Oriphiel

said Mondo, as he examined the back of a box of cereal. "Reeses... Puffs... are... made... from..." Throwing up his hands in frustration, Mondo let the box fall to the floor. "Gah!" he yelled. "I can't handle all these words!"

Beside him, Lucem Ferre was reading the comics in the paper. Unfortunately, Lucem's personal style of humor was to regurgitate jokes from Adam Sandler movies, and so the shitty jokes in the comics were so comparatively funny that they overloaded his simple mind. After staring forward blankly for a few minutes, he suddenly snapped back to reality. "Well," he said, setting the paper down, "that wasn't for me." Sliding along the floor, he retreated to his inner sanctum, where he would later craft a horrorcore song about grocery shopping.

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Oriphiel

WWWP shivered, and lazily reached down to pull the covers up. After her fingers made contact with her bare legs, she slowly opened her eyes and looked down with a sleepy gaze. Seeing the dark floral fabric beneath her, she smiled faintly, and let her head fall back into the fabric's warm embrace. Once again, she had fallen asleep on her couch while watching television. Reaching out automatically, she probed the table beside the couch for the remote, and upon finding it lifted it groggily and pointed it in the general vicinity of the television. However, she suddenly stopped, her finger hovering above the power button. In the comfortable darkness of the living room, with small rays of the rising sun trying deftly to pass through the window blinds, all she could hear was the sound of her roommate fidgeting on the creaky bed upstairs. Opening her eyes, she glanced at the television, and confirmed that it was already off.

Shrugging, she moved her arm back over the table and let the remote fall back into its charge with a plasticine clatter. Pulling her arm back towards her chest, she warmed her hand with the warmth of the other, bunching herself up as she shifted into a more comfortable position. Her stomach grumbled lightly, but she ignored it, for a woman burdened with as many student loans as her never looked forward to breakfast. For a moment, images flashed through her mind in a glowing swirl, a mixture of old memories and new scenarios of her own subconscious design. She saw the hardships of the past few years, as well as the tribulations of her youth, and imagined a massive sea of debt collectors carrying her house away in their frightening tide. She also saw a guy dressed in a broccoli costume, and dismissed him with a mental shrug. Her mind settled down somewhat as the sound of her roommate upstairs brought her back to reality. Sighing lightly through her nose, she fell back into the rich darkness of slumber, this time uninterrupted by her troubles. The threads of beautiful dreams began to spin, inviting her onward into her rest and promising adventure. Stepping forward into a place both new and familiar, she lifts her hand, and...

Suddenly, a thought crossed her mind like a flash of lightning, and her eyes snapped open. Sitting up, her heart feeling the icy grip of discomfort, she tilted her gaze towards the ceiling and listened intently. It was only her imagination. she assured herself. It was a sound that she had heard so many times before, that she now expected it, and heard it even when it wasn't there. But then the sound came again from above, more than an imagining and real beyond doubt. Bunching herself up ever more tightly, she fell into a daze of fear and confusion, unable to either think or move. Her roommate had left on a two week vacation but four days ago, and yet the bed they shared creaked on in his absence.

As her senses began to return to her, WWWP suddenly laughed as she came to a realization. Chances are, her roommate had come back early, cancelling the rest of the trip for some reason that he would surely explain to her over their morning potato. That had to be the answer. After all, it was hardly likely that someone would break into her home while she slept, ignore her and her valuables, and then sneak upstairs to fall asleep in her bed. What kind of...

Again, the calm of her mind was struck by a bolt of thought. As the miring hand of sleepiness lifted its grip on her mind, suddenly her memories of last night returned to her, and she held back a scream as the face of the person upstairs flashed across her mind. Though her recollection was still somewhat fuzzy, she nevertheless recalled in fair clarity the atrocity that she had committed. Last night, in her cups, she had allowed Frownland to stay at her place, while his parents fumigated their basement. "F-Frownland..." she whispered, her voice trembling with fright. Suddenly, from upstairs, she heard a strange sort of wooshing noise, and then she felt the sensation of hot breath along the back of her neck.

"You called?" asked Frownland in a low, sensual voice.

"What have I done..." whispered WWWP to herself, her eyes welling up with tears.

