They See Inside Your Brain

a blog detailing the pursuit of truth in a world of conspiracy and madness // don't look behind you

[goddamnreptoids]

Because the World Hates Joy

...a tangle of human and animal flesh. Francis was on top of her, and he seemed somehow larger, more human and more terrifying than I had ever seen him. There were parts of that thing I never even knew existed, and as I later found out could not have existed. What looked like fifty dicks was penetrating my girlfriend, like a bad hentai or other such Asian perversion. I screamed. My first thought was that she was being attacked, and I lunged at the dog. I kicked it so hard in the face I heard the crunch of bone. It was the kind of kick that feels like it could break walls.

Didn't even faze the motherfucker. My brain didn't get the memo on what was happening. I wasn't thinking about Sarah, who was yelling something at me. I wasn't thinking at all. I kicked him off the bed, terrified. He growled and took an almost human fighting stance. He was huge now. Some kind of were-dog? I never inquired. He had hands now, and his arms bent strangely in more places than is usual. Four or five. He looked vulpine, but also somehow insectile. And then he did something I've never seen a dog do.

'Yyyyyyyyooooooouuuuu fffucking basssstard.' He hissed. Or spat. Growled? I can't remember it very well. The entire scene is hazy in my memory. I could see his multi-pronged cock folding in on itself and disappearing, all the while his fur was bristling, crackling with unspent energy. 'Yyyooouuuu ssshhhhiiittt!'

'What?' I yelled. 'What the fucking fuck? What's happening?'

I looked to Sarah whose face was contorted into a snarl. I knew I should have drowned her. She was screaming at me to stop (as if I could have hurt that abomination). She was saying something.

'Leave him alone, - , it's not his fault. He's just a dog! Just stop, - , stop it.'

'Just a dog?' I roared. 'Look at him. Look at it. What's happening?'

'Look, just calm down.' She said. 'It's complicated.'

It was so complicated that Francis lunged at my face, his entire head peeling back to reveal an enormous, writhing maw.

'I love him.' She screamed as I jumped back, the huge thing barely missing me with its ever-growing obsidian claws.

She loved him.

I started to laugh.

[goddamnreptoids]

Why?

Francis was a big dog. Bred to terrorise, someone could have said. He looked German, though he didn't strike me as a German Shepherd but some type of unpleasant Rottweiler crossed with a harvester. When Sarah first brought him home, liberated from farm work for being too aggressive apparently, he bit my left hand. It didn't heal for months and I still have a scar there. Maybe it burns when evil is near, maybe I really am insane like they say. Anyway, getting bitten by dogs is a dark portent.

So I came home.

I didn't suspect anything at first. I was fucking overjoyed. Got my job back. Anything could happen. The world was looking brighter already. I stepped through the door. I took off my jacket. The air had a strange, electric quality to it. I called out, but didn't hear a response. Not unusual, Sarah often read while listening to an iPod. The air conditioner was on, also, so that may have contributed. Sorry, off topic, but did you know that noise pollution is another way for them to deliver their messages? Light pollution also. Normal pollution is just junk, so it's safe and I wouldn't worry about it.

When I opened the door to the bedroom I saw...

[goddamnreptoids]

Illusions. Everywhere.

The world is full of illusions, you know? We live in such a small place, really, and we are such thin creatures with such pedestrian, transparent dreams. But that's not a bad thing, not really. Their dreams are great dreams. Conquering dreams and architectural dreams, constructing worlds to screw up and rain ruin upon. Their dreams are multi-dimensional. Never forget it. But illusions are everywhere.

Love? It's just chemicals. It's no more real than those baser yearnings like hunger or thirst, no different really from the need to fuck or piss. Our dreams are little frog dreams. We want to be with people because our biology commands it. All our great works are frustrated attempts at winning prestige enough for procreation. Love doesn't really exist, except in poetry. And all poets are liars. Never forget it. But illusions are everywhere.

Even this place has a veil over it, of sunlight and dust motes floating lazily in our parent star's rays. Of caring, hugging walls painted the purest white so as to trick us into believing they are here to protect. But we are never safe, not really. We are never safe because safety itself is an illusion. It doesn't exist except in your mother's womb, briefly, but remember that all mothers are at least a little bit selfish. Never forget it.

