The Man Behind the Mic


L.P. Stribling

    The man who stepped onto the podium in the middle of the last quiet moment of humanity wore a suit which suggested he was the true face of patriotism. The small two-cent flag on his black suit’s lapel was tilted slightly, but would pass for centered for the majority of those he met. His eyes flashed hard at the center camera below him, his gaze rocketing into every living room of the nation; in the following seconds, those same eyes would release into every living hollow on the planet that contained a pulse of human life.

    He smiled and began.

    “My fellow World Order people, today we have shown that…”

    From the back corner of her living room, Dena Metrin’s heartbeat brought itself to her attention as she watched the screen, almost panting.

    “Please tell me you’re close, Rick.“ Her eyes darted over to the man hunched over his computer at her left. His fingers ran across his keyboard as if he were epileptic. White text sprayed across a blue screen. The pencil in his mouth had a body lined with bite marks. He had been rolling it around in his mouth clamping his teeth down slightly as he worked. As long as Dena knew him, it was his own peculiar way of dealing with stress. When he bit all the way through it, he would spit it out and pull a fresh pencil from the pack next to his keyboard and begin anew.

    “Err,” he said through his pencil. “Ah depfinilhee feek ahm gehng crossr.” She reached out and threw the pencil out of his mouth to the ground.


    “I said,” he repeated, still looking at the screen, his fingers not slowing, “that I think I’m getting…closer!” The last word erupted from him as the screen began raining white text as a full download of something was coming in.

    “Good,” Dena said, “because I think we’re about to get to the pretty bad part.”

    “…it’s not that often, and we all know this, that we have an opportunity in our history to really change everything that we’ve done – all the mistakes, all the backwardness, all the evil and wrongdoing.” Pause. “Well now, ladies and gentlemen of this beautiful moment. Now is that time, and you should feel a tingle run through you in knowing that you are alive here to witness it, because..”

    “Okay, so now how long? Remember, we only need the microphone. That’s what he’s going to use.”

    “Eah,” Rick said, another pencil in his mouth being gnawed on at breakneck pace. “Uss a fsheew mor sekns.” The keyboard sounded like each key was being hit with hard rain.

    “…and with that I’d like to begin by saying ‘so long’ to our past.” The man motioned off camera with a nod of his hands. The building behind him, almost half a mile away, the backdrop of every presidential speech in the history of the nation shattered as a missile came from the sky and blew it directly from its center outward.

    The sound rocketed the people; the cameras shook, and screams were heard from every angle off camera. The man’s beady eyes focused on his audience without any emotion; he nodded as if this was the reaction he had expected all along.

    “Okay, I’m going to need you to make those magic seconds happen right now because…”

    “…and you can see,” he went on, his voice stern and heavy, “that we are on the precipice of greatness! We are ready for change, for tomorrow, a bright tomorrow. We are ready for…ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready for a makeover.”

    “Got it!” Rick yelled.

    In their room, the only sound came as the pencil dropped from his mouth and clicked a bit as it hit the floor and came to a roll and then stilled. Three hundred miles away, HBC’s main camera shook slightly as the man behind the mic grabbed it from the podium and tore it free to hold it aloft in one victorious hand.

    “Behold!” He yelled. “Our makeover!” He turned the mic upside down and pressed a button on the bottom.

    The nation, the world watched. Nothing.

    He pressed again twice, three times. Nothing.

    “Fucking thing!” He slammed the microphone down and stood back from the podium reaching into his vest under the pin of the nation.

    “Welcome to the new you!” He yelled, drawing the revolver out and aiming at the audience, pulling the trigger faster than the audience could comprehend.

    BAM! BAM! BAM! “Welcome!” He cried with each shot. BAM! BAM! “Welcome!”

    Bullets riddled his body and the man dropped to the stage. All camera screens went black then.

    Dena slid to the floor and loosed a sigh. She and Rick said nothing for a long time. Rick’s box of pencils lay untouched.

    “Well,” she said breaking the silence. “There’s that. Take us home, Rick.”

Seconds passed before the rain started again.