"Oh, we haven't done anything. Yet," said Frownland, as he put a hand on her shoulder.

Gasping and shrieking, WWWP stepped forward out of his embrace, before quickly turning and slapping his cheek with a mighty crack, knocking his beard off of his face. "Don't touch me!"

Massaging his cheek, Frownland smiled. "Oh, come now. You know that you yearn for my embrace."

WWWP felt sick to her stomach, and not just because yesterday's dinner potato hadn't been cooked all the way. "Look... Frownland... You need to get the hell out of here. You're not welcome here."

Frownland crossed his arms. "That's not what you said last night."

WWWP put a hand to her forehead, nursing a coming migraine. "Yeah, I know, but I was really drunk last night. Truth is, no, you can't stay here. Sorry about that, but, you know... get out."

Frownland's eyes widened, and began to glow faintly in the dim light of the living room. "But you promised I could stay. Are you saying that you wish to go back on your promise?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

Ignoring her, Frownland continued. "Because when people go back on their promises, it upsets Maat, the feather that doth float through the cosmos, the hand that reaches from beyond the stars." Suddenly, the living room starts to shake, and a faint crack appears in the wall. Through the slowly expanding crack, a torrent of cosmic beasts can be seen, vying amongst themselves as they try to squeeze through the narrow portal. "The blade that carves out justice, the word of truth, the..."

WWWP rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. "Okay, fine! You can stay for, like, one day! Just stop getting cosmic horror all over my fucking living room!"

The crack faded, and Frownland smiled. "Great," he said. "So, when do we fuck?"

"Just because you can stay here doesn't mean that I'm gonna fuck you. So stop hitting on me, alright?"

"Oh, please," replied Frownland. "You sound like my mother."

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Oriphiel

The television let out a soft song of aimless hissing, casting a dim glow across the living room. Reclining on the couch, the dancing light of the static flickering in his eyes, Frownland lost himself in the black and white swirl of the dead channel. Feeling the call of the realm between realms, he took a deep breath, and slowly shut his eyes.

Thoughts and memories flashed across his eyelids, coming and going with an impermeable method. The feel of grass beneath his feet. The smell of his mother's jacket. The sound of his father's music. A raised fist. A shadowed corner. Words that meant little in the moment, but echoed endlessly in his mind from thenceforth. A division of joy, encircled by pylons and wires, as a gang of four shadows appeared on the wall.

"Howdy, dreamer," said a voice from behind him. Turning, he saw that it was Chiomara, reclining peaceably as a stream of consciousness carried her onward. Frownland tried to respond, but his words became colors as they escaped his throat. As Chiomara faded from sight, she waved goodbye to him, and he waved back.

"Hey, are you awake?" asked a voice, as a hand fell upon Frownland's shoulder and shook him lightly. The Dreamworld faded into a hazy ether, as though it had only been a brilliant impression left by a ray of light, soon to be nothing more than the reddish-black of eyelids.

"If I were awake, my eyes wouldn't be closed," replied Frownland.

The voice laughed, before answering "But if you were really asleep, then you wouldn't be talking to me."

"Okay," replied Frownland, "you win. I'm awake. Now go away."

"Aw, come on," said the voice. "Let's watch a movie."

Slowly opening his eyes, Frownland leered at the speaker, and saw that it was his neighbor. Though Frownland had no intention of obliging him, he nevertheless saw a look of dogged determination in his eyes, as well as a hopefulness that he couldn't help but find endearing. Sighing, Frownland closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. "What movie?"

Smiling, his neighbor lifted up the movie in his hand, saying "Bloodfuck III: The Crimson Tide."

As Frownland opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the boxart, and quickly looked away in disgust. "Oh, gross," he said, lifting a hand to brush the movie away. "How about we watch Crapathon O: Origins instead? I just downloaded it."

His neighbor scrunched his face in disdain. "No thanks," he said. "Too much swearing."

Shrugging, Frownland yawned and leaned backward, feeling a wave of sleepiness crash against him. "Fair enough," he said in a tired voice, trying to stay awake.