And in a way even this flesh is an illusion, for we are creatures of the mind. Or we were before we were imprisoned in these sacks of meat and bone and blood and limitation. I astral projected once and it was wonderful. It was the greatest experience of my adult life, I think. I just sent my mind out there into the stars and I was free, for a very brief moment. They told me that I had passed out, taken too many pills. Bullshit. I am the Buddha, free of the great cycle at last, its cruelties lie in the past for me and I am here to teach you the Path.

I saw so many things. Colours I never knew existed. A sound like rushing water, the time stream flowing freely about me. Lots of things.

It was

so

amazing.

It.

Was!

Real.

More real than any experience before or since. I wish I could go back.

I wish.

I wish wish wish wish wish wish I could go back but I cannot.

Not before I finish this story.

Illusions.

Everywhere.

I'm sorry about this next bit.

[goddamnreptoids]

Thatcher's Hidden Message

The written word is a relatively recent invention. This is true, and they say that it is not the first and nor is it the last of such explosive ideas which are set to change the world and to set it on a new course. I cannot quite imagine a world without writing, but I also cannot imagine a world after we decide that there's something better out there and abandon the practice altogether. Our dreams would be so small, and so shallow without the confining pages of a book to keep them in place before they soar. But there are dangerous things about writing in particular (and more broadly, about any form of art).

Writing doesn't really change people's minds. Not really. No Republican will be moved by Obama's heartwarming biography. No laborer will mourn Thatcher's passing. This is as things should be. The written word merely enhances the things which are already there. No, not really. Start again. The written word is the ultimate preaching to the choir. No one writes for those who won't read. No one writes for others. Authors forge whole realities for task of telling people very much like themselves what they want to hear.

But wait, there's more. What is truly dangerous is that writing is also a code. All writing is code. There is the surface message, but then there is also the deeper message contained in a tangle of words, a labyrinth of sometimes conflicting metaphors and insidious statements. Reading between the lines is dangerous precisely for that reason. Who knows what the code will program you to think or do?

They have their ways. The Bible is one such text, not that that's hard to believe. It opens doors in the heart which were never meant to be opened. Obnoxious, annoying doors. But there are several books which they use to overtly program the sheeple. Holy books are the obvious one. But ever read Stephen King's 'Duma Key'? It's one of a whole load of books which change your brain into accepting the tissue damage caused by mind control rays. Read Doctor Seuss to your kid? Bam! Next thing they're heiling Adolf while beaming messages into an overcast night sky with a failing flashlight. 'Eat, Pray, Love'? Don't get me started. More like 'Eat human skin, Pray you're not next, Love cold-blooded abominations'. But of course it wouldn't sell as many copies with a title that told the truth. Of course not.

And anyway.

She was fucking the dog.

[goddamnreptoids]

Let us party like the Greeks of old...

The very next day after my conversation with Saint Turturra, I felt suddenly better and released myself from the hospital. I went straight to Rivergreen High and into Gary's office. There was a smile on my face which did little to diminish the screaming panic I felt deep inside my gut. I wanted things to go back to normal. Vampires, bees, magicians and Saints, horrors from the hollow earth... I was done with all these things. I was done. Things happened which I could not explain, and maybe I was panicking. Maybe I had had a panic attack or something similar. Some kind of meltdown, a mental core breach essentially. But I felt okay now. My home was in ruins, my friends were (probably, I think) avoiding me and I had this crazy feeling of being watched, but I was determined to make things better.

'Gary.' I said, as I walked into his office. 'I need my job. I mean hello. But I also need to work. Please.'

Gary gave me a big grin, and his amiable, fat Father Christmas face lit up. He told me how glad he was to see me, and asked if I felt better.

'No. Well, not really.' I said.

'I heard about the second fire, - .' Gary said, looking concerned. Was he faking it? I'd know eventually, it would all be...

No. I had to keep it together. No more paranoia. Shit. No more fucking paranoia.

'Yes. Ah. How did.,. how did you hear of it?' I asked, keeping the suspicion out of my voice so deftly I believe it came around again and made me sound even crazier. Gary didn't seem to have noticed though. He started fiddling with his pen.

'I have ears everywhere, - . You are an important asset.'

'To the school?' I asked.

'The... ah-ha. Yes, the school. Just so. A vital component. A cog in the educational machine. We couldn't afford to lose you. But, you know. My condolences? I don't know how to phrase this. I'm sorry? What do you say when someone's been unlucky enough to have been involved in two fires? And the second was quite a major explosion. I do hope things improve for you soon. So unlucky.'

'I just want to put all that stuff behind me now. All of it.'

'How's Sarah, by the way? Are you guys still...'

