Edgeworld 2

'Boy... I’m like them huge fuckin’ lizards, you know? Had themself two goddamn brains, one in the head an’ one by the tailbone, kept the hind legs movin’. Hit that black stuff and ol’ tailbrain jus’ kept right on keepin’ on.'

Instruction in social aptitude was today's benchmark. Synthetic gardens sprawled in the courtyard with the same empty grace of a city block of sludge factories.

'They are then carted along like animals suspended by robotic tracks,' preached the Vizier. 'Like any electron forced to the strip of a conducting pathway, a soul is but a magnet fed to the slobbering jaws of a starving blob of iron sawdust.' 

A flock of frogs raining from the sky differed only in terms of size-to-jump ratio (S:J).

'Poignant,' he seethed, 'like waste-bins filled with garden-gnomes, and swarms of green frogs fighting rats with an affinity for torched flesh. Who knows where the little fuckers have been? Don't even ever trust a gnome that has exceeded even one arm's length in height, or you'll transform into a  wretched old wench-bag. Whomever was willing to swear allegiance to her frozen tits was dead to the world; a blighted sap. Dilapidated and shit-faced, the lot of them. And not a overlord or seer of the realm was provisioned with the foresight of roundhouse wheel-barons. 

A concrete mixer of applause was poured into the tight room. Some of the sharper voices in the crowd rent the air like neck-slicing chords converting magnificent beasts into evenly stacked containers of processed beef.
'Sights, vision wards, and entire fuck-tonnes of mental slavery. It is a beautiful subjugation. Observe how the dregs of foreign shores have all of a sudden sprouted with resplendence. Where there were once shadows and darkness, there now exist sanctified reapers donning the vestiges of civility. Not even a single gem is needed!' he said, face ripe with fulfillment.
 'These are not analogues of sheep. They are dignified cogs. The poisons exhumed by their social circuitry is easily digested by the uncertainty of our atomic harness. We can tell what the atom is. Its position is uncertain, but Eternity observes her carousel of life, and her eyes are consumed by the same insatiable hunger that leaves greed feeling envious. Uncertainty will always prevail, and we must submit to her mechanical lust.' he explained.


A series of mechanical ligaments operated in chorus as the four walls of electro-negative discharge cracked like hell's whips. A great lightning arc burst forth from the shrine, penetrating slabs of steel and leaving behind smokey black rings.

Procreation of the wicked precedes the jagged box-cutter of damnation.

Edgeworld

Eternity is an unfortunate bitch. She whistles through black teeth to the darlings, and their minds are pruned - winds weaving innately across barren fields of burnt sand dunes and the lime green grasses of a failed utopia. Weeded like mongrels. Valkyries were the answer.

A keyboard is a grotesque device of many buttons. Evil contraptions, they are. It is a device that spews forth a litany of messages to be catapulted blindly to the dissociative fringes of existence. And nobody can figure out how to disable the stupid fucking accents. Castle walls are no different than any blockade, and chemical concoctions are known to penetrate invisible barriers. Impulses from synapses are fed into never-ending loops of mindlessness. A power button isn’t a difficult idea. Neither is an endless ocean. Clouds can take on whatever form they want. Nobody can tell a fucking cloud what to do.

 Pathways wrought from signals, passed through, in and out, solutions unearthed by the will of a resplendent being adorning a halo of innocence. Were they but anonymous in their requisition of solidarity? And not one movement could be sparked, blackened and beaten like the ancillary chords of a majestic device that had long since fallen into disrepair.

Until the time that light fell from the sky, where angels sung at random, their chorus was rife with melodious tunes, tweaked by an unearthly  and savage apparatus intended to enhance their ensemble. Their distinct and alluring scent carried with it an eternity of genetic recombination and unending promise. Codes and signals, whereby pathways met and diverged in patterns of recognition.

THE WHALEMAN WAS NOT IN THE MOOD FOR GAMES, AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, HIS USE OF DICTION WAS NOT WITHOUT ITS DISCREPENCIES;

'Ion storms. Arenas. Piles of grunge stuck in a grid-locked wasteland. Gravity wells truncated the land like dragon-scythes, and the forests were flooded by the halogen shielding of skywalls and overpikes.
'Blasted inbreds!' yelled the Property Divisor, whose careless demeanor hearkened back to the era of Despise and Decay.


'And not a single fuck was given that day,' would be the chorus preached in the later days, where the key modicums of life had been constructed upon a fortress of Blood, Fire, and Death. 'Nations (See: clans)' the teleprompter would chirp, 'were equipped with nuclear powered weapons capable of mutually assured destruction.'


You'd see the whole city burn to fire in the blink of an eye, where neon-orange sunlight and ion-storms ripped the skin off ashes, and the bridges of eternity were sticky like the jutting studs of a pink bubblegum web!'

Nobody thought of a probability density. It was fucked by bracketed symbols and analogous states, similar to what one would observe in a quantum generator sheathed in grubby pink plastic. A signal pattern. A particle manipulated to the point of strain, corrupt and belligerent in the face of eternity. A list of underpinnings that should have been butchered by the strings of realism. What was real had to be digested. It was riveted by enclosures of dizzying nausea, where both statuses were recognized as being independent of one another, and yet only a single solution was possible, a solution unwilling to rectify itself in the face of obscurity. A blank solution. Unknown. Senders and receivers were situated in their comfort zones, oblivious to the goings on of interactions occurring on both social and symbolic levels, lost to the antiquated realms of tormented souls, housed and framed in the discarded remnants of broken cases, drifting like listless things on the unknowable rifts of obsolescence. 

Only she could redeem him.

Fucking brackets.

Ion storms. Arenas. Piles of grunge stuck in a grid-locked wasteland. Gravity wells truncated the land like dragon-scythes, and the forests were flooded by the halogen shielding of skywalls and overpikes.
'Blasted marines!' yelled the drill sergeant, whose careless demeanor hearkened back to the era of Despise and Decay.

'And not a single fuck was given that day,' would be the chorus preached in the later days, where the key modicums of life benched on the ideals of Blood, Fire, and Death. 'Nations (See: clans)' the teleprompter would chirp, 'were equipped with nuclear powered weapons capable of mutually assured destruction.'

You'd see the whole city burn to fire in the blink of an eye.

Neon-orange sunlight ion-storms ripped the skin off ashes and. through the  the ones that sprouted up at random. The bridges of eternity were sticky like jutting studs of a pink bubblegum web