"Hey, wake up!" said his neighbor, as he poked him in the ribs. However, it was to little avail. For, ignoring the savage blow, Frownland simply shifted into a more comfortable position, pulling his blanket over his Ornette Coleman print footie pajamas.

Suddenly, the window smashed into a cloud of jagged pieces, as a cymbal flew into the living room. His eyes shooting open, Frownland quickly sprang to his feet. Looking at the ruined frame, he could see Jo Jones and Charlie Parker on the other side. "Ooh, sorry about your window," said Jo Jones, as he examined the damage. "Can we get our frisbee back, though?"

Frownland opened his mouth to respond, however a familiar slew of colors had replaced his words. Looking around in surprise, he suddenly fell backward as his couch melted and warped into a hair pie. "The Dreamworld," he thought, as the ceiling became a mouth filled with millions of jagged teeth. "I'm still here. Did I ever leave?" The floor became a vortex of darkness, turning endlessly as it dragged him down into the depths of the old world.


The Batlord laughed lightly to himself as he gazed at the machine. In it's center, amidst a glowing green light, was Frownland, with various wires attached to his head. "Sleep..." whispered Batlord, as he turned and began to walk away. "Sleep."

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Frownland

*its

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Oriphiel

*tits

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Frownland

Stilton on stilts still quilts the built ilk of whatever the **** rhymes with all that.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Oriphiel

When perception bleeds into the eternal stream, all is everything and forever. I have been here for as many days as there are streaks across my flesh, and yet I have always been here. The wind screams and the water bites, the breath and teeth of a mouth from beyond the stars. And I live. Without food, and without light, yet I live. Like a lifeless edge that knows to cut, but knows not why, I live. And I count.


"Welcome to the Burger Duke. May I take your order?" asked Batlord into the microphone, as he covertly rubbed a burger against his right armpit, before placing it in a bag.

"What's the most you ever lost on a coin toss?" replied a voice through the fuzzy speakers hooked up to the aging drive-through system.

"I don't know. Are you gonna order something or not?"

"Call it," replied the voice.

The Batlord shrugged lightly to himself. "A number two meal it is." Having said that, he defecated into a burger wrapper, and tossed it into a bag. "That'll be, like, a million bucks. Pull up to the next window, and have a nice day, sir."

"Call it," repeated the voice.

Rolling his eyes, Batlord replied "Alright, fine. If it'll make you fuck off faster, then heads."

Over the speaker, Batlord heard a sharp click of metal as a coin was flipped, and then a clatter as the coin ricocheted off of the dashboard. "Fuck," muttered the voice. "Hold on."

"Ayyyy, Batlord!" yelled a cheery voice. Turning around, Batlord could see that it was Mindfulness, who was now his boss, after having recently been promoted to the franchise manager. To punctuate his happiness, Mindfulness pulled a smiling severed head out of his coat pocket, and threw it at Batlord.

"Fuck off," replied Batlord in a cheery voice.

"Damn it," muttered the voice over the speaker. "I saw it go down here... why do I even have so many napkins on the floor?"

"Ayyy, you joke with me, yeah yeah yeah? Bats? You're a good dude, man. We'll weed smoke later, after I go for a jog, yes?" said Mindfulness.

"Uh..." replied Batlord, as Mindfulness pulled a stuffed dog that was frozen into a shrug out of his pocket.

"Yo," said Mindfulness, "before I head out, I had a question, you feel me, yeah?"

"Shoot," replied Batlord.

Mindfulness pointed at a small door to the side. "Ever since I work here, yeah, I like always wondered, what's behind this door? Yeah?"

Batlord shrugged. "Just a storage closet, I think. I heard that the old manager used to store crack in there, or something like that. Why?"

Mindfulness smiled, and pulled a key out of his pocket. "Check it, ayyyy. I got the master key! Lezz open dis bitch!"

Having said that, Mindfulness unlocked the door and threw it open.

"Time is a worm... stretching, eating, and out of it comes the soil of reality... the... the... light! The Light!" shrieked a voice.

Looking into the closet, Batlord and Mindfulness saw a figure huddled into the back corner, covered in small cuts.

Taking a closer look, Batlord recognized the mysterious creature. "Frownland? Is that you?"

"Gah!" replied Frownland. "The worm lies!"

