12 November 2012 @ 11:03 am

    " Twos days after Westing's pharmaceuticals had been broken into, a dozen more warehouses had been sacked. The court was flooded with a tsunami of evidence, so much so that it had Charles Westing fleeing to Mexico along with the victim's compensation checks. Furious, the unpaid people began negotiating with up and coming drug-lords, scheming an elaborate plan to send a hit out on dear Charles. He was found dead within the hour, but it turns out the company had tanked half a year ago and the lost funds resulted in the defective drugs, so the people are still not getting paid. 

     The Shut Up and Pay, anti-protest organization quickly dispersed signage around the city in an attempt to ward off any riots before they began. But they failed, leaving one area untouched. The Take Up Spacers, quickly infiltrated and are growing exponentially in numbers as the minutes tick by." The news broadcast echoes throughout the lifeless street. The local business guild had voted this morning to close the right side of the street, so that the left half could have equal business. Part of the newly amended Work Together Act. Which also claims that people must buy half their bag of grapes from two different stores to insure that there are no monopolies on fresh produce after the Shaw-Mart/Tarford fiasco. 

     "Oh-no. We need to cut the feed!" Gunshots and threats ring out from the speakers. "Garret your fired!" The report yells over the chaos, which is quickly replaced by classical music. "We're sorry for confusion everyone, someone had mistakenly aired the trailer for next years film." 

    The Dustman rips the speaker's wires from the plug, discreetly tucked beneath the newest model of turf. He glances up at the lamp-post and waves, before throwing the expensive piece of technology on the ground. Once he's finished disassembling the media, The Dustman enters an old furniture store. There's no light on, and the closed sign is hanging crooked the door. He quickly crushes the sensor beside the door with his foot. 
    "Good-day!" The store owner calls out from the back. ""We've done a bit of remodeling so the mirror's-"

     The Dustman merely nods and walks knowingly to were the mirrors are located.
     "Of course, you already knew that." The elder man grumbles. "Hey! Before you go, some skinny fella dropped this off you a couple hours ago. Said it was urgent." 

     The Dustman turns around on his heels, and snatches the envelope. Tearing it open, newspaper clippings fall to the ground. There's an array of information to be deduced from the topics. Articles of his resent tasks, a handful of ads he has purposefully overlooked and a few images of people he's been considering as a target. 

     "Do you know who left this?" The Dustman demands, his voice deep and authoritative. 

     "I-ah- no. Some young man, probably a few years younger then yourself." The owner replies, taken back by the other's sudden shift in demeanor. 

     "Very well." He removes his sunglasses and looks in the mirror. 

     The disregarded clippings swirl around the ground and he is gone. 

     "Could have picked up his mess." The old man grumbles. 
How does that make you feel?: uncomfortable
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Kitchen
09 November 2012 @ 08:12 pm
The Bank of America  
 We prepared for the war,
like obedient citizens.
Loaned out our children,
and called it a day.
(Didn't read the fine print)
*No guarantee anything,
will remain. 

Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Couch
09 November 2012 @ 07:53 pm
The Gilded Days  
Our tumultuous reign was
like lungs,
war drums beating like the heart
of a timid rabbit
within the city walls. 

we should 
have seen it coming
past our 
fool's gold lenses.
Music;: Jeopardy
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My couch
08 November 2012 @ 05:28 pm

 Shadows are stealthier at night.
The darkness is an underground culture one must prove their worth to be accepted in. The air does not cling to everyone the same, if suffocates some, liberates others. The lights do not bend their beams for just anyone, averting slightly to mask features on film or cast a formidable shadow of a smaller structure. No, one must seduce the darkness, impress her. Chose a task deemed impossible and do something grander. One must be impulsive, but controlled, predictable but untraceable. 
The night is a world of self gratification for recluses who use the media as a chat room. A message can be expressed various ways each accompanied with specific intents. Such as 'your next', is often relayed as a minor article beneath the obituaries. Subtle enough to send chills a certain someone's spine. Or 'I respect your style', can be stated in a bizarre ad on the last page. Usually accompanied by another warning. 
So needless to say Dustman was skeptical when he spotted an ad on the third page. A respectable shadow only posts on the third page as a last resort. He was even more suspicious to see it directed towards him in such a blatant manner. He stares it, dissecting each and every character on the page, until seemingly without reason he discards the paper and begins walking. His eyes trained on the highest skyscraper in the city's skyline. 

The lamp posts flicker as he passes beneath them, each one humming a greeting as the bulbs struggle to remain on. 
He approaches the base of the building and retrieves a thin box from dumpster parallel to the backdoor. Tearing the cardboard off he withdraws a piece of a mirror. He glances around the alley way, vermin being the only living thing for a half mile around. Taking off his sunglasses, he tucks them into his jacket pocket and looks directly at the mirror.