'Oh, yeah. Ah, I should probably tell her I'm out of the hospital.'

'You haven't? Are things bad? I know women find it difficult to deal with real life problems. A lot of them just kind of crumple at the first sign of change. Like an old newspaper that's been rained on.'

'No, it's nothing like that. I don't know. She's been very supportive. I'm just bad at relationships, Gary.'

And it was true. I actually remember my first relationship quite well. What you would call a relationship, anyway. I was eighteen and an idiot, which is how I eventually ruined it. And in a way, it became a hideous template for all my future relationships, both romantic and professional. It was a grotesque period of time in which I thought I knew about love and what I wanted from life and many, many things besides.

'Well, all you can do is try, - . All you can do is try. But, look, you wanted to talk about your job?'

'Yes. Look, I know I screwed up. I know all that. I think I had a... panic... depression thing? Paranoia. Screaming. Terrifying. Spiders. Bees.'

'Those are just words...'

'But.' I said, with what I hoped was confidence in my voice. 'But I am over it now.'

'Glad to hear it. The job is yours, of course. As I said before. Everything is waiting for you. The students, even. We've had a temporary serf pick up the slack, but you can buzz in there and make any changes you want. Just take it a day at a time.'

'Thank you, Gary.'

And I was thankful. Maybe things would improve. Maybe they would get better. It was an outside chance, but work could really help center me right now, give me a goal. I was pumped.

'Not a problem. When do you want to start? When are you ready? The hive's waiting for you. It's Wednesday now, you could come in next Monday, fresh-faced and ready to changer some lives.'

'Gary, the only life I wanna change is my own. Monday would be fine.'

'Clara will pop by on occasion, as long as you don't mind, to keep an eye on things. A departmental necessity.'

I knew something like this was likely, so I agreed immediately. Clara Ashfort. Damn. I wasn't overly fond of her. A real queen bee, if you know what I mean. Always had to have her own way. And she hated me. Absolutely despised me. Personally I think she was one of those man-hating feminazis. It's completely a real thing, by the way. And it goes all the way back to Ancient Greece (and doesn't everything bad have roots in that hedonistic horse-fucking civilization?).

This was not a great sign, but it didn't matter. This was a first step. And I didn't even feel any eyes on me as I left Gary's office. Monday was going to be amazing.

Cathartic. Liberating, even. On Monday I would get my shit together, and I will get my life back.

But of course.

This was not to be the case.

When I got to Sarah's house I caught her cheating on me.

[goddamnreptoids]

This Happened

But she wasn’t fine, not really. I was standing in the cell. No, I was on a boat. No, I was in the room with the burning nest. No, elsewhere. Upon the precipice of some wondrous place. A terrifying journey. And then I was in the hospital room for real. At least, I hope it was for real. Otherwise, as you can probably imagine, the implications are terrifying. I won't... no. I refuse to consider that possibility. At least she was alive.

I asked her eventually: 'What was the deal that you had made?'

And she said: 'It was complicated. I left a part of myself down there.'

'But.' I asked. 'But it did not include me?'

'I was wrong.' She said. 'I was wrong to take you down there. The People were not ready. You were not ready.'

'The Magician said you would kill me.'

'Well, he was right.'

And then we didn't talk for a while.

I'll let you in on a little secret. At this point I had half convinced myself that I was dead. I mean honestly. Could you conceive it as anything other than some cruel trick of fate? An post-existence punishment after a misspent life? Who the fuck knew?

A few interesting things happened.

[goddamnreptoids]

I said:

'You make me so happy.

I love you.'

And then of course not even the dream reality could hold together beneath the weight of such falsehoods. Not even an alien, subterranean psychic defense weapon could stand up to the level of bullshit contained within those words. And so, slowly but surely, it began to crumble.

The world fell around me.

Cracks appeared in my memories, just as physically large parts of the house and starless sky fell away into a formless black void.

I knew in that instant that I would never be happy.

And I knew that the very notion of joy was a tyranny my mind could never bear.

I did eventually wake up, though.

[goddamnreptoids]

The Perfect Life

But she wasn't fine, not really. She was dead. Turns out she was closest to the 'oven' when it exploded. They didn't even let me see her body. I didn't know what the hell was going on there. By the time I was well enough to walk unassisted the funeral had been over. Sarah had been so concerned. She brought me pictures of her and the dog at the beach. They looked too happy and I told her to leave. She cried, then screamed and then she left and I didn't see her for a few days. And then she came back and I apologised and things went back to the kind of normal they had been before. Before I knew it I was released and everything was fine. Everything was perfect. I went back to work at Riverbreath High. It was exactly what I needed, really. I threw myself into my work.

