't I just tell you what an amazing person you have been, and why have I kept you on this payroll. I couldn't ever have done it without you. And I don't know what I would've done without you. No one could have."

Big Bird Brad, a fifty feet tall amalgamation of human bodies roughly in the shape of a bird, howled at the moon.

The moon howled back and the light of the moon was almost as bright as the reflection of Brads fifth dick straining his 20xl boxer briefs, threatening to completely wipe the house of an innocent farmer off the face of earth. The air was filled with color, just like a Matisse would be.

Twenty like howls answered in the aether.

can you please format the screenplay section correctly (search for "v.o.")? Font: Courier, size: 12
character and dialogue lines are centered (remove the dashes)

see pic related

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done

thx

a million shmillion shmiles ashway shwiveled menacingly in his schair an evil shpsycic named Dr. Kettle.

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Note to the editor:
Please include my great comic, full page if possible.

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Good OP, will you be correcting spellings when you review this work? Or will you accept amendments that are asked to be done? I have a few mistakes which disrupt my prose. They were the result of autocorrect.

just tell me what you want changed

The radio blared on as Brad, Esmerelda and Buck Mulligan listened attentively.
"And now Charles with his hit single "WHY ARE ROASTIES SO STUPID AND MEAN?"
"Charles, take it away!"

Enraged, Esmeralda threw the radio at the wall and ate the antenna. Quarrel ensued, because antennas were much loved delicacies.

Buck couldn't stand her attitude any longer and left. He heard Esmeralda screaming behind him: "I know where you live! I will find you and fuck you up".

Scared, Buck took a taxi to the state court and applied for a name change. After two weeks in hiding, the change was approved. For the first time in his life, Muck Bulligan felt free. Never again would that bitch bother him.

Grand. I have corrected versions here. You could paste them over the respective entries I made to the work.

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 baguette 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 copious 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 occurrence of the conquest and cunning linguistics of the Normans upon the Saxons and Jutes.
—Non non non. I mean de blatant 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 members which
comprised of 'daltaí', ex-officers and syndicalists. His major
breakthrough into the political 'solas' and the major breakthrough 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?

—Oui et non.
—What do you mean 'oui 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.
—Oui oui! 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.

somewhere in Cambridge, USA, 2500000 yeaars agooo.

Charles: Ay yo damum yu bout to get da frkinig DAB ON

And thus the world was created

Abhaicín Gilhooley, Jacq Bonaparte and his feral aids-ridden German tranny found themselves walking upon the nature-ravaged gravel of a seemingly endless sprawl of rural laneways somewhere deep in the lands of the occident. They had hoped to eventually meet the waters of the Atlantic across which stood Burgerland, formerly the United States of America, formerly a romantic republican experiment. Their left side was dominated by a hill. To their right was a steep drop which blended gradually into meadowland. Another hill of equal height and length mirrored the left side hill and marked the meadowland's far edge. This formation created a dale a mile or so long through which a stream flowed. Beside the stream and concealed in the heart of the tree-covered and bush-blessed dale was a near thousand-year-old Christian graveyard and chapel. Abhaicín and Jacq, intrigued by the sight, strayed from the lane down along the slopes of the dale. After a while more of walking they entered the god's acre of the chapel.
—Mon Dieu, what a beautiful and sacred place, said Jacq.
—Indeed, sir! By God, I do not wish to profane its air with fowl words or insults, nor its sacred ground with wicked footfall, said Abhaicín.
—Nor do I, mon ami. Before I proceed any further I will tie my feral tranny to de tree before de entrance.
Having dealt with his degenerate pet, Jacq returned to Abhaicín.
—When you walk amongst the headstones and observe the waters of the stream you can understand why this site was chosen by the long bygone holy men of this land. It is a perfect solitude. I know of no other serene sight of great antiquity deep in the countryside. Long may it be safe from urbanisation, said Abhaicín.
—Oui, this refuge of the soul deserves the protection of Dieu himself, said Jacq.
The two companions contemplated this hidden hallowed terra firma for a time in the meridian sunlight. Nothing but the gentle blowing of the summer wind did they hear. After a time, an incessant beating sound originating from within the confines of the roofless chapel disturbed their ears.
—What is that commotion, Jacq?
—I do not know. Let us investigate.
The two men entered the vacant chapel.
—The noise is emanating from behind the alter, mon ami.
—So it seems. Let us get a closer look.
They approached the alter.
—Holy Mary Mother of God and all the Divine Saints and Angels! It's Joyce!
—Sacré bleu! Le tranny!
The sight which greeted the two men was that of Joyce, dressed in morning suit, pounding the ass of Jacq's feral aid-ridden Teutonic tranny.
—You dirty little...man? Woman? Regardless, I am delighted to see that
you like being fucked arseways. My prick is stuck deep within in you, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. Your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly is ambrosia, shouted Joyce in ecstasy

Jacq Bonaparte discharged his meunier rifle into the sky.
—Transe, kommen Sie hier. Jetzt!, he shouted.
His tranny immediately dislodged itself from James Joyce's johnson and came to heel beside its master.
—By God, here you are Mr. Joyce, said Abhaicín Gilhooley.
—Indeed, here I am, said Joyce.
He pulled up his spongebag trousers and adjusted his glasses.
—Who do I have the honour of speaking to?
—My name is Abhaicín Gilhooley. This French fellow here is Jacq Bonaparte.
—A fellow piglet from the old sow and a broody Frank! An odd pair of pilgrims. Bonsoir, Monsieur Bonaparte, said Joyce.
—Bonsoir, said Jacq.
—What brings you along this path, gentlemen? Asked Joyce.
—Your death, responded Abhaicín.
—For what reason? Asked Joyce.
—I shall tell you, sir! Well-nigh each day I browse the board of Yea Forums and well-nigh each day my senses are affronted by endless Joycean threads. By God sir, you would swear there was no other Irish author of merit! Moreover, your incessant petulant shitting upon Éire and your acrimonious conduct towards her is soul-wearying. Therefore, I seek your death.
—I see. What of you, Frenchman? Why do you desire my demise?
Jacq shrugged in a gallic manner and lit a cigarette.
—Well gentlemen, my scalp shall go to those who catch me!
Joyce leaped out the alter window and disappeared into the greenery of
the dale.
—Blast, our hunt continues, said Abhaicín.
—Do not worry, mon compère. Not even a dieu can withstand the acquired immune deficiency syndrome of my Teutonic tranny! He will weaken, and we will scalp him. Hon hon hon!
Abhaicín, Jacq and his pet tanny departed the dale and continued their hunt for the now aids-infected James Joyce.

Abhaicín Gilhooley and Jacq Bonaparte had been pursuing James Joyce ever since the writer's vamoose from his dale-hidden Christian sacellum well-nigh seven days ago. His profanity of its hallowed ground with the seed of his voluptuous copulation with Jacq's ferocious Teutonic tranny traumatised his pursuants. While their initial Joycean encounter was a sacrilegious affair -as was to be expected- it had availed their aspirations. The fornication of Joyce and the tranny not only afflicted the former with a ruinous sickness but provided a means of tracking as well, for Jacq's tranny had a 'tranny-trick' whereby it could hound the scent of the aids it had given to its victim or victims. By means of this preposterous power Abhaicín and Jacq were hot on the heels of their 'godly' game. Alas, the tranny had led them to a location of uncertain proximity to Joyce. They stopped upon the fallow fells of a remote peninsula to ascertain their course.
—By God, sir. Where are we? Has your tranny led us astray you unmuzzled fly-bitten Frankish faggot!?!, said Abhaicín.
—Non non non, you folly-fallen Irish lout! It is on de track, yet tired. It needs time to rest and pick up de scent once more, responded Jacq.
—'Tis been a long hunt, without proper nourishment I might add.
—Oui. Fear not. I have my long matured comté cheese to share.
The two companions sat down to break their week long fast while the tranny dug in the soil for edible roots and insects.
—Mon tranny may have been accidentally named, mon ami, said Jacq.
—How so?, asked Abhaicín.
—A misspelt word at de conclusion of the narration of our journey before this post, mon compère. "...Jacq and his pet tanny..." was written instead of "...Jacq and his pet tranny...". I am worried it has been humanised.
—Do not fret my good man! This mistake affords us an opportunity for entertainment. A new naming. Instead of simply calling your savage pet the 'feral aids-ridden Teutonic tranny' we can also call it 'Tanny the Deutsche Tranny' or 'Tanny the Teutonic Tranny'!
—Hon hon hon. C'est Magnifique. So be it.

