Barter Town

Throw us an offer. We can't refuse.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

NO MORE GAMES

I AM TIRED OF YOU, MICHAEL JOHNATHAN BLIGHTWELL. 

YES, I HAVE KNOWN YOUR NAME FOR EONS: SINCE BEFORE YOU PLOTTED YOUR SLIMY, BLOOD-COATED ESCAPE FROM THE CONSTRICTIVE WOMB OF YOUR PROGENITOR; SINCE THE WAR-STOKED AGES FOLLOWING YOUR APOCALYPTIC DEMISE AT THE MEREST EXERTION OF MY UNBREAKABLE WILL; SINCE MILLENNIA AFTER YOUR ASTOUNDING REBIRTH AND SUBJUGATION IN MY GLORIOUS ASHEN-CHOKED KINGDOM, LIFE NONEXISTENT FOLLOWING THE RE-CALIBRATION OF REALITY BY THE LORDS ABOVE. EVEN THEN I STILL RECALLED YOUR HUMAN MONIKER, AND LOOKED BACK UPON THOSE RECENT EVENTS WITH AS MUCH NOSTALGIA AS ONE IN MY POSITION CAN POSSIBLY MUSTER. 

BUT WHEN I REACHED INTO THIS TORRENTIAL, UNYIELDING STREAM OF TEMPORAL MOVEMENT AND SWAM UPRIVER TO SECURE ONE OF MANKIND AS MY PRIZE, I DID NOT DO SO ON THE FLIMSIEST OF WHIMS, ON THAT MOST SICKLY OF "EMOTIONS" YOU CALL BOREDOM. I MOVED WITH A PURPOSE UNMATCHED. A PURPOSE YOU ALREADY KNOW, DEEP DOWN IN YOUR SICKLY, PAIN-WRACKED LITTLE HEART. DONATO DID NOT DIE BECAUSE YOUR HACK MYSTIC DID SOMETHING SPLENDID WITH HIS MIND TRICKS, OR BECAUSE HIS PALTRY EIGHT YEARS OF SKILL OUTMATCHED MY TIMELESS PROFICIENCY. HE CROAKED BECAUSE YOU REQUIRED A KICK TO MOVE YOU IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION, MR. BLIGHTWELL. 

IT WASN'T ENOUGH.

I AM TIRED OF THESE GAMES WE ENGAGE IN, THESE SMALL SESSIONS I FORCE YOU THROUGH TO TRY AND REACH OUT TO YOUR SAVAGE BUT ULTIMATELY RESTRAINED PSYCHE. OUR INTERACTIONS COULD HAVE EVOLVED FROM THESE SPASTIC CAT-FIGHTS INTO FULL-FLEDGED WARS BETWEEN THE DIVINE, BUT IT SEEMS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE STAKES IN OUR CLASHES. 

YOU ACT AS IF ALL YOU CAN IMAGINE IMITATING IS THE NATURE OF AN INSOLENT ARACHNOID SKITTERING ACROSS THE GRIME-RIDDEN FLOORS OF THE MATERIAL UNIVERSE, DELIGHTFULLY CHUCKLING TO YOURSELF AS YOU ARE WRAPPED ABOUT IN THE GOSSAMER STRINGS OF YOUR OWN CONVOLUTED WEB OF HAUGHTY ARROGANCE. TO THINK EVEN YOUR HIGHLY PECULIAR ACQUAINTANCES SO THOROUGHLY TAKE TO YOUR MORONIC ATTITUDE INFURIATES ME BEYOND THE END OF TIME. TO CONTEMPLATE THEIR UNDYING HOPE IN THE FACE OF THE INEVITABLE FINALE, HOWEVER, GIVES ME WHAT YOU CALL "CHORTLES" OF THE HIGHEST CALIBER, THE MOST EXQUISITE SONIC VIBRATIONS RATTLING ACROSS MY DESOLATE DIMENSION. YOU ADORE SONIC VIBRATIONS, DO YOU NOT, MR. BLIGHTWELL? THEN COMPREHEND THESE WORDS WITH ALL OF YOUR MENTAL CAPACITY BROUGHT TO BEAR, AND ACKNOWLEDGE THE DECREES OF A BEING BEYOND YOUR GRASP, WHETHER PHYSICAL OR SPIRITUAL IN FORM

THERE SHALL BE NO MORE COY SPARING BETWEEN US. 

THERE SHALL BE NO MORE IDLE TORTURE, NO MORE TOYING ABOUT, NO MORE EVEN CONFLICTS BETWEEN THE TABBY AND THE TORTOISE. 

THERE SHALL BE NO MORE DAYS FOR YOU TO PREPARE. MERCY WILL BE WITHHELD ON ALL FRONTS.

