Literatura- Based on the Strange Creature, Andrew Ditch
Infantil.
Twas deemed the faux feigning faker who fixed a fast farce and takes and grates, steals and keels for his own sake for which he drinks.
Congruently, he feasts upon fruits of others’ labor, labors only for that.
All areas were stumped, trumped with his lumpy animated corpse, overencanted, unenchanted, with passion to be hated. More to fumble and bumble about the pleb-taxed villa, perchance. Less than unaddressed was he. Nay, may he be scratched in the back of minds, press-printed upon cranium folds, and for the hopeful, morbidly lore curious, forbidden opium. Detrimind, one of a kind, he persists to make merry-swindled, angst-kindled, nary-mingled all’round his jumbo radius.
“I need dat help.”
He lunarticulates as fact that which is unverified., that being not unveiled. Help, for him, dictates acting the sounding siren round the clock- bewitchin, betwixting, bitching, and besnitching- violere d’amoure, sans flexibility of connotation (not that he was privy to slang, only swears.)
Fucker of a mother, it’s unclear if that observation is same-same literal and metaphorical. What is known, sin duda y más dura: his contributions to her fearlight passing are indisputable. Empathy he owns remains not intact as if it were forever nonexistent. This could not halt him, it never would; he jacked-off tragedy for comedy. Kinking and perversion of the natural order of parent-child and age be affixed to his fetish, it was expected, yet nevertheless brought more lament to stranger more than bloodtied. Though her now widowed husband blamed him, blamed this squatch, this mongrel, ‘buse or naught, whether he ought or not, banish the parallels. It was the father’s one last duty.
You see, to wonderlove yet wanderlust was where, intransitively by morality, the humanesque thing sat, should his throne not be spoiled with defecation. It was known: he possessed such hyperobsession with the untruth of his condition (denial of scholar-professed diagnosis, his allistic psychopathy beside a strong shitzoeffect, that is to say, all was combined with a potent philia for waste and its containment products) it was, subconsciously or consciously but certainly dismisconsciously, regulated to regulate, whilst a synthetic syndicate and risen above subjugate, to the point his kindred-unenthused, unlitfused, conmused, and overtused- altered from his ficticual altar, become and recome thrustedly tossed as threadbare rags former to achieving and archiving peaks of his pleasure for anunpicturesque petite period. Exhausting the system was mild play. Exalting one’s self was delusion-way. Excruciating for all was no hallucination, sans exception.
Should companionship be uncompensated and unattainable, for that matter, he’ll not craft tunicate for his self-inflicted wounds. Rather, per his will, will thrill with self-fornication, arise with innapropriate, intricate, illegal detail, “storied” with the innocent.
Roasted, toasted, burnt of the mosted will be his fate, as writ in the old lore of the stars. Led, lodged in a hollowsweep on hallowseve into the pigeonhole of time’s unbeknownst vast, empty expanse. All for obtaining such Opus Mortis and greed for spoil that trapped many a high king. It was said this crittering creature should give up the ghost in a ditch, so that there may be called for no effort funneled into burying him, vita or post-vita. Neverthemore, the obligate to occur overlooks the conjuring of a post in place prognosticating: Sic Sempus Tyrannis, Lumpus vel Rex.