This post is part of the first one.

This just needs a comma in the second last sentence where the question is asked to Charlie. That is all.

anyone wanna submit some chapter titles?

But when Muck Bulligan walked to the courthouse, he saw the same girl as before. On his arrival, he saw a lawyer who looked almost as old as Buck: a woman who looked as bad as Buck himself. Muck Bulligan, whose teeth still shone like wax, looked at the man and said, "Your name's... Buck?"

"My name's... Buck."

A few moments passed. Eventually, Muck Bulligan said, "Thanks for all that. You're in trouble." He paused to watch the woman, then resumed his way to the courthouse. In a few minutes, the judge in charge of the case would order Buck arrested.

—I will not rest on my laurels. Now, as I said, that'll help us, will it not? That's a good thing too. This should help us to see the way for the real war against Hitler; so that our future can be taken care of more smoothly.
—Aye, so shall it. What a pity, that he was a terrible person, that he was so cruel. You know, he used to tell everyone, 'Look at my mouth! See how it's made, this mouth? Look at me! How old I am, there goes twenty of them! It would all be in my head, if it wasn't for myself! I'm a bit of a misanthrope, you know, really…'
—It's true, sir.

In which all that matters is revealed
Anna Karenina is the better book but War & Peace is the grander
I came in like a wrecking ball
>tfw no Charles Leclerc bf
[this title intentionally left in brackets]
Imagine being Charlie in this scene
PONDER
Un vent d'été sur la plage caillouteuse
Fuck you Pynch, give me my slippers back
Bugs, easy on the postmodernism
This but unironically
Blanche fesse et les sept mains
Act IIII

Have a look at their story, good user, and add or interact from here.

Thank you for the changes, OP. I do have a chapter title to offer. Hopefully you will deem it meritorious. If it could be weaved into the introduction of Gilhooley and Bonaparte's hunt for Joyce I would appreciate it, for it refers back to Irish mythology. It is the following: Tóraigheacht Shéamais Seoige.

p. 1 - I.
p. 4 - II.
p. 6 - III.
p. 10 - IV.
p. 20 - V.
p. 26 - VI.
p. 34 - VII.
p. 38 - VIII.
p. 47 - IX.
p. 59 - X.
p. 67 - XI.
p. 75 - XII.
p. 78 - XIII. “Actio et Reactio.”
p. 93 - XIV.
p. 107 - XV.
p. 117 - XVI.
p. 132 - XVII. “The Mystery Toad.”
p. 140 - XVIII.
p. 155 - XIX. “Tóraigheacht Shéamais Seoige.”
p. 173 - XX. “Lifting the pebble that hides the earth.”
p. 181 - XXI.

>XIV
"Ben Franklin Takes A Nap And So Should You"

>X
Uncle Fever

Title XX should go two pages up, before "The slow deep rumbling of an old two cylinder French engine resonated in Charles’ ears as it overtook him by the right.", it's the beginning of the story that continues with "—If it’s not too long."

>I
Unus

you mean that the chapter should start earlier or that the title is supposed to be in the text

>VI
"And Then I Said, Brad, Everything After 2008 Is Trash, Perhaps Even 2002, Everything, Even The Coca-Cola Recipe, Courting And Computer Games"

The chapter should start earlier please, and the page break between the two parts shoudl be removed

Kek

>XXI
Looking for the 2nd amendment

Thank you OP. If the chapter of Tóraigheacht Shéamais Seoige could start at page 147, I would appreciate the change for that is where the story begins.

>II

"Vanilla Exploits"

Big Bird Brad ports to the local Floridian swimming grounds in preparation for the next contest against 18-time Olympiad Lane Buttersby.
It's a dazzling day out, a month before the summer holidays begin again to the sound of Alice Cooper.
Two Miami Beach girls sneak into the male locker room sipping on Pepsi and find an innocuous Chester Whittingfield (Charles' fat, nerdy, grade school friend) getting ready to burn some calories and perfect his cardiovascular routine, his enormous dick collapsing in his swimming trunks, putting them on.
Sarah: Oh my god! That cock is absolutely enormous.
Hannah: You are in love with that huge dick, Sarah!
Hannah: Sarah!
Hannah: ...Sarah!
This is the scene from the final segment of Sesame Street when Kiki gets a tattoo of "Pretender" on her left hip and the two girls are trying to be a couple in the locker room. (The scene, incidentally, is a bit more subtle than the one from the finale)
Sarah and Hannah have a baby. This is shown when Kiki's father comes to check on them and gives them a little kiss and they look worried.
They are playing an extra on an episode of Seinfeld but the scene was cut 41 minutes too early.
This is the scene where Seinfeld is speculating whether he should call back an attractive date after seeing a video of her kissing her dog inappropriately.
So many Jewish people have mentioned how this scene would have go over pretty well as it features a woman trying to break free from the patriarchy. It was unfortunately cut by the last remaining white man at Castle Rock (not Rob Reiner).
Charles is late for school and tugging his member to pictures of Super Mario villain & monster 'Bowser' as if he were a curvaceous succubus with body pillows.
Charles as missed the bus.

(final line typo)
**Charles has missed the bus.

The dawn had come and the fire had died by the time Abhaicín Gilhooley and Jacq Bonaparte continued their pursuit. Tanny, now rested and fed, led the way on all fours, with Joyce's scent afresh in its nostrils. It stomped ahead with unassailable certitude.
-That froward coxcomb is close-at-hand if the sight of your Tanny is anything to go by. How exactly did you find this fellow?
-I found him in a pitiful state, mon ami, as I returned from my visit to de ruins of Friedrichsruh, outside Hamburg, after having avenged my fallen countrymen who were shamed by the German during the Franco-Prussian war. It must have survived the destruction of de city. However, it was not accustomed to life outside it. It had become fierce, savage and deadly without its estrogen supplements. It was more desecrated man than woman. Blood and puss seeped from its tranny cranny where once its penis 'stood'. A horrid sight. It ran from me. I hunted it for three days and nights intent on putting it out of its misery. However, when I finally caught it, I could not kill it. I felt pity for it. So I tamed it to as much a degree as I could. Now it serves me alone, mon ami.
-By God sir, that is a remarkable story.
-Oui, it is. Look. I see a pub on the peninsula's edge.
-Excellent! A few drinks can be had. Moreover, if there is one place to find Joyce, it is there. As an Irishman I would know! From the womb, to the bar, to the God's acre we go, when not being creative and wity of course.
The trio headed downhill to the remote drinkery.