The Turnstiles at Station 6

The Turnstiles at Station 6

by  L.P. Stribling


       Grey was the only thing Sarah saw that Monday afternoon as she walked past Jason’s Apothecary, the ghost town’s last active building – at least the last one to reportedly have human activity in it before….the last one to have reports of sightings.

        Her mind came back to the grey of the place. The road, the cracks in the road, the buildings, the sidewalk, the sky, even her reflection as she passed by was grey. The color was there; she knew it was there. But it was still grey. Grey because she couldn’t see the color.

      You shouldn’t be here.

       She knew it. The voice in her head wasn’t usually all that smart. She’d blown it off tons of times before; this time shouldn’t be any different. But she did know she shouldn’t be here.

      You can still go back. Just tell ‘em you spun it.

      No. That would make her a liar. The bet was fair, she lost, and she has to pay the consequence.

     Sarah shook herself out of the dialogue with her mind and looked around the abandoned square of Millton Bend. She felt a chill flitter through her, a feeling which distinguished itself completely from the coolness of the wind upon her face.

     She scanned the buildings of the square, the graffitied brick walls, mottled with chips and  cracks, the windows, some covered with black bags and white tape, others boarded up or outlined with fragmented shards of water-spotted glass. Doors left ajar, entrances overgrown, all of it was one eerie piece of human time straining against being altogether forgotten.

       She had been to Millton Bend once when she was very young. Her cousin Doug had driven her through the town on their way south to visit another relative she didn’t know she had. She wondered where her mom and dad were that she had to have Doug drive her. She remembered the Bend square clearly enough. They had stopped there to look at the bookstore (Doug was a reader), and they crossed the the quadrangle from the car to the store and back, and left. But the beauty of it stayed with Sarah.

     Then, fallout. Bombs, disease, outbreak. She was too young to know the what, but she did remember the when. It was back in 2345, the year she turned ten.

     Her feet fell upon unanswered fluffs of dusty sidewalk as she looked around and reminisced. Even now as she walked through the abandoned town, there still seemed to be beauty, in some weird way.

     The years to follow began to bring the stories. People were leaving, not because they were getting sick, but because but because they were scared.

      People disappeared from their homes and businesses, from restaurants and from their cars. The majority of these scenes were accompanied by large quantities of blood and sometimes torn clothing. Then, not long after, came the sightings, the voices, people hearing the screams of their disappeared family members late in the night, seeing at times glimpses of impish things, silhouettes of short slender bodies and big heads. The activity always came in the night.

     Sarah directed her feet toward the square’s center, the subway underground. Her eyes caught the bold text, black on the faded and cracked white of the outer wall:


       Sarah’s footsteps slowed, almost stopped, and shook her head. Designated by whatever fucked up numbering system the state incorporated (maybe it was the order in which the stations were built?), Station 6 had become synonymous with ghosts, demons, alien abduction – pick a childhood fear, Station 6 was it.

        Her breath shallowed at seeing the entrance to the station – a wide rectangular subterranean lowering in the earth allowing for three large escalators down to the underground speed train. She had never been here, not down there, but she knew the subway drill. You go down, you get tickets, you go through turnstiles, you wait for train. Basic.

     Knowing how the subway worked wasn’t the reason her hands and forehead felt cooler then from a new misting of sweat then. It was what she had to do, and how very stupid (not ‘stupid’ dumb, but ‘stupid’ insane) it was that her feet trod upon this quadrant of earth at all at that second.

      She turned back around, closed her eyes and exhaled.

      No, no, no, she thought. We’ve already come this far. Her mind tried sifting back through the fragmented reasons for her not to be here.

     Several months after the town was hit with the initial wave of the disappearing and people were still evacuating, a story came about which came to be known as ‘the turnstile hauntings:’ townspeople complain to authorities of sightings of unknown beings entering and exiting Station 6, police from Stachell and Arnison are sent over, flashlights go out, gunfire, all police are found slaughtered except one – huddled in the corner saying the words: “Turnstiles! CLICK-CLICK-CLACK, Turnstiles! Turnstiles! CLICK-CLICK-CLACK!”