A rat pauses from nibbling on some sort of meat.

The mirror falls the to the ground, unbroken. He is gone. 

The rat continues scavenging along the edges of the dumpsters. It halts, disturbed once again as shards of glass showers the ground. 
Papers flitter through the air like tattooed butterflies as the suction rips them from places within the room on approximately the twenty fourth floor.

He appears once again, standing on the mirror. He watches the papers cloud the sky for a moment and then walks off. Disappearing into the shadows.

The rat scurries over to a pile of fallen papers and sniffs the edges. Deeming it suitable for it's home that rat claws at the pages.

'The contamination was...'     'Early trials failed....' 

Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My room
Music;: Merchant of Death; Ramin Djawadi
How does that make you feel?: anxious
07 November 2012 @ 05:22 pm

Incorporate three of the following:

bloody kisses



dead trees

cracked pavement

a window which won't open

an old calendar


The sound of the vintage record player, some underrated Russian composer drifts out unto the empty streets through the backdoor that's left swinging in the gentle breeze. Occasional gusts creep through the kitchen. Like intruding phalanges ruffling a calendar dated a few months ago. Pages are scattered about the room, matted to the floor with rain from the last storm and congealing blood.

An old birthday card tugs free from grim and flutters out the door. Weaving haphazardly around the street, caught mid-flight by a gloved hand. It pulsates in the hand, longing for freedom once again as it's message is violated under intruding eyes. Til its crushed between two indifferent fingers and discarded once again imprisoned in various fluids and matter mantling the street.

The gloved being moves on towards the empty house, whose belongings have trashed this portion of the street. He walks with purpose, altering everything in his path, without touching a thing. Neglected shrubs and tangling grass blades seemingly wilt beneath his cold gaze.

He slams the beckoning door shut, causing photo frames to slip from the wall and shatter. The room embraces it's latest intruder, curtains stretching out caress him arm, only to be torn from their rods. With control force, board-lining on anger he attempts to open the window nearest to him, with the intent of dulling the offensive smell. The glass does not budge. There's bloody hand prints all over the window, he's momentarily caught off balance at his blatant over sight.

The stair case is old, in need of a list full of repairs that will never be tended to. It shifts and groans reluctantly supporting his weight. The second floor is slightly different than the first. The orchestra music still emanates through out the house, but its off beats are dusted with another sound.

The door at the end of the hallway is left ajar. There's anther new sound, something is disturbed and presumably falls from a shelf. The Hallelujah Chorus rings out from room. He picks up his pace and shoves the door open.

On the middle of the once white carpet, now a ghastly red lays two withering figures. Are creatures of some sort, something mangled and alive in all the wrong ways. He clinches his fists, it is time.

The things do not acknowledge his presence perhaps are not even aware.

Withdrawing a lighter from his pocket, he slips off a glove and flicks it open. The flame emerges and dances in approval of being temporarily unleashed. It stretches, folding itself over to graze the tip of his finger, prompting him to terminate its presence.

The creature, with a decomposing woman's face shrieks as its pulled from it's bloody lip-lock and begins salivating, teeth snapping at the flesh wrapped around it's neck. With a quick muscle contraction it's head rolls to the ground. The other body responds differently cowering beneath the man's formidable presence. He bludgeons this one back to death shattering its skull.

The flame returns, and clings to the ugly flowered curtains. It spreads hungrily, desperate for anything it can consume within its reach. Expanding its territory until the flame owns it all.

The house burns to the ground. He swipes his finger through the ashes and wipes it off on the left shoulder of his jacket and left. 