(Footnote #?): Abhaicín Gilhooley

[Footnote #?]:
The name given to Charles' Uncle Jeffrey before his war efforts nicknamed him 'The Coriander Extractor' or more popularly 'Gilhooley The Ghoul Aka. The Spooker Of Moolies ' in regards to his hidden position behind Wal-Mart with a firebrand and a loudspeaker during the Watts Riots. He wasn't racist though. Although before being simply known as Jeffrey, 'Gilhooley' almost certainly beat his wife, who was at the time an alien (Not Mexican) and know one knew what position to take as they were too busy trying to figure out what really happened in 9/11.
Charles was in school and saw the teleprompter turn black and went home to play Worms: Armageddon. I don't know why I'm telling you this but quite frankly I couldn't give a shit about finding Joyce, I'd rather watch basketball and pretend that I know what I'm talking about when I say 'SLAM DUNK' out-loud when a black man makes a Bugs Bunny-kinda jump upwards.
Did you know Pythagoras said, "Silence is better than unmeaning words." Honestly, fuck that guy, I have a comfy job here sitting at my desk translating ancient Greek into soft-core pornography and I'll be damned if I have to give it up because someone urges me not to explain the definition of the word "unassailable", which is defined as a 'ship which cannot be sailed'.
Sailing produced yacht-rock and led to the creation of the Rumours-Era of Fleetwood Mac & Hall & Oates, which produced in term the song "I'm Out Of Time, When Your Around", perhaps the greatest yacht-rock song of all-time, although many of the critics were detained for excessive-cocaine use and found the song "Baby Be A Mime" by Michelle Jackstone an equal contender. James Joyce was apparently Irish and therefore liked to drink a lot of alcohol, which made his novels utterly incoherent, apart from Finnegans' Wake, which James Cameron was able to read after himself getting trashed.

Charles closed his computer.

He shut his eyes for a brief moment, only to find Hitler caressing his nipples upon re-opening them.

>XV
Old man prophecy or Charles straight male confirmed.

>III

Semantic Waveform Christ-complex retro-causality

>V

Robust Anti-Cartographic Egoism Writ In Auto-Fellatious Galatic Temporality

O it was only an apparition of slanderous syndicate-reform, the fascist ideal lapping up the milk of the innocent in front of him. Syphilitic silence erased any convictions Charles had about dwelling on porosity. Porous yelp. Pond scum fish rub. Touch.

Charles' new step-mom called for him but he wasn't answering, or prepared to answer until he had his morning Hot Pockets. He was too entranced in the puddle gathering outside his window-sill.

Charles decides to write an essay on the US tax system, but it eventually morphs into a weird short story set in an alternate reality where the mere mention of the word "taxes" is enough to set pussies aflame and cause 4 hour erections

Taxes taxing taxes is taxing the tax. Taxonomy of Taxation is Taxing. Taxing the Tailor, Waxing the Wahler.

>X
My dad's hot girlfriend's husband's son

At the end of this essay, our hero, who has spent most of his own life in a bizarre dystopian American universe, starts realizing that he had it coming when he had sex with his best friend, who was an alien, just so she would not kill him. (The alien is actually a female clone of his ex-girlfriend, who has an actual name and is the same woman whose name he calls "Luna")

Taxability. Taxation. Taxation Of Human Beings. Taxation of Things. Taxation Through the Taxpayer. Taxation of Time. Taxation of Things, And The Endorphin Hormones. Taxation Of Washing Machines. Taxability. Taxes Taxation. Taxation Of Things. Taxes of Things. Taxation With God. Taxation by the Law. Taxation by the Laws. Taxation of Things, And The Endorphin Hormones. Taxation Of Water. Taxation of Things, And The Endorphin Hormones. Taxation of Things, And The Endorphin Hormones. Taxes of Things. Taxes. Taxes of Things. Taxation. Taxes by Things. Taxes tax, Taxes by Things that are called taxes. Taxation, Taxes. Taxation, Taxes by Things That are called Taxes, Taxation of Things by Ways of Making Things. Taxes, Things. Taxation of Things by Ways of Making Things. Taxation by Things.

Suddenly, books.

uuuuh babe, yeaaaah, read this line, YEEEAHHH oh god it feels so good keep reading hnnggg, keep going WOoOoW i love you looking at my letters --- uuuhhhhhhh fuck yes

Books books books, words words words. A language swirl of improbability and madness swooned and swooped him up into the empty air space of the whorl above. Cresting on a soundless cloudwave sailing in the whorl above pouring off the pages flying Better Keep Going Better Not Stop Writing Or We Will Die. The words kept going, not having much choice in the matter.
- I am that I am All that I am is Mine All is Mine! All is I am All Mine! Charles yelled continuously into the empty, Godless skies.

Brad patted him on the head during his terrible heat-wave.
"Don't let go off me brother."

"I don't feel so good anymore," Charles said

"I feel better," Charles said.

"oh wait. Now I don't again."
Charles then vomited all over Brad and Brad's girlfriend's tits.

"Now that's a lotta vomit", said Buck Mulligan, playing Fortnite on his Nintendo D3. "I'm curious what's for dinner."

"Uh-oh, I think I can smell something a-frying!" - said Brad excitedly. "Something real delicious is cookin' here you guys, come here everyone!"
Everyone gathered 'round to see Brad holding Charlie's skull with both his hands. His head was showing shades of red, pink, purple. There was smoke coming out of his ears, his brain apparently boiling as the top of his skull rattled and danced like a lid on a pot. Choo choo!
"Oh boy, I can't wait to scoop myself a spoonful of some of THIS stuff!"

Abhaicín Gilhooley, Jacq Bonaparte and Tanny the Deutsche Tranny reached the peninsula's tip and stood at the threshold of the pub. Dún Luain it was called. It was built in the likeness of an Irish country pub. It surpassed all other drinkeries of its kind as to materials and workmanship, artistry and ornamentation, masonry and thatching, grace and fineness, carving and lintels - in short, a grander establishment there never was. It was positioned between the foot of the headland's fells and the ocean shore. Within Dún Luain there was a hearty hearth fire to the left of the entrance as you came in. Straight ahead was the bar upon the shelves of which could be seen a slew of whiskeys, porters and beers. Abhaicín and Jacq entered the pub and sat upon the soft-seated barstools. They quickly ordered two pints of porter for themselves and a fruity beer for Tanny, who was left outside to guard the boundaries of the pub.
The bartender went about pouring the pints.
-By God sir, I know you! Indeed, I know this place. You are Luan, the innkeeper and drinkgiver of this establishment. You are known to give safe passage to roadfolk across the treacherous ocean to yonder lands. 'Tis a pleasure sir! See here, Jacq, this is a grand fellow before you.
-Dia duit, said Luan.
-Dia is Muire duit, replied Jacq.
The innkeeper, startled by the appropriate response of the Frank in the tongue of the Gael, placed his hands upon the counter top and adopted a confident pose in preparation for a examination of the customer's capabilities in Irish.
-Dia is Muire is Pádraig duit, said Luan.
-Dia is Muire is Pádraig is Bríde duit, replied Jacq.
-Dia is Muire is Pádraig is Bríde is Colm Cille duit, answered Luan.
-Dia is Muire is Pádraig is Bríde is Colm Cille is Mícheál duit, replied Jacq.
-Dia is Muire is Pádraig is Bríde is Colm Cille is Mícheál is Antóin duit!, answered Luan.
Jacq could not think of another appropriate reply. With no further verbal interaction they starred into each other's eyes in an antagonistic style. Quietness took over the pub's atmosphere. Customers drinking in corners or upon barstools ceased their talk or directed their attention from their own private thoughts to the goings-on of the bar.
Luan was the first to break the silence.
-With those saintly blessings exchanged between us in the honeyed words of Irish it can be stated verily that ye are welcome both, he said.
-Merci, responded Jacq.
The atmosphere returned. All was sound again. Their pints were topped off with an appropriate head and left before them to settle. Once ready for drinking the companions wished each other health in their respective mother tongues. They took a mouthful of their drinks and placed them back down upon the bar.
-Ah, said Abhaicín, a pint of plain is your only man, as my good friend Jem Casey once remarked.