THERE SHALL BE ONE FINAL SEIZURE WHICH WRACKS YOUR SKELETAL STRUCTURE, RELOCATES YOUR MUSCULAR FOUNDATION, AND FLOODS YOUR SYNAPSES WITH VASOPRESSIN; THEN YOUR BODY WILL IGNITE AND CHAR UNDER YOUR STAR'S BLISTERING RAYS, AS THE CATCI SCATTERED ABOUT YOU EXPLODE IN UPROARIOUS LAUGHTER AT YOUR FINAL, FLAILING, FUTILE ATTEMPT AT FLAUNTING FATE. ONLY THEN, AFTER RECEIVING YOUR JUST DESSERTS UNTIL THIS PRESENT TIME BECOMES IMMEMORIAL, WILL I GRANT YOU THE BOON OF ACCOMPANYING ME BEYOND THE MORTAL COIL.

DO NOT THINK YOURSELF UNIQUE, EITHER, HAVING EARNED THIS PROCLAMATION OF RUINATION. YOU ARE AN EMPEROR OF THE HOUSE OF JESTERS, PRANCING ABOUT WITH ALL YOUR FINGERS IN ALL THE PIES LAID OUT UPON THE TABLE YET NEVER TASTING A MORSEL OF THEIR JUICES.

I WOULD FEEL PITY IF I COULD, MICHAEL BLIGHTWELL. BUT PITY IS A HUMAN EMOTION, AND AS I HOPE THE LOVING AUDIENCE HAS PICKED UP ON BY NOW, I AM NOT A MAN, AND MOST CERTAINLY NOT A MAN OF YOUR STATURE.

GAZE UPON THE BLAZON BEYOND THE TURQUOISE WALL, MICHAEL BLIGHTWELL, AND PREPARE YOURSELF FOR AN INIMITABLE EXPEDITION. THE IRONY, MENTIONING MORPHEUS JUST AS I WAS TO REQUEST HIS SERVICES.

LAY THERE, NOSTALGICALLY DREAMING, AND NOTHING WILL RETURN TO YOU. NOT EVEN YOUR PRECIOUS LUCY.
THE OBELISK
(oh no, amigo, he's mine now. no take backsies.)

7 comments:

  1. Hey! Obelisk of Fail. I'd like to reintroduce you to a man named Michael Blightwell. This is a man who can stand no more of your crap. This is a man who's risen to the occasion as a paragon of hip-hop heroism. This is a man, who, confronted by the horrors of the unknown, loaded his guns and rode out in the face of hell.

    You're a meaty, mighty motherfucker, let there be no doubt. But somewhere between heaven and hell, in the center of annihilation, I have seen the way the story is told. I've seen the way the story ends. Here's the secret, Obelisk: You and yours always choke right at the big finale.

    You can call me Hack Mystic, and say all kinds of fun things about our buddy Snore, but at the end of the day you're just the same old cosmic horror trying to step onto earth. You and yours have a batting average of 0. And about fifty percent of the time, you fellows lose out to a man with nothing but his wits and a prayer.

    Surrender now, Obelisk. (Mind if I call you Obby?) It's your only chance. All hell's a coming, Obby.

    ReplyDelete
  2. OH DEAR LORD AND JESUS
    I CAN SEE YOUR COMMENT!

    sage, nick, is that really you?!?! holy fuck! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! two years later and youre still rockin like a god damn freight train! ahahaha oh man,.and you even remembered me! hows life, ol' pal? magic mustve gotten into this machine or something, cause I cant roam the internet but I can read my own blog posts! surprised you kept yourself alive for this long, chump, thought ol' slim jim would've mangled you up brutally. its good to read another comment besides mine again.

    everything good and proper or what? gimme the skinny, I got all the time in the world chillin up in this treehouse.

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  3. Think carefully. Two years have not passed. Only your perception of time. The bastard's either got you in a bubble where time is faster, or is seriously mucking with your perceptions.

    You need to break out.

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  4. Two years. Two...years. Wow. Wow. OK, wow. OK, we need to fix this. Or someone does. Or he does. Or, wow. This thing is even worse than I thought it was. And it was pretty bad at first.

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  5. wait
    wait
    wait

    no
    there's no fucking way
    no fucking way

    this isn't
    jesus christ
    no fucking way, stop fucking with me nick

    it says, right here on my computer
    "june 09, 2013"
    it says on your god damn posts that its 2013, that you're posting them in 2013, and you too joce

    and yeah normally i'd be inclined to agree with you that big white and ugly is fucking with me, but how can that explain my beard that i can tug at, consistently, or trim off? the veneer of my skin now that i've gone about a few months without a regular shower, just bathing in river water? or the fact that I managed to build a god damn treehouse over the span of a few months? and its not happening in his realm, either. i'm not in big white and ugly's crib. every other time i've encountered him, i always felt his presence, even when you defended me from donato.

    what does the time over on your side say? what the fuck does it say? because
    no, no, no, there's no fucking -way-

    just, tell me, please

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  6. also there should definitely be a post on my blog called "Well Wishes to the Fondest Gifted" that comes before my most recent post and this stupid barrage of redness. do you see it there? should've been published june 11, 2011, at 12:00 midnight or something like that

    ReplyDelete
  7. 2011. It's 2011, Snore.

    As for "Well Wishes to the Fondest Gifted"...I don't see anything like that.

    Oh. Oh, shit, wait. June 11, 2011, which...oh, gods, Snore, don't let this get to you. Just hang in there. Maybe for a couple more days.

    ReplyDelete