I saw Makayla again. I wanted to say that 'we made love' a few times, but it was quick and dirty and it made me feel amazing and guilty at the same time. We didn't talk about vampires or spiders or nests or bees. Things were wonderful. I decided to propose to Sarah. Out of nowhere and on a whim I just got the idea. I was walking past a shop which sold natural organic honey. And I thought to myself: 'Sarah would like that.' And then I thought to myself: 'I should marry Sarah. What a beautiful woman. I know things about her now, such as that she really likes honey.' And so I proposed. It wasn't as romantic as I had expected, but by that time I knew that the purpose of life was to try and avoid some disappointments even though it was impossible to avoid them all.

And then things were really happening. I got a permanent position in the school, so I was making a respectable amount of money. Sarah kept going on short work holidays (what did she do again?) and taking the dog. Which was great, because I hated that thing. But it made me slightly jealous which was not that great, but I was settling down and it felt okay. I was still with Makayla on and off. She never pressured me about leaving Sarah which was great. I think she was emotionally damaged and emotionally damaged girls are like that.

And then came the moment when it all came crashing down. One night, I don't remember what day but it must have been a Thursday (because nothing else feels quite the same), I was lying on the bed. That is to say we were lying on the bed. Our bed. Sarah and I. She turned to me, and kissed me on the lips and said: 'I am happier now than I have ever been.'

And I turned to her and I said:

[goddamnreptoids]

A Gas Leak

First, I woke up screaming. This was beginning to become somewhat of a habit for me. I was covered in blood and vomit. Then everything went dark and I woke up screaming again. Sarah was on top of me. What was she doing there? She was smiling. I was still screaming. Then everything went dark. And, you know the drill. This happened a few more times. One time I woke up to see my mother's concerned face hovering over me. Of course I never knew my mother's face, but at that moment I felt I knew who she was. She had a beautiful face shaped like an almond and the most intense green eyes. Like an energy drink or the bottom of an unkempt pond. Then there was my father. And Sarah again. Then Makayla. Then 707/4m~ and then nothing.

For a long, long time nothing. I was aware of the passage of time, but it honestly seemed like an eternity to me. I figured I was dead. Hah. The God-botherers were right after all. There was something after death. And it was boring. But eventually, I managed to open my eyes.

'Stop screaming, sir.' A voice said. 'I need you to stop screaming. You're safe. You're okay. Everything is fine. Just calm down. We're gonna take care of you.'

'Where's the Saint?' I yelled, screwing up my eyes against the blinding light. Something smelled like kerosene again. What had I done? 'Where is she? Where's Saint Turturra?'

'Sir!' I felt a firm hand on my shoulder, pinning me painfully to the floor. 'I'm gonna need you to calm down.'

'Claudia, I mean.' I said. 'Claudia Bronwyn Brown. She was here. Is she all right? What's wrong?'

'Sir, Ms. Brown is fine. Everything is under control. There was a gas leak in the kitchen.'

That was the setup. And now, the climax?

[goddamnreptoids]

First Step

The Magician was clearly only the first step, the primary aspect of the vast, psychic firewall set up by whoever the creatures who lived below were. To this day I have trouble with dark places. That's why I like it here. So bright. Everyone wears white. It's very calming, and I suppose that's the point. Ah, relaxing, ain't it? The Magician was the first step, yes, and the mole creatures were the second. The third was pretty much what you would expect, so I'll come right out and say it. They trapped me, for a time, in a reality largely indistinguishable from my own. For this next it of explanation I'll need you to remember that nothing I am describing to you now actually happened.

It was like in the Matrix, except everyone was me. Let me explain. First, I woke up screaming.

[goddamnreptoids]

Sustenance

Now, you seem like a discerning young person. Full of dreams and hopes, probably. I don't remember that kind of thing in myself, but I'm sure I had them once. But you seem on the ball, though why you're here puts some kind of dent in that observation. But overall, you know. Overall you're okay. And you decided to come here to learn more about the world from the Buddha and I appreciate that. Shows character. Shows that there are still pure souls in the world, you know? I take something from that. Comfort, I would say. Comfort. No, sorry. Not comfort. Sustenance. It sustains me to know that someone else can carry the bur... I mean, you know. People need to know. Or at least some people need to know. Ever seen the Matrix? You've obviously grokked the glitches, and they have built up over time and you have sought answers, and now you are one of the awakened. And if there are enough of us around, a Korean poet once told me, then the world will change by itself. So in a way, a very real way, all we have to do is wait. Because war is a whole lot of waiting. We're in the trenches.