"Daa-aad! Brad's doing it again!" squealed Charles

"Glory to the spherical fission device on the firmament", he replied.

Buck was the quickest to sample the Delicacy. He grabbed the lid by the handle and took it off, revealing the steaming mass of Charles' scrambled brains. Scooping some with his fingertip, he tasted it like cream off a birthday cake.
"Mmmm! Yes, delightful. Do I detect a hint of Topkek candy, perhaps a tinge of wild cherry Pepsi?"

Smelling salts. Bath salts. Hot tub salts. Lingerie salts. Candle salts. Shower salts. Toilet salts. 5-Hour Energy Salts, all consumed the waste beneath his bedroom's nose.

"No no, more like durian, mmm, or maybe a subtle nuance of quinine," Gogol's dead soul stately proposed.

Ben Franklin interjected - "Undoubtedly I do recognize in this dish a profundity of many varied flavours. It sways from sweet to sour, salty and spicy, smooth or viscous. The quite franklinly the putrid smell of it induces in me a certain quiescence; a lull comes over my senses as I taste its thick and many-layered substance."

"I do like to smoke weed in small amounts. People used to call it "loud" where I used to live. I like to only take one or two hits of pretty dank weed, then it doesn't get loud yet, you can just hear the silence." - Charlie was talking to his previously unmentioned group of "friends" (they really just liked to get stoned with him so they can steal his weed, because he always got stoned retarded in spite of what he's saying).

But anyway, that's probably just paranoia.
"Take one hit, just enough to turn the knob juuuuust a little bit. That's what I'm talking about. Life suddenly doesn't seem so bad." Rambled Charles as he took another hit, and another.

"You're not an undercover cop, are you?"
"Heh... Cause you have to tell me if you are."

"Just take it, dude!" - "i don't know man, but I think i can trust you", and he swallowed the pills.
The only thing that surpassed the intensity of his fear and curiosity was the extremely strong hallucinogenic quality of the stuff. Staring at the ceiling, the textured bumps would start to move and rearrange and swirl in patterns. Charles saw that he had passed through a gateway, then a gate shut in front of him. Feelings of dread and terror enveloped his mind. Eternity seemed to capture him. Charles now completely accepted that his mind was broken, that he would never be the same again. He screamed and ripped things from the bookshelf, throwing all its contents to the floor.

She was working in a topless place
And I stopped in for a beer
I just kept looking at the side of her face
In the spotlight, so clear
And later on, when the crowd thinned out
I was just about to do the same
She was standing there, in back of my chair
Said to me "Don't I know your name?"
I muttered something underneath my breath
She studied the lines on my face
I must admit, I felt a little uneasy
When she bent down to tie the laces
Of my shoe
Tangled up in blue

Uncle Alfred still lying in Charles' bed, a little irritated about the noise, peered cautiously around and glared his nephew grimly. "Hush, let me sleep."

"Yo, pops is trippin!" - One of the uncouth apes called out.
Uncle Jeffrey had had enough. He took up his massive cudgel-like penis and beat them with it until they lay dead on the floor. Charlie was still laying on a sitting pillow in the corner, tweaking out.

updated, just passed 60k
hey screw you pal

NEW ACT.
Nel mezzo del caminno de nostra vita...

"Man. The Japanese are just better people. They're the superior race. Why are they so based? I mean, statistically some race has to be the best and they're it; they're better than whites even while whites are better than all other Asians." Mused Charles as he slowly sobered.

Uncle Ben kissed him on the cheek and pulled his cock out of Charles' asshole, which gaped and leaked his Uncle's thick semen. They had been having sex while watching a new episode of Charlie's seasonal animes.

This act wasn't gay because Charles concluded it by stating plumply:
"No homo."

"But then again, japanese have small penises making them taxonomy-wise the lowest level organisms in natural sciences, at least in my opinion," Charles continued.

"See you later daddy. You're always welcome to fill my asshole with cum, no homo." Charles called as his uncle left his bedroom.

"Charles, are you okay? Who are you talking to?"

"I'm talking to my dick daddy Uncle Alfred. Who are you?"

"I'm your father, Charles. What do you mean by "dick daddy"?"

Charles' step father then suddenly remembered that he was the "bear" in their odd S&M relationship and that is what Charles had been referring to.

"Have you been smoking reefer again!" Charles' father exploded as he noticed the pipe. "I keep telling you you can't do that, Charles! You're schizophrenic, it triggers your episodes!"

"Shieet, father this father that. You're one fucked up individual, Charles," Alfred chuckled. "Must be hard, huh? Back in Nam we skirted around as tons of napalm was dropped in the bush we were hiding in – and the command came by our guys, get it my friend? You have it easy, the whole future ahead and all."

Uncle Jeffrey walked in with Charles laying beside his computer, being told stories of fire and brimstone 'bout Nam.
Chester Wittingfield continued to message Charles on an IM service called "Masher-X",
Chester: "But seriously dude all these fighting games are fucking gay now, none of the fighters have GG-cup sizes anymore and the music is so fucking lame, it's like J-Pop or some ugly dubstep shit"
Charles wasn't paying attention but he somehow understood.
Chester continued "So these journalist ladies are complaining about Street Fighter V's Cammy having a big ass for a white chick right? Isn't that what all the white women are doing right now anyway? Getting their ass big enough for some meth-head drug dealer or sugar daddy to take notice by endless squats and Yoga? It's not even that big of an ass!"
Charles typed "Yeah, ikr"
Chester followed up his tirade with more vinegar, "Man all these games are such shit now and my old consoles are long gone, who the hell is buying these no-ass fighting games? These CEOs have dug themselves in deep shit dude, no one cares about fucking slave morality and inclusivity, have you seen the new EXV 7? Anna's tits must be half the size man, they don't even look like they're having fun either. Who are the menopausal dykes playing these games? You do your math last night?

"And cool it down goddammit. Some reefer occasionally wont do any harm to our dear son. Take a hit Wilbert, trust me on this bro."

"Man for fuck's sake! I have to fucking find the tapes and go back to the sea bitches to figure out how to clean the universe and I'm gonna listen to this bullshit?" Rambled Charles as he ate the last of his magic mushroom supply. The shrooms whizzed him away, back to the wonderland. Mitsushiko was holding his hands
- Darling?

"Great, now I'm stuck with this wench for at least 6 hours." Charlie was experiencing 'spore retentsion'. The substance was keeping him in this altered state, no chance of returning to the vessel he was most familiar with.
"Why you mean to me?" Mitsushiko was beginning to sob; overflowing wells in her big oriental eyes. Cocking back his hand, and connecting his middle knuckle against her button nose, Charlie swats Mitsushiko onto her rump. "No more fairy tale bullshit. You're going to tell me where the tape is, or I'm committing waifu genocide. Starting in this psychedelic hell hole." He gives an apathetic kick of soot into Mitsushiko's face.
"Whore."

"Charles-sama, but I love you!" Whined Mitsushiko.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Charles reacted. "Alright."
He hugged her and kissed her temple. In true autist fashion, he started a monologue:

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die."

He closed his eyes and waited for a moment. But alas, death did not come.
"Ah, shit ass. So how do I proceed with the plot? We're around page two hundred it's time to get going."