07 November 2012 @ 04:25 pm
 "There lays a graveyard of ships just beyond these hills." The tour guide recites monotone.
"And to the left is the ruins of the old castle of-" She continues speaking not even noticing that one of the tourists ventures away from the group. It's not very difficult you know, slipping away from everything. Being invisible. 
There's slight coastal wind, rustling the leaves. The shadow pauses, inhaling the heavy sea air as though one could absorb a past long forgot in a single breathe and expel all the memories on a single exhale. The drifter ambles along a slightly neglected path. The soil new, untouched and turned by many a storm and erosion, though the trees seem to part and embrace a long lost friend. A murder of crows encircle the aspen, serenading a spectral force, with their demonic cries. It's been too long, they mourn. 
"Over here lays the bodies of..." The tour guides shrill voice carries in the air, as if relayed by an unseen force. The drifter pauses and turns their head. Disgust permeates the atmosphere around them. 
The sun is momentarily blocked by raging clouds and upon reemergence a second figure joins the first. The force of the waves increase, swelling with newly kindled purpose, perhaps anger. Its mist sprays, dusting the leafs and tangling grass. 
The two figures weave between the trees effortlessly never once acknowledging each out, but neither unaware. 
The clouds swirl over head again, the sun's rays caressing the end of the path. Each time a new figure joining. 
They halt upon the waters edge. Various masts and hulls of degrading ships stand out from the ocean. A whole fleet of fine artisanship left to rot unseen from the world. Out of touch with the times. 
The murder of crows and figures move onwards through the tide. 
Gradually disappearing beneath the surface. 
07 November 2012 @ 03:41 pm
 The building is dark. Dark and empty. Save for miniscule laser beams whose reflection is nothing more then a glimpse in the stainless steel moulding along the office suite. Though these seemingly infinitesimal rays of light are highly lethal, top of the line corporate security. Containing enough (beam) to sever one's limb cleaning in half. It is this sole reason one a simple hit-man could not be hired. 
No the corporation of the pigs dug deep into the underground to locate the one and only allusive Dustman. A  renown death for hire in the most elite of circles. 
The target is as perfect as an imperfect world can get for a perfect assassin. The ideal distance from arrival, peripheral vision blocked just enough. 
07 November 2012 @ 11:57 am
 Snow storms should not have names. It takes away from the severity of a hurricane. Plus it sounds stupid. 
How does that make you feel?: annoyed
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: Luch
06 November 2012 @ 08:33 am

'Twas a typical Monday that was actually a Tuesday due to some Mayan calendar mishap or something and the Man in Crimson was perched in his usual spot. Adjacent to the high school leaning against the dumpsters behind Walgreens. People have asked him to move before, called the police to arrest him for loitering even going as far as recruiting the hippie artists to give him a lecture about the color wheel and how Christmas is offensive to most people and to ask him to stop being offensive. But he merely shrugged and resumed standing next to the garbage. So three months later the store gets the bright idea to move the dumpster to the back corner of the parking lot, where our mysterious friend now resides nearly full time on Mondays.

Today is not a special day, nor even a day worth identifying as a day, but today is the day in which the black market mogul makes a sale. To a kid with a severe case of Thanatophobia. The transaction is typical. And confidential.

Helping the neighborhood stalker...: School. Chem Class.
05 November 2012 @ 07:13 pm
 You know besides the reoccurring swine dreams the lightening bolt incident has had the most wonderful impact on my life. I became a superstar, quite literally and figuratively. My flesh was glowing like nuclear radiation in some low budge propaganda cartoon they used to play on Sundays. And people all over the town knew my name from the local news. 
(Lightening Bolt Man)

Every since last Tuesday animal trials have been trendy in all the popular social media cults. People have actually been lining up the court house waiting hours to make outrageous claims against their neighbor's cats. One lady recently interviewed by the news reporter with the blond hair and the fak-. Oh wait. You're not suppose to know about that yet. 
Anyway. People have been persecuting their animals and grandmothers... Of course, you know their grandmother's animals and law school has actually become a lucrative career choice again if one does not mind speaking in tongues and varying pitches to keep the jury entertained and the viewers at home tuned in because last week the district courts ratings had dropped and the mayor was not pleased. 
Next thing you know he'll be granting zombies enfranchisement, like they are debating in 3rd world england currently. How absurd? 
So, animals have rebelled. Lap cats have become hermits, strays have begun recruiting, which has reeked havoc on Dr.Auth's latest experiment about the ratio of strays in a town relates to the number of arsonists. 
"Those who mock the justice system, will not reap it's benefits" The spokes person for anti-protest group Shut Up and Pay, responses on Faux News at 11. The organization later cries libel, claiming that it was not 11 when the news aired, rather it was 10:58. Needless to say the court is relieved to have been distracted from their important work for something more, normal. 
(Animal Trials) 
05 November 2012 @ 05:22 pm
Write or Die. NaNoWriMo.  
 The dreams had begun suddenly, and potentially have a mysterious correspondence to the lightening bolt that struck me last week. Supposedly there is a study pertaining to the idea of whether or not random acts of a vengeful God can give one super powers or some shit. Apparently I'm in touch with swine, conspiring swine of the worst kind. 
You see, I'll lay down to sleep like most normal people at an hour deemed socially acceptable by some fat man in a suit, or so I was told by mother, and I'll check my alarm a few times to make sure that the power is still on and the terrorists haven't decided to nuke the Earth or something. And then the dreams begin.
There's a dark building, with no light. Hence the dark building, but there isn't even a window or anything. Then out of no where this pig comes walking out, literally walking on like two legs with these strange dangling arms that kind of remind me of a tyrannosaurus rex. It speaks to me in a strange tongue, but I know that it wants to eat me. You just know this sort of thing, or maybe it's a form of telepathy and that's how farm animals plot against the world. All this time your bacon has been judging you, watching you as you consume it. 
It's usually when I get to this point that the psychiatrists begin to scribble away, and I vaguely wonder if they're some sort of genetically modified species of bacon, judging you. Always.
This well dressed pig leads me on a labyrinth within a giant factory, which probably single handedly has caused global warming and should send out compensation to the millions of people without power right now, but that would go against the intentional motive seeing as though without power one cannot surf the web and buy these new products which I assume are patented under this pigs name. If pigs have such a thing.
You see there is this room, more like a room of many levels which debatably is many rooms within one. Other dimensions, that continue on forever. And within this strange paradox of fine out sourced quality construction there is an assembly line and screams and river of blood painting the floor that eerily resembles Abraham Lincoln's face, which is oddly comforting cause he never lied right? So perhaps these pigs have morals? But herded in these assembly lines are people of all sort of colors and sizes, this isn't a one size fits all package. There are so many choices, you could open a whole new department in wal-mart, which is apparently what this pigs want to do. And then right as I'm about to get a number, and new identity I wake up and never find out just type of meat I'd be label as and I'm really hoping that it's not chicken because I'm not too fond of social situations and it would be awfully awkward to  be wrapped in a package and sit on a shelf for god knows how long with someone you just can't stand. 
So, you're telling me that other people have never had a dream like this? 
How does that make you feel?: crazy
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Couch
27 October 2012 @ 06:07 pm
 Why do people feel the need to over annunciate their lines in cheesy Sy-Fy films?

