|This is actually what I look like right now|
Well, shit, I didn't expect a nearly 200% increase of followers in the last two days! Whoopie, that brings me up to 4. But you folks don't give a damn that, do you? You've probably subscribed to hear me spin splendidly spastic spiels about the Slender Man and the two servants he sicked upon this here snide snoozer. Well fuck you faggots, because in a flamboyantly fantastic fashion I fell upon non-foul fortunes and managed to maneuver my automobile away from their greedy grasps.
Also I met another guy like me who talks with alliteration and shit, he's a pretty cool dude. Name's Frap - we'd probably pass for peers when pensively peered at by persons with piqued curiosities.
Shit, maybe he's got me beat in that department.
But in all seriousness, it looks like some real funky shit's gone down. Folks are droppin' left and right, being possessed by the Black King's butt buddies or brutally murdered. Some sort of assault is being made on a quarry that the Big (X) has, and faggots at that military institution everyone is talking about are getting their shit slapped soundly. It's unfortunate, really. I give my thanks to those motherfuckers with the balls to go in and do that - I know I couldn't.
Now, since I'm sitting at a secure spot, let me elaborate upon what happened in the last few days.
The situation starts with me, just sitting at my computer, reading all these theories regarding the Black King, bringing myself up to speed on the good guy's predicament. For hours I had watched this white Audi continuously drive by my apartment; and they would always park in the same place, a location that gave them a clear view into my window. At that point, my paranoia level boiled over; I closed my shades, triple-locked my door, and double-locked every fucking window in the area. I don't remember whose blog exactly I was scanning through when I heard knocks at my front door.
Immediately, I went for my axe (I call him Allen, an homage to American Psycho, one of my favorite films), and zipped over to the front door, picking up a shotgun along the way. When I took a peak out the peep hole, I saw two bulky fellows; chunky but vicious-looking. They looked normally dressed, and indeed at that moment I almost let my guard down.
But then I noticed the little (X) symbols on the tops of their hands, and my blood froze. That feeling of fear I talked about a few blogs before kicked in quite suddenly - a sharp, shocking pain, a rejuvenating pain, a pain that seemed infinitely more delightful that the smell of death that now felt quite real and tangible, an astute possibility in the eyes of the near future. It took no time at all to whip up a plan; the door flew open, and two buck shot rounds blasted their faces apart. Blood splattered in gushing geysers across the wall behind them; brains followed, superimposed over the crimson base coat, a wonderful mosaic delicately crafted by two apocalyptic pieces of lead.
And the surge of power I gained, the confidence and relief I felt after my "victory" over these two fellows caused my capture.
I KNEW the Black King could gift his servants with miraculous abilities; yet I never considered regeneration possible at that point of maiming. My first mistake? Putting all the organs and bones and cubes of those pawns together, rather than separating them. My second mistake? Turning my back to write that blog post in victory; for as soon as I hit "send", the two assaulted me from behind again, completely reformed and revitalized. I still felt sore from my Bateman-esque spree of flesh rending, what with me tearing at their dead bodies with an axe; and I barely put up a feeble resistance to their onslaught.
Why I did not die right then is unclear to me. I was a nobody, a nothing - some poor bastard easily dealt the killing blow. My problems were numerous and well-documented by friends and acquaintances; knowing the extent of the Black King's reach over all aspects of life, it would have been child's play to say I offed myself with my own shotgun, or overdosed on malt liquor.
But no, it was not to be - instead, I woke up chained to the wall opposite my computer screen. The two bozos never talk to me the entire time I laid fettered against the wall - in fact, they never gave me any comestible substances at all. They didn't acknowledge my existence in the slightest, but they did stick near my computer like tape worms to intestinal tracts, literally gluing themselves to the screen. They only visited my Blogspot account, and never went anywhere else on the Internet. They took shifts in watching and typing upon the computer, but never once checked upon my condition or the status of my leashes, which were quite loose on my wrists.
After constant struggling I managed to free myself, and, to cut a very long and boring story short, dash on out of there with my axe, my computer and my keys. I think it'll suffice to say Allen got a few more nice whacks before we upped and bolted.
What this speaks of, to me at least, is two things. One - the Black King values words more than physical shapes. His power stems from concepts, ideologies, and theories. This seems to verify what's been postulated by nearly every other fucker on here, that in the world the Big S guy resides in physics doesn't work in precisely the same fashion and normal, physical items won't do shit to him. But the second is far more pertinent, in my mind, to figuring out the proper angle in analyzing this nightmare's mind state.
Those two fat fucks who captured me could completely regenerate themselves in the face of any sort of normal assault. Their powers were otherwise unimpressive, but if he could grant basic immortality to two idle floozies sent merely to apprehend a nobody like myself, why does he not simply steamroll the opposition in a snap? The only logical conclusion I can take from this oddity, considering Thage's veiled implications of a continuous conflict, is that our Big S doesn't want this war to end, ever. He can win, can claim victory at any time he desires, but he chooses to seductively enrapture us with his hallucination-inducing presence, and toy with our pieces on the board. In essence, he provides the players, the board, and the ruleset by which we abide, yet can step outside of those bounds at any moment in time, without incurring a damn penalty.
So why are we still playing with him?
Food for thought,
P.S.: Yes, the reviews will continue sometime in the future. Don't worry, I won't smear my namesake just because of some lanky wannabe gentleman.