Mitsushiko was now a regular (but hot) anime girl, only her eyes were pure black. She spoke sweetly:
- Well, first we must retrieve the tapes from the undersea palace. You traded it for Debbie Does Dallas, remember?

Orion (Footnote)

Orion was fast-food spin off from 'Whitecastle' that focus on drive-thru 'Onion Rings' and shakes, one famous worker and low-key graphic designer in the earliest instance of the store famously overran the 'r' in Orion, leading everyone to familiarise themselves with the store as 'Onion' when the rest was a happy coincidence. The headship store is somewhere in North Dakota and ran by Michael Crichton's son, Carl Crichton Jr. (later the owner of Carls' Jr.) I copy and pasted this from the Wikipedia page, my brain really doesn't have time to be drinking and sub-vocalising and typing and oh god, more vodka please, divine.

C-Beams (Footnote)

C-Beams is the colloquial abbreviation of Cholesterol Beams, often weaponized by Space Terrorists to shoot people's LDL levels up so high that they develop serious health concerns and then die a year or so later.

Tannhäuser (Footnote)

Tannhäuser (or) "Tannhäuser and the Minstrels' Stand-Up Comedy Hour at Wartburg"), refers to the 1945 cinematic-trilogy in three acts (Assemble, Infinity Minstrels And The End Of You, Losing The Game), music and text by Richard Wagner. Ask a Blade Runner fan why he has a Nazi-romance story written on his/her/xe's arm, you'll often find out they actually are Nazi's and you can jail them indefinitely, which is a good thing since I want more Alien sequels and quite frankly couldn't care less about some bitch remaking a cyberpunk film like it's some revolutionary bullshit. My headaches are getting worse, jesus christ I should not have had that Dominoes and bottle of Coca-Cola, it's been 1 year without sugar and my body was not ready. Coca-Cola has a source of Phenyl in it which has a 0.1 percent chance of giving you Space AIDS.

Debbie (footnote)

No one could realistically expect Charles to remember Debbie because of all the trauma he had experienced, steadfastly ruining his body's entire will to recollect via short term and long term memory equally, but Debbie giving him a kiss on the lips and handing him the tape as well, not to mention, becoming a willing volunteer for showing him how babies are made via soft-drink-golem-pornstars, would have been the pinnacle of any man's life, perhaps Charles didn't wan't to realise the best part of his life was over and there was only suicide from here on out with sprinklings of 'Nam stories. I still think about the time I held Emma up in my arms in Senior year, we never did anything but honestly you could've shot me dead right then because all I have left are my Hegel books and some job giving footnotes (not footjobs thankfully) to aspiring young men's journals when they pay me through the dark-web, where I maintain a healthy side-life as a Ryan Gosling impersonator in Drive (2001AD?).

"Do you think people wouldn't grasp for the fruit of the tree of knowledge again if we returned to Eden?" - Charles asked no one in particular.

A fuzzy voice replied: "I shall answer, that in Nam, we soldiers had been shaped beforehand to be suggestible enough to be able and willing to die for our country, but not so impressionable to renegade or question the true meaning of our commitment. Would I grasp for the fruit now? No. I thought I was doing a great honor for my country until you brought forth significant recognition on the tape I had already forgotten."
And immediately afterwards the same indistinct voice of a man uttered the encouraging words: "Curse you, Charles! Neither your zoning out nor the profound tantrums on your 'suppressed sexuality' can solve any of your problems. Your self-accusatory outbursts on the tape are reasonable; the whole story lies outside of your control! I get it, I get it, why won't you listen to me? You're tormenting yourself! It's a subject deep enough to trip over and you have plunged to impenetrable depths on this issue while aggravating it to the extremity. The tape Charles, it's nothing but-"

"Charles, don't listen to your unc-un-uncertain figments of your imagination, listen to me instead. Fuck everybody in the ass and do it now."

My fellow drunken fool (footnote).

Good morning my good man. 'Tis twenty to two where I reside currently. That is to say Kathleen Ní Houlihan's land according to W. B. Yeats. Moreover, for the rest of this entey I shall spell my words in my own Hiberno-English phoentic way, for I am indifferent to committing to standard English. I met a Protestant with a dent in his head. He was bald too. There was a dog clock in the pub as well. Whenever it hit an hour it made barking noises. All the local regulars joked that the innkeep kept dogs in his attic. Upon the reaching of the hour and the barking of the clock the Protestant, whose religion is founded in a theological sense by the throbbing of Henry the Eight's cock, began to bark in unison with the clock for five minutes straight. His fellow Protestant companion told him to stop as it disturbed the locals and the continental strangers who visited the pub. It was at this point the barkeep took me to his kitchen to show me an old IRA pistol. You can be sure of who it was meant for! Bás in Éirinn a chairde.

"Let me show ya sometin'" yelled Alfred as he dropped his shorts.
"These herpes sores. I got 'em in Nam from sleeping with a prostitute for food rations."
Alfred's Nam stories often led back to his herpes which he considered a sign of his honor and merit in the field of prostitute fucking and straight-hood and something Charles should take note of.

bumo :)

How many words now, good OP?

Could you correct this as well in my footnote: Moreover, for the rest of this entry I shall write my words in my own Hiberno-English way,

67,787, we slowed down to a crawl now

61,787*

OP we should make another thread (with the good cover) with the intention of making it the final act. (Trimming out the bad parts (like the l0lz moments))

sure, I'll do some trimming once it's done
no need for a new thread while we haven't hit bump limit

"Well, anyway. I'm going to take a toke and port us to some planet that's just topless places and arcades."
Charlie rolled a fat zoot.

In the Zoroavexz galaxy, which was a corporate-owned and branded galaxy-wide theme park, there was a system of nothing but degenerate-entertainment-oriented planets. After achieving FTL speed with the power of cannabis and arriving at the system, Charles took inventory of his choices. Over each planet flashed a huge neon sign: The Whorehouse, Blips and Chitz, Fear And Loathing In New Vegas, Bada-Bing-Bada-Boom, 420 Planet - the language machine translated to English automatically.

Charles, despite being born only from a small New Mexico village had been throughout all the major 1-10LYm0.00067408km/h hotspots in his youth thanks to his uncles. He could barely remember a thing. Albert Speer was still waiting for him in the past, becoming more and more a dispensary for short-changed tactics, nervously caving into Russian arms by the second. Ben Franklin, Debbie and the Peptonian space crew, taking the lodgings of Charles' aloof, billionaire eccentric grandfather were abound far past April 1790, spending their leisure recreating Star Wars III and hanging their worries up at local bars.
Charles saw his moral ills and hatreds whimper into dust as he imagined time slipping by into lands and stars for which he knew where not to be absolved by onlookers but by time. Pretentiously, a veil of cinematic film cascaded from his peripheral vision, playing a song of him and Buck drinking Sunny D.
The house of Buck's death, located in an old factory building in the middle of the industrial zone, was constructed from the ground up on the spot and had no air conditioning, just concrete walls and concrete floorboards.
Although it didn't quite live up to Sunny D's plantation, a real world version which did not live long in time. Around September of 4016 and 4017, the new owners, Duke and Mary Pepper, began to suffer losses they had anticipated, most notably to their insurance company. As they took on more and more liabilities from a flood of insurance claims, which started to flood the roof, the roof finally leaked and caught on fire.
The Pepper family would have paid about 5 billion dollars in insurance. Another veil wept.
Buck cried out in faggot hating agony the first time he landed in 'Frisco. He'd been standing in his stall and was about to his prostitute steward Mandy off for going "over the cliff" and teasing him asleep with a faggot. "A mountain is a mountain, time to die", Hell, Buck is a dick. But let's see what was he going to say next. Buck tried to explain to the woman that he was the oldest member of his family, but what Buck really meant was that he was the youngest stately franken-saint of his entire befallen cybernetic-church. He was not in his twenties, he was practically immortal. So what happened when Buck called for a bathroom break and Mandy interrupted the then penniless cyborg? He was gone so far over the edge in hatred that he started to shout and curse at his Mandy. He began to take turns pushing and kissing her naked body while the woman stayed inside her stall with her legs parted slightly, neck craned so she could watch the action. Buck took advantage of this by going into her pussy completely naked. When Buck realized that she was about to cum, he took out his cock and forced his frayed cable inside her mouth, frying her entirely. Charles recollected this tale told to him and wondered why it had taken so long for him to notice that his dead-friend was a gay exterminator. Oh yeah, he had PTSD rape.