"Woah, dis is some fucked up shit, ayyyyyy!" said Mindfulness as he lit up a blunt.

Narrowing his eyes as he peered into the dark closet, Batlord saw a large opened crate of Burger Duke donuts, a horrible abomination of pre-made and non-perishable food that had been discontinued years ago, after it had been learned that the dough had been made from ground orphan bones.

"Uh, no offense Frownland, but... you're looking kinda fat. I mean, even by my standards," said Batlord.

Frownland hissed.

"God damn it," spoke another voice. Turning around, Batlord and Mindfulness came face to face with Frownland's mother. "Frownland! Every time I leave for a few minutes while I go to run an errand, you lock yourself in a storage closet and slash yourself with a razor! Every. God. Damn. Time! WHY?!"

"THE WORM!" replied Frownland, as he dashed out of the closet and ran naked into the street.

Frownland's mom put a hand to her forehead. "What did I do to deserve this? What did I do wrong? Did I not beat him enough? Did I beat him too much?" Shaking her head, she pulled a twenty out of her purse and gave it to Mindfulness. "Here. This should pay for those donuts. I am so sorry."

"Ayyy, It's no-" began to reply Mindfulnss, when the universe suddenly ended. Because the writer had to go to work. Damn work. The end.

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grindy

Genuine lol.

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A smell of petroleum prevails throughout.

Oriphiel

I'm worried about you guys.

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Oriphiel

The Place: Batlord’s Abode

The Date: December 31st

The Time: 7:00 P.M.

The Humidity: Meh

As the last bloody rays of the setting sun died on the horizon, Batlord collapsed in front of his computer, and pulled himself closer to the screen. After a hard three hours of getting shitfaced and puking in his mother’s shoes to celebrate the end of the year, it was time for a well earned MB break.

With benacho’d fingers, he navigated through the jungle of spam and shitposts, till at long last he found a quarry worth his mighty arrows.

“TFW you’re too busy to shave your armpits, and now you feel like a cavewoman” posted a female member (heh, “female member”).

The Batlord donned his gettin’-shit-done spectacles, cracked his knuckles, and set to work. “I will suck the sweat out of your armpit hair until your pits are drier than your vagina,” he typed, his keyboard screaming in submission with every stroke of his mastery. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he leaned back in his chair, the smile of contentment on his face growing like a chia pet that has been watered with jizz.

Continuing on his hunt, he soon found himself confronted with new prey: “I just don’t like Slayer all that much. I prefer maturity over aggression.”

These words, once seen by The Batlord, sent a chill through his heart and his loins (which were incidentally the same organ), causing his brow to furrow into such a knit that one of the lenses of his spectacles popped out of the frame faster than his infernal semen pounces upon pictures of Ke$ha.

“Are you a pussy?

It’s more likely than you think.

Click here to get tested: https://www.drinkbleach.com”

As he worked, typing furiously, The Batlord could feel the fruit of his passion, the sweet birth of an erection, tightening his sweatpants. After throwing his post up, he cycled through his tabs of porn until he found one with a midget, and then punched his balls to ecstasy, not even bothering to pull his pants down. Of course, it was a little awkward, seeing as how his mother was cleaning his room right behind him, but what was he supposed to do, waste a perfectly good erection?

Abandoning her Sisyphean task, Batlord’s mother sulked to the living room, having a black and white hallucination memory (the best kind of memory) about the elephant that attacked her all those years ago.

Suddenly, Batlord’s room began to shake. His posters of Ke$ha and Manowar started to tear as the drywall violently resonated from the coming of some malevolent force. Wisps of gypsum fell from the ceiling, as action dolls of comic book heroes did tumble to the floor in a clatter. To his left, the bewildered Batty could see that one of his walls was glowing green, and growing brighter by the moment. Just as the noise of his trembling room seemed to reach its zenith of Merzbowsity, a voice rang out.

“SHAAABBBBBBBAAAAAAAZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The wall caved in as Frownland thrust his pelvis forward, shattering the wood and drywall like the hopes and dreams of his parents. He entered through the hole, the tufts of pubic hair that he had glued across his jaw shimmering and crackling with energy.