26 October 2012 @ 03:36 pm
What's it like
in a society,
where depression

Tags: ,
How does that make you feel?: annoyed
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Couch
Music;: Stupify; Disturbed
20 August 2012 @ 07:24 pm
The town transformed,
last night.

 'Twas an extraterrestrial 
just beyond my pile
of sticks and 
rain drop stained glass.

I felt,
so human.

the end of the world 
will be beautiful.

20 August 2012 @ 07:18 pm
Would a tornado
be as formidable
if contained 
in a stained mason jar?

Would it's power
branch out

dusty fingers
knocking over chess pieces,

fling scraps of flesh
and soul across
the decrepit shed.

03 August 2012 @ 11:20 am
The Nucli-eye  
To bath in the tragic
sound waves of a 
melodic tsunami 
bleed from a 
pariahs soul
as they silently accept 
the duty
to gnaw away the plastic veil
of the world. 
would be paradise
on a stick
like molding fruit 
purchased from street vendors
proper permits, and inspections
sounds daring, does it not. 
Lets live on the wild side,
you and i. 
and tap into the veins
trace them back to the heart
of the city
and rediscover the world
we've created,
our own poetic delusions.
is your blue sky my rain,
is my sun your demise? 
what powers are possessed
truly by the eyes. 
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Couch
Music;: I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide ;ZZ Top
How does that make you feel?: artistic
10 July 2012 @ 12:37 pm
Vote Yes On One To Tax Smiles  
 I heard on the news

Misery's Co.
had gone bankrupt
the peasents
{sheeple. SLAVES] 
all marched to 
the queen of the ant hill
demanding they be forced
to donate. 

As I said before
It was in the news
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Couch
07 July 2012 @ 01:40 pm
I said a hurricane should be in your name,
rather then this 
dingy memorial. 
So, I gave them mine instead. 

Vocal cords, 
flap like tatter flags
on a battlefield
of broken things

we learned long ago
(that) {freedom isn't {free}.

07 July 2012 @ 09:33 am
The Worth of Your Soul Has Decreased, Sincerely Inflation  
You'd dig your own grave
with a rusted spoon
eager to get to China.

Patience was never a virtue,
in your church of
corporate reproductions.

I'd chisel the sun
[With a dagger of ice]
Away my slave name
a crooked signature
to become an honorary member

I only hope
that your rapture is less 
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Couch
How does that make you feel?: annoyed
22 June 2012 @ 04:21 pm
I Thought I Broke My Cat Today  
I discovered a 
mysterious force 
within my fingers 
this late
early morning

a predator stance
thy phalanges
and descended upon
the Silent One's head

whose neck spasms 

stalks off 
irate for her
true being revealed

I always knew 
that my feline
was a cyborg. 

How does that make you feel?: annoyed
Music;: Gimme Shelter; Rolling Stones
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My Couch