>was about (antagonise) to his prostitute
correct this omission thanks OP

One casino sign, "The Black Matterhorn", pulsated in the midst of the seedy plane. Gyrating Blorgaxes rubbed their oil slick skin on free-floating poles, ostentatiously pushing their chests out towards the line of eager, grinning patrons. The ship started to slow down as Charles' head engineer stopped before the lights. Guzzling iced coffee, the pilot pushed his hands away from his hips. The engine started to whir again, a familiar click, and then a confirming click, and as Charles' ship came into sharp and sharp turn, they stopped, the propellers jingling loudly. As the engine stopped, their ears heard a low growl, louder and more aggressive as they looked up to see their captain snorting computer cleaner at an alarming rate. "Here we are boys, Lucas should be right in there".
Money passed through hands like velvet curtains through a perverts hand, moans and groans in the distance lit up like fire as the doors opened to the street level. I'm not sure what time it was and if this could be true. It was raining now, and I was wet; there was a wet hand across my face, and then the rain left me so dry, I felt my face freeze with fear.
"Hey there, sugar"
"Ummmm, hello?"
"Are you going to tell me what u want?", she looked down at Charles' drenched diary and Matrix trenchcoat and in a foolish attempt to calm down Charles, she pulled aside her panties in front of me. It was obvious she was not going to allow Charles to not pay her, she didn't move as she stood facing me, allowing Charles' erection to throb as the air started to thump against it his jeans. Jonathan Swift dressed decadently knocked into Charles, shoulders and began to stare at Charles' attire.
"What a world, what a world!", "Lemuel, look at this young Earthian"
"Ah, what now? Ah! It's nice to see an Earthian being. What is it?", "Ah-haahahaha!
Lemuel pointed at the red flushed face of Charles, being rubbed slowly by the Casino girl.
"That is just the perfect compliment!"

"Oh honey, come on now, it would be pretty for me." said Lemuel, smiling drunkenly at the girl's hot-yet-obviously-drugged-out-body, he felt the pleasure coursing, mingling with his alcoholic verve. "BIG, BIG HOURS GENTLEMEN" he resounded, "LET ME TELL YOU TALES, BIG BOY TRAVELS, WENCH".
Charles was pushed along slightly by his crew and also by the onslaught of the bustling street but caught his ground again.
Another grope passed, I, by him, tried to relax and take in the sights, wanting to reach to the inside firmament and release, but his mind kept trying to tell me (his trusty footnote colleague and personal carbonation assistant, Lance) no, that this was evil. Evil because the girl got off the cash machine. Evil because her body was filled with pleasure. Why had I ever come so hard, revisiting here? But still I needed it. Charles looked at me and asked me if we wanted to get lunch before finding George Lucas with the Wehrmacht-meshed-soul intact.

>lunch (footnote, samepost)
We ended up going to Chick-Fil-A (a universe wide phenomenon by today's standards, most prosperous than the internet, even), I got some burger without the violent acid, typical of Zoroavexz cuisine, which was pretty good. I stared at the waitresses the whole time, Charles would always tell me to write down his plans in full but to be honest I think I only wrote down "Go to Portio" the entire hour-long speech. I don't know why I'm still here or he pays me, apparently his grandfather is loaded.

>waitresses (samepost)
The one with the green _________ _________ gave me the best meal ever. She had such soft and supple breasts, and made me so hard while helping me innocently order another eggroll to eat. My cheeks burned, and nipples hardened sitting down, eating. I dreamt her tongue slowly slide inside my asshole. I was trembling as my head swelled up from the hot cum screaming in my balls. The fast food waitress and another guy exchanged glances, before they started to chat. "So where are you going tonight?...
"We should go to Seijou-chan, after this party and for some fun activities..."
"What do you mean?" The woman asked with a smile.
Fucking greaseballs. "Is this an alien urn?" another customer said, some alien extinguished vernacular and started calling it English, here's what I think he said: "Oily fucky, in my trout hole. Fries taste 4 star, eyeball lunchbox, Hentai video thanks Gilgacn, emerald neon, ass stretcher. Time suck. Have you read Gravity's Rainbow?"
A tuxedo wearing Halkcycor responded;
"It has an opening scene involving a frog floating in a toilet...that one? Cinderella, who you know looks identical to your mom - because they're both women who go around looking for love and are both made out of pink and white and they're both totally like adult fan-fiction Disney characters, made to whoosh with the mouth. I lambast!" Where was I.

Charles stepped out to leave the fast-food establishment and was stopped by an inquisitive Halkcycor, "Duu-do you know Jeffrey?"

bump

Chapter IV: "Cui Bono, Charles?"

The waiter walked over and handed Charles a small bag. "Here. Just take 'em if you can."
Charles took the small bags and walked into the parking lot. He looked around for his friends and found a large crowd of them, people enjoying some kind of food, especially hot dogs, but most of all the girls wearing sexy dresses or tops. He was sure if another woman were around he would take her as his date!
He didn't care what the girls were wearing, they were clearly just enjoying themselves. Then he noticed they were also wearing red lipstick too. No wonder they were so pretty! "W-What're you doing here?" Charles asked.
Jasper had left her purse there all day with him and was sitting there looking at his phone the whole time. Charles walked over to her and gave her a friendly wave, "Hey miss." "Thanks, Charles! What, why did you leave it there?" "Because it looked pretty cute in front of all the girls!" Jasper said. Charles just shrugged and walked away, laughing. She was getting pretty hot and sweaty at that point. It felt great having her as a friend, even if it was just teasing. She couldn't help but notice that her stomach was hurting and when she noticed it, she started panting and groaning and getting really, really hot. She wasn't wearing any underwear, but she was also getting pretty wet as well. She had a hard time keeping her clothes on, as was probably a common problem in these sorts of things. She tried to find a towel, but found that there wasn't one, or maybe her bra was soaked as well. She ended up lying there naked, her body shaking as waves of ecstasy crashed across her body, making her feel a lot more relaxed than she could remember being before.

The sudden, strong urge to cum took over her life and she couldn't stop doing it until she had made both ends of her mouth cum in two minutes and her pussy was dripping. She took a deep breath, letting the last of the hot air escape from her nose. That would certainly make her feel better.

"You know. I've been to your house already three times." said one of the girls dressed in bright colours, upon Charles re-entering the foreign plaza.

Ruby grinned and pulled her own shirt over her head. The blonde took her sun lotion to her, making sure Ruby wasn't taking it too much too warmly. She turned to the food court, only to see that Coco and Weiss were right outside.