Yeah. We're in the trenches right now. But everything we do must be by its nature reactive. We have no super powers. We cannot simply step outside of space and time and confront our gaolers, no. We must wait for the time they choose to crush us and we must resist with all our strength. But there are so few of us.

And there will be fewer in the future, this much is for sure. Look, I'm not inducting you into some secret order. There's very little you can do. But just knowing that you know what you know... what I know... That sustains me. You know?

[goddamnreptoids]

Eyes and Emeralds

So many eyes. Like emeralds in the darkness, multi-faceted and multiple and so, so alien. So hateful, too. I have never been a firm believer of good and evil. There are surely shades of grey to every goddamn situation, ain't there? If I take a man's bread then it is to feed myself or my family, so my small act of evil is for an overall good cause. Would I take the bread simply to deprive the other man of sustenance? What would that mean? This does of course happen. Sheeple are petty things, sometimes. But on the whole you can usually see a cause and effect, two sides to every coin (and a third side because they are three dimensional).

But these eyes were not like that. They only had one dimension, and it was hate pure and simple. There was no contempt or pity or any other quaint human emotion in there. There was no disdain. There was simply one purpose behind those eyes, even if no souls dwelt there, and that purpose was anti... anti-everything. Anti-life, anti-human. I had never seen anything like it and in a moment I would forget everything but the scorching, screaming pain. But eventually I would remember.

I woke up screaming, and I woke up to screaming.

[goddamnreptoids]

Explosions and Eyes

That's when they exploded.

They just detonated without warning. I won't fancy it up for you. I lost my left hand and right eye in that chamber. I received massive third degree burns. Later they would say that there was an oven fire at the facility. I wouldn't be blamed for it. The Universe looked out for me that time. I don't want to pull some shitty 'it was all a dream' bullshit on you, but I can only tell you what I experienced. And I would see 707/4m~ again, though under far worse circumstances than being its prisoner. I'll get to that soon.

The pain was incredible.

Do you know those moments when time seems to slow down? I've mentioned this before. It's because time is relative. With enough skill you can teach yourself to make time stop. Really, you can. But that would be pointless, of course, because you wouldn't be any faster. I think that's how you get cases of spontaneous catatonia, or explosive retardation or whatever. People think it'll solve their problems, but it just traps them deep inside their minds.

But you know when time slows down for you? It does. That's what happened to me. And in that instant before everything else went to shit I saw things.

Things between time. Things between the cracks in the world. I saw them and I saw all their little eyes.

God, so many eyes.

[goddamnreptoids]

'There's nothing...

... on the outside. There's nothing on the inside. You think that there is something on the outside and that there is something on the inside, but you are wrong. The world is an illusion - . There is no kindness, and there is no mercy and cruelty and sadism are also tricks of the light. You look at me from one a angle and you are the victim and from another angle and you are the hero but neither angle is true. The true perspective is that nothing exists and that all that purports to exist is tricking you. Tricking you. TRICKING YOU. TRICKING YOU. T R I C K I N G Y O U !!! Trick

ing

y

ou.

Tricking you. There is nothing on the outside. There is nothing on the inside.'

[goddamnreptoids]

The Red Dresses and Sheeple

There's two fucking levels, ain't there? Yeah, yeah. Always there are two. It's a kind of balance. Remember that you don't know any of this. I mean, you know, you know? But don't think about it too hard. Surface thoughts are small, shallow things, but they can get you into a lot of trouble. So, sheeple. They're level two. Lower tier stuff. I'll educate you on how it all fits together. The first level is the most interesting, but also the most difficult to describe. Ever heard of David Icke? Now there's a true prophet for the modern age. And a prime example of why you can't just tell people about the labyrinth of lies which comprises our fragile world. Used to be a professional footballer, now a professional laughing stock. But a wise man nevertheless who I have it on good authority has peered beyond the veil of alternate dimensions which is draped across this small Earth. He tried to tell the world of its peril, but it's fucking quantum isn't it? By putting it out into the ether like that he changed its nature and the conspiracy redefined itself in other terms.