After finishing himself off to the midget porn, Batlord leapt to his feet.

“Frownland! What the hell do you think you’re doing, asshole? Do you know how many Burger King paychecks it’ll take for me to fix that gigantic fucking hole you just made?”

Frownland waved a hand dismissively. “Fear not, simple Batlord. This hole will just make it even easier for you to run outside to take a piss the next time your toilet explodes.” Stepping closer, he put a hand on Batlord’s shoulder. “Anyway, we have more important things to discuss. Just as I put a hole through your wall with my indelible splendor, I have found a way to put a hole through… reality.”

“Yeah, I know,” replied Batlord, rolling his eyes. “It’s called acid, and everybody’s heard of it already.”

“I’m not talking about acid!” replied Frownland, as he put a hand in his pocket. “I’m talking about this!” Retrieving his hand, he pulled out a guitar, a fleshlight still tangled in the strings from his last experiment in sound.

“That’s called a guitar,” remarked Batlord, with narrowed eyes. “Everybody’s heard of those, too.”

“Ah, yes, so they have,” answered Frownland, his eyes bright with devilry. “But have they heard of the… Forbidden Chord?”

Batlord shrugged. “Is that like when you wrap a cord around your neck, and beat off upside down in the closet?”

“No,” answered Frownland, as he put his hand back on Batlord’s shoulder. “It’s even better.”

His curiosity piqued, Batlord took a step back, pulling himself out of Frownland’s semen encrusted grip. “Okay. Show me this ‘Forbidden Chord’ shit, then. But I swear, if this is just ends up being you finding a new way to fuck your guitar, I’m gonna kick your ass harder than my dick gets when a wildfire burns down an orphanage.”

“I promise you, I won’t disappoint,” smiled Frownland, as he fished a few more items out of his pockets. “Just give me a moment to prepare.”

Fiddling with his guitar, he coated the strings in hedgehog urine, clamped them down with a capo made from the woven hair of a wild Varg, placed a few bloody baby teeth under his g-string (and I don’t mean on the guitar), and then struck a pose, fingering the strings in an ancient position that made Batlord’s head ache. It was almost as if his fingers were at every position on every fret at once. Raising up a leg, he strummed his guitar with his foot, cutting a wedge of dead skin off of his sole in the process.

The sound was immediate, and terrible. It was if God had just bent over, and torn the ass of his slacks. The room exploded into a garden of color, impossible shapes blooming out in timeless flora. As reality tried to catch its breath from the sucker punch that Frownland had just sunk into its solar plexus, Batlord fell into a spiral of sensations, learning everything and nothing as hands from the shadows beyond the stars explored his fiber.

“ISN’T THIS GREEEEAAAAAATTTTT?!” called Frownland as he fell out of the mandala skies and into a flying hot tub.

“Welcome, traveler,” whispered a voice from behind Batlord. He struggled to turn himself to face the noise, moving sluggishly and fearfully like a child venturing into the deep end of the pool for the first time. As he locked eyes with the origin of the voice, he felt his heart crumble into a cold powder. It was a flashing crevice, from which peered the eyes of something that his brain tried to comprehend, but failed. In it’s stead, his mind supplied a composite of various people. He saw Ke$ha, Joey DeMaio, Mindfulness, Kurt Russell, every dancing cat from every video ever, and more. He saw everyone. Except for Pink Floyd, ‘cause fuck those guys. He stared for an eternity of a moment, becoming one with the crevice. Deep within himself, he did not fear, for he knew that he was finally home.

Roughly ten hours later, Frownland returned to the world, phasing into existence in the bathroom of a Walmart, where the threads of reality are at their most pliable. As the portal closed, he could see his friends waving goodbye. Beefheart, Coleman, Coletrane, Disco Duck. All faded as reality gently reasserted itself around Frownland. Smiling in pure joy, he sighed as he stood from the toilet, exited the stall, and waded through the sea of fluorescent light and fecal stains that awaited him on the other side. Though he was in too good a mood to be brought down by the coldness of reality, he couldn’t help but feel like he had forgotten something. Whatever it was, if there had truly even been anything at all, it eventually faded from his mind as he left the store, took off his clothes, and made love to a shopping cart.

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