"I don't usually keep my things when I go shopping in case I don't find something I like, but I've got a new book!" said Ruby, Jasper could feel her shoulders tense on the fountain step as she leaned back to breathe.
"Have we met before then?" said Charles eagerly, holding out his arm for a hug in the night. "Yes, I think so." Charles said softly and continued, "I will stay to watch your dinner and right after they are finished with their destiny I will drive you home."
The only thought that came to Charles' mind was that he was still in the hospital and he did not want to leave. He tried to force his smile back by saying to himself. "I can always come back to meet you at my house." Charles smiled sadly as he finished up his conjured memory yet he did not want to take away from his smile. His smile became smaller but he said to himself. "What can I do?" Charles had been so close to meeting the spirit of Charles and now he was about to tell Charles that he will probably be missing, but he wished him happiness. "Do go on now, you must be hungry." Charles said softly to Charles and his smile disappeared.
Charles' eyes met Charles' in the mirror and immediately got drop kicked by the ghost of St. Augustine and his grandfather's live apparition into the back end of a Klaxx'o'gok'n casino blackjack room, with God's coin.

"Ouch!"

D-:

St. Augustine was the oddest Saint who ever lived. St. Augustine had never used a knife. St. Augustine had never used his own name, except perhaps in the scriptures. So Charles got dropped, like the rest of the band, by a blackjack table.

At that point, Charles and Charles' mother, Mary, were on the line, calling out, "He's got some people knocking on his door and everything!" When St. Augustine's ghost got involved, his hands flew out of his pockets, which were holding the money, to chase after the dead man who, it turned out, was Charles' neighbor, Charlie Fagan. After Charles dropped Fagan's money, it fell onto St. Augustine's grave. It was not until much later, in the 1960s, that St. Augustine's ghost was officially identified with Charlie Fagan, though many believed it was St. Augustine who had made the final sacrifice.

In 2011, a group of local churchgoers created a replica of St. Anne's grave, named for St. Augustine and his daughter, and, through a GoFundMe campaign, raised enough money to hire a tombstone-maker and put up a sign for Charlie Fagan to visit. A few days later, on Nov. 9, 2011 – the third visit of Charlie Fagan since the initial visit four months earlier – Charlie Fagan died at age 95.

When Charlie Fagan's body arrived for his funeral, his family had no other choice than to travel, instead covering two of the five flights, as well as taking other family members back to his mother and brother.

A day after his funeral, the body of his wife Sharon was found in her truck parked in the garage of their home in North Portland, Ore.

Sharon's son Andrew was arrested on suspicion of the murder.

According to the police report filed by the Berrien County Sheriff's Office, Andrew had been looking for the Fagan family – having just been given a letter from Fagan that showed up on his brother's cellphone.

On Jan. 15, 2012, the investigation was expanded to include the possible connection to the two missing teens.

In addition to the missing teens, Charles was suspected of killing three children in Florida between 2011 and 2015.

Charles killed the children, ages 5, 7 and 9, in a car accident on the Northside on Aug. 23, 2015 with their mother, Amanda Berry. Berry was arrested for child abuse and murder in August 2016, but was released because she had already pleaded guilty to one charge, conspiracy to kill.

However, his attorneys argued that his client killed the Berry children because he was jealous of his wife's sex appeal.

Judge William H. Duff, Jr. said the victim's friends and family have not forgotten about her:

The fact that this crime committed, the fact that this crime was on the Northside and on a Saturday should no longer be forgotten. I just do not think it makes sense that someone that is guilty of this would be guilty of that.

Anyway, back to Charles, St. Augustine and the sexy girls:

There are a lot of people here at lunch hour, and most of them are girls wearing shorts. Ruby looked like a girl that is going to be the most interesting girl around and Jasper was interested because they were going to go shopping! They went to a good spot, had an appetizer, lunch, and Ruby's girlfriend (sister in law? sister-in-law??-sss.. "She's cute and is a little scary," whispered Ruby as she pointed at Ruby's girlfriend.) was getting ready to play hooky the entire time. Ruby's girlfriend walked right over to the ladies' room and went over to their sink as usual. She found a towel and sat down onto James, who watched for any sign that there was some kind of trouble, came over to James' side. It looked like the girls had all got up from their seats and were sitting around the tables.

"I'm going to take her there alone now," said St. Augustine. "She's going to have trouble understanding why we wouldn't let her leave alone with her male. She might think he had something to do with the other girls."

"What is so wrong with letting her go with him?" James was starting to realize a little later that his girlfriend's boyfriend just happened to be one of the people who'd gone crazy for the sexy redhead. "But what are we going to do about Ruby?"

"I just know she will go to

Ruby at

night time and

kill her if you

are there!"

Ruby began to laugh again, her eyes looking up at St. Augustine as she snorted. She hadn't realized what had happened.

But her anger had been misplaced. St. Augustine didn't stop laughing all the way from her office.

Ruby's boyfriend, Charlie Fagan, was now back in her room. She wasn't sure about how much longer he'd been hanging out with Rose, but she figured it was better for his safety now. Not that she could care less if she came across as a complete jerk.

She opened the door and slipped under the covers to get comfortable.

"You know I'm okay?" she asked the older girl. "I think I was in the best mood."

"No that wouldn't be it," replied Charlie. "I like you a lot. It feels good when you look at me. It's great knowing us together."

Ruby's hands shook with surprise. Charlie's cheeks were flushed crimson all over. "If I wasn't there I'd be getting mad," muttered her. "I would kick you. And then what?"

They looked at each other for more than an instant before her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Please stop this," screamed Charlie, sobbing into her face, "please. Please stop it!

At this point in time Charles had begun experiencing some latent paranoia and indigestion following his extensive meddling in the nature of reality itself, not to mention the daily intaking of heroic doses of hallucinogens and THC which were bolstered a thousandfold by his schizophrenia and cosmic powers.
He ran away, hid away from everyone. Walking or running in strange pitch dark alleys, he was haunted by the horrific calls and screams of local fauna and flora, and faux-fauna, plastiflora, Magick entities, transdimensional travellers, and so on and so on. He slipped into a bar near where the street and alley met, half the neon alien runes above the door flickering on and off.

Abhaicín Gilhooley and Jacq Bonaparte had spent quite a few hours upon their respective barstools in a daylong devotion to Bacchus. Readily they uttered the wity and entertaining conceptions of their minds with the innkeep, the pub patrons and with/between themselves. The consumption of ethanol served to lubricate the wheels of conversation within the establishment and made the two companions forget the purpose of their fornight of pursuit. As the spirit of the pub and the flow of the drink increased, so too did the clientry. Word spread that craic was being had at Dún Luain. The folk of the region had begun to assemble at the drinkery. There was not an alcohol or merriment aficionado from the smallest hamlet who did not attend. Portions of 'hang sandwiches' and drink were served to them. Word had even reached the Otherworld of the affair and the finest musicians of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Canola and Uaithne among them, came from the sídhe dressed in scaret cloaks and tunics of kingly satin. They brought with them fiddles, tin whistles, harps and flutes made of silver and gold.
A fine crowd had gathered. Festivity and fun flurished unabounded at the pub of the headland's tip.
-By God sir, 'tis a marvelous situation we find ourselves in. We drink, eat and converse with the most pleasing and noblest of folk, said Abhaicín.
-Hon hon hon. Oui, mon ami. Chagrin partagé, chagrin diminué, said Jacq.
-It seems to me, my good man, that you have fallen so far from sobriety that you can no longer call upon the barbarous idiom of the Saxon.
-Oui. Je crois qu'une autre tournée ne nous fera pas de mal, said Jacq.
-Devil damn you! I have no idea what you are saying.
-J'aimerais offrir une autre tournée.
-Ah, whatever! Do what you want. I shall go strain the spuds.
Abhaicín exited the pub in a drunken stagger and found a suitable location upon which he could release from his bladder the liquified contents of an unknown amount of pints. The sun had retreated below the horizon and a chilly starful night had taken its place. Tanny was asleep by the pub threshold. As the steam of his piss rose before him, Abhaicín spotted the figure of a man lying against a stone wall in a drunken heap. Upon finishing his business he approached the man, only to recognise the familiar features of Mr. James Joyce.
-By God, 'tis yourself, said Abhaicín.
-Good night, Mr. Gilhooley, said Joyce.
-Good night. It took us a while to find you.
-Indeed! Yet you were hot on my heels nonetheless. Now that you have me, will you scalp me?
-To be honest my good man, I had forgotten about the initial aim of this pursuit in the joy of the day and night. It is not my desire to kill you anymore. As I was talking to The Dagda at the bar he let slip to me that we are the creations of a chronicler who seems to be of no certain mind in regards to how to conclude this story. It seems the whole thing is an exercise in wayward storytelling.