The first level, the primary layer (onions!) consists of the Red Dresses. The Red Dresses are everywhere. They are the highest level terrestrial camouflage construct. They lack true free will and operate on a kind of instinctual software. George Bush? A Red Dresser. Walt Disney? Need I say more? And Wozniak and Torvalds and all those guys. Red Dresses. You can tell that their bodies aren't really their own. You can tell that they are part of some greater, inhuman plan. Because no one is that motivated in real life. But you can see it, right? You can see the cogs turning and that they are the cogs, if not the turners. And so our world becomes their world.

Some think that they are holographic constructs, but they are really philosophical zombies. This, of course, has awful implications. I'll leave you to jump to the correct conclusions.

And Sheeple? Sheeple are the rest, the unawakened, the slumbering masses. Most do as they are told. They are easy to program. They are the unfortunate inheritors of all our mistakes. Sheeple can be dangerous, too. They can be told to harm us. They can be manipulated to hate us, or worse, to pity us. They are volatile. But they are also the prize, right? Someone has to liberate those motherfuckers, to lift the veil. Won't be me, probably. Might be you. We are playing the long game here.

The long game.

So this is what they said:

[goddamnreptoids]

Rivers and Fishing for Compliments

It was an ugly boat, all told, and I don’t remember why we were out fishing at that time of year anyway, but my Father had thought it a good idea so we went. I no longer recall the name of the lake (but it had been a lake) but I do remember that it was to the north some ways. Close to those mountain ranges you get before you hit the desert, not a particularly dead area of the country, but a kind of calm before the storm. After some hundreds of kilometres there would be no greenery, and fewer lakes (or any water at all for that matter, unless you knew where to look). So we were on this boat and I guess we were fishing and my Father said to me something I will never forget until the day I die. He said: ‘I love you so much, son. But I don’t know how to love you.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know how to fish.’ I said, not really sure what to say.

‘I know. Neither do I.’ He replied, frowning. I knew he was struggling in his heart not to hit me. It was always as if he expected some answer from me I could never provide. Like he expected me to act a certain way, but not even he knew what it was that he had wanted me to say in the first place. But he didn’t strike me, and said instead: ‘Maybe we can just work out how to do it together. I mean, any fool can fish, surely. And we’re no fools.’

And so we spent the day together, but we caught no fish. No, this is not technically true. I caught a fish, but it escaped. It was a big one, too. But I looked to the man who had just hours before told me he loved me, and I was… distracted. And the fish escaped. In the end we were equal. Neither of us were better than the other, and that felt less painful somehow. My Father still went home scowling, but we had fish and chips for dinner that day and we said we would go again next weekend.

But of course we never went fishing again.

Sheeple, right. Have I told you about them? Fuck, sorry. I keep getting distracted. Are you alright? Are you shaking? No? No. Very good. That is probably for the best. The antidote? Yes, I suppose I will give you a little now because this story might take a bit longer. Hold on, I’ll just get you some tea for it. I really am sorry. I am. I should have timed it a little better. I just wanted a little show. A little showmanship, you know? But that is hubris, I think. We each of us have a cross to bear, and imperfectly poisoning guests must be mine.

Okay, hold on. I’ll make the tea and tell you about sheeple, then, shall I?

[goddamnreptoids]

Looking On

They were like tiny star-nosed moles with human faces, though their bodies were glistening black and chitinous, covered in the Saint’s blood and gore. They burst forth from her skin like pustules. There’s no better way of describing it. And, of course, the little legs weren’t legs at all, just longer versions of the minute proboscis which surrounded their strangely human mouths. And those faces were human, as I said. No doubt about it. That they were stretched across an elongated mammalian skull, like that of a mouse, did not change that fact. There were males and females, and they quickly set about the task of eating what was left of Saint Turturra. I would have run, but I had no chance to do so and you know

how

things tend

to

go really

slowly

when

you’

r

e

a

f

r

a

i

d

butthentheyspeedupagainwhenthecriticalmomenthaspassed revealing to you the terrifying fact that a new critical moment has manifested itself before you? That’s how I felt. At first slow, and unable to act (though still screaming, and for all I knew pissing) and suddenly two hundred and fourteen pairs of eyes were upon me. All that was left of the Saint was a pile of meat and bones, and the faintly glowing star-nosed horrors were staring at me.

And then one of them spoke.

And then all of them spoke.

Imagine a voice like an angel’s filtered through the throat of a delirious, homeless drunk. Like Tom Waits, but less deep. More menacing, somehow, but less human. Imagine that. And it/they said…

Wait… WAIT! I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Have I told you about sheeple?

Listen.

This is relevant.