Francius Freud followed him in, although not with an aim or cognisance of Charles and lo and behold, before Charles could order a drink he glimpsed upon the black corner, where sat a now rising clone of Helmut Bakaitis, a clone of the actor who played The Architect in the Matrix, called Hell, designed by Lucifer himself, twisting the sound of his fiddle with the instrument, now warping in time freely.
"What'll it be" said the Barkeep, left open.
"Charles."
"I am Bonaparte", nodded the masked figure of Hell.

>travellers, and so on and so on
*time travellers, bogarts, gnomes, Irishmen, and so on and so on

-Well then, if that be the case, let us go into the warmth of the pub so that we may eat, drink, discuss and be merry, said Joyce.
-I am sure our common chronicler will not be opposed, good sir. Moreover, within there is bound to be a member of the sídhe with a magical cure for the acquired immune deficiency syndrome which your fornication with the Teutonc tranny afflicted upon you, said Abhaicín.
-By Zeus! I was not aware that I had been afflicted with such a condition.
-Verily you are, my good man! Come, let us go inside.

Luan entertained the host at Dún Luain for thirty days and nights. Tanny the Deutsche/Teutonic Tranny was released by Jacq and given passage by Luan across the ocean to an agreeable city where it could get estrogen supplements and return to its normal degenerative life. Joyce was cured of his aids by the sweet music of The Dagda's harp, as was Tanny. Abhaicín and Joyce developed a great camaraderie forged in porter, whiskey and barstool talk. At the end of the drinking session all folk departed and left their blessing with Luan, Jacq and Abhaicín. Each person wished each other the best of luck in future narratives.

Sin é mo scéal.

op here, I'll do this myself eventually but I'd appreciate it if someone listed new characters or plotpoints for me, if you care to do it

Charles decided he was going to join the IRA.

It's high time to stop writing pointless self-referrential nonsense with other stoned retards, high time to write something real!

65,874

Charles felt a heavy hand in his shoulder

The hand of Tyrone McNiggins, the town bull

I only concluded Tóraigheacht Shéamais Seoige just to be clear, in case there is any confusion. You can update the plotline of Joyce's hunting in the following way: Two companions, Abhaicín Gilhooley and Jacq Bonaparte, along with the help of a feral AIDS-ridden German tranny -accidentally named Tanny- begin a hunt for the elusive James Joyce. They pursue him all over the countryside, intent on sending him across the Styx. However, their intentions change upon reaching a remote headland.

I suppose you can add 'Luan the Drinkgiver' as a minor character and explain he is owner of the pub known as Dún Luain. You may also add 'The Dagda', the most prominent god of the Irish pantheon. He informs Abhaicín that he is part of a wayward story and cures Joyce and Tanny of Aids.
You may also add the Tuatha Dé Danann, Who are fairy folk from the sídhe.

Lastly, if you move the title of Tóraigheacht Shéamais Seoige to page 147 I would be appreciative. However, if you are disagreeable to such a change then so be it.

Attached: my diary desu.jpg (500x775, 129K)

youtube.com/watch?v=IS2a7Xs6c1c

*Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

“It was a glorious experience. It was not unpleasant at all. We went to work each day, walked up and down street corners, climbed and shaded alleys, walked along the city side.

“A friend of mine was born in this neighbourhood. My cousin has got that same name too, I think they both like the same people.

“We were never allowed back to our old house where we were raised.

“I have never gone to sleep without having someone to drink whisky with. It isn't hard to find me a mate in the old place, and when the day comes to leave for new houses, I will take a cocktail.

“I must also say that I can now live in many places without having to worry about getting robbed in the street again. I was a member of the IRA…”

The old man went on and on and on, as Chales was listening attentively, sipping his Pepsi. Meanwhile, Jasper was busy writing a paper on the solutions of the equation X + 1 = X, but with the old man talking and Ruby squatting in front of him, so that he had trouble keeping his penis in his pants, he couldn't keep up with all the distractions.

”I know you've been busy with business with the new secretary-general but please can you tell me about the plan for conquering the United States?

”Ah, of course.”

”And what plans do you have for taking down the President?”

”What do you mean, do we have plans for taking down the President?

”We did not plan to take down the President,” said the old man. ”But how can we take him down without taking himself?”

The other girl looked up at Ruby. "I guess we will. You have been such a bad girl, you wouldn't want to hurt anyone."

"You don't sound like a monster."

"I am just saying the same thing with people. I know it will have a negative effect on how they treat me. Just look at what's happened to our team."

Ruby went back to shaking her ass until her ass hurt again and she stopped shaking.

"I'm sorry Ruby. And I'm sorry to our teammates, as well; we have done nothing wrong."

The two students stared at each other for a moment before Ruby turned to Jasper and said, "I have to tell you though. I had been doing nothing wrong, because I had been ignoring what I knew to be necessary."

Jasper rolled his eyes as Ruby rolled her eyes. He was always quick to notice that Ruby's eyes would not stay shut at all times.

And she had always kept up the grin that said 'Oh yeah'.

But what her true feelings were, remained unknown at best and entirely unknown.

So when Ruby turned towards him, the smile vanished and she looked back at him in surprise.

That Ruby had not noticed his presence earlier and thus was still teasing his heart out, only to suddenly back out with that 'huh' again.

He smiled to himself and then began to wonder if he could ever trust him, so why would he go with this?

Jasper looked over at Ruby who had now turned his serious and said,

"Yeah, if there's any one there, please, let me know, alright?"

Ruby sighed.

Attached: 1541546510794.png (1057x611, 423K)

>move the title of Tóraigheacht Shéamais Seoige to page 147
Well the story is spread over multiple chapters anyway so I'm not sure it matters. I'll keep it in mind when I go over the entire text later, too lazy to do it now

Started down Beal Street and I'm turnin' up Main
Lookin' for a gal who sells Cocaine
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Well, I reached into my pocket, grabbed my poke
Note in my pocket says no more coke
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

You take Mary, I'll take Sue
Ain't no difference betwixt the two
Cocaine run all 'round my brain

Yeah baby, come here quick
This old cocaine 'bout to make me sick
Cocaine...

They walked alone by the old canal
A little confused, I remember well
And stopped into a strange hotel
With a neon burning bright
He felt the heat of the night
Hit him like a freight train
Moving with a simple twist of fate

A saxophone someplace far-off played
As she was walking on by the arcade
As the light bust through a beat-up shade
Where he was wakin' up
She dropped a coin into the cup
Of a blind man at the gate
And forgot about a simple twist of fate

People tell me it's a sin
To know and feel too much within
I still believe she was my twin
But I lost the ring
She was born in spring
But I was born too late
Blame it on a simple twist of fate

...

literally a shit post