      Snap out of it. In and out.

      Sarah shook herself and looked again at the town from inside the quadrangle. She allowed her feet to drag themselves up to and past the entry doors of the subway station. Station 6, she thought. Each town outside of Ellison had a number indicating how many tens of kilometers they were outside of the capital. It made it easier to give a distance to the next stop; at least that was what made the most sense to her. 

      The sign came and went, and with the hollow call of another cold wind upon her skin, She opened the doors of Station 6 and entered.

     The doors closed behind her with an eerie creak – almost as if they were speaking their warnings to her from several months, maybe years, of disuse.

     Just down there. One quick turn, she thought, and I’m done.

     You need to get out of here.

       The voice in her head spoke truth. She knew it was truth, but it had been speaking to her the full four-hour drive down to the abandoned town, and none of the admonishments really stopped her at all. The steps in front of her were half shadowed in a deep dusty coal, while their lighted counterparts weren’t much better off – a musty mildew of luminescence, as though a mild glow hovered from where countless vagrants had pissed. And below, Sarah saw the turnstiles, a dull silver, arms awaiting her spin.

      She quickstepped down the stairs, the hollow clap of her steps making dusty echoes against abandoned walls. A chill of air enveloped her then, as she went down. She didn’t want to think about it. She made a bet, she lost.

      Let’s just get this over with.

     With the steps she took downward, the eerie echo of the police officer in the story – Turnstiles, turnstiles, CLICK-CLICK-CLACK.

      When her feet touched the base level, the air around her was thick and cold. The turnstiles were right in front of her. And beyond them the dark hollow of the subway’s lower level.

      She could hear her every breath. Her heart pumped with heavy and quick thuds within her chest. A chill trickled up her spine and she could almost feel the sweat glands release along where the tingle traveled.

      You shouldn’t be here

       “Shut up,” she said aloud into the haunted air. What would her inner voices have to say to that? Sarah dug into her pocket and removed her cell phone and switched on the video and  tapped the red recording circle.

       “Okay here I am. This is Station 6,” she said as she panned the camera around her. Her voice held something back – something that couldn’t hold back shaking much longer. She showed the long staircase and the door on the entrance level. She ended by bringing the camera back to her face. She exhaled. “A bet’s a bet, right?”

      With a jolt of courage (or was it craziness?) she filmed her hand reaching out to the turnstiles and pulled.


     She turned and quickstepped back up the steps (in the camera footage, one can hear the nervous increase in her breathing). And as just as she approached the door, she stopped (the camera jerked back to the hollow below, to the turnstiles).

     “Shit,” she cursed.

      Sarah turned back to the steps and, began to leap up two at a time in a nervous panic.

      “I hear something,” she said to herself (also caught on camera).

       She topped the stairs and turned off the camera (in the audio with high volume, there is a distinct clicking sound heard from a distance).

Bells from Underground

Bells from Underground


L. P. Stribling


At their knell, the cell gates slide open,

Gritty rusted iron scraping on unforgiving stone.

Prisoners rouse their cold, sweat sodden bodies from the icy concrete of their cages,

The lights underground are present, but lack any infusion of hope,

“Get out, you filth!” The voice of the cell guard’s No. 1 is a soft-rolling

sludge from the mandatory metal speakers which are installed in this place on every seven feet of cavern wall – mind-crushingly thick.

They stand at their cell doors, their toes, blackened and rotten, only up to just before the now open entrance. Even after what this place does, most are still afraid of what would happen if their toes went past the line.

“And Call!” his smoke-heavy voice bails across the underground once more.

All is silent.

“Prison Resident Number…” a pause, “773461.”

Nothing at first. Echoing from the far end of tier six, somewhere out past the visible, tantalizing, but oh-so-dreadful cell line at their toes, there is a slam of metal on metal. Old metal – ore which has returned to stone after centuries of dull and repetitive clanging.

Somewhere, out in the dark origin of that clang, their gloved hands were on the him. Their heavy bludgeoning tools swung on their belts and the smack of their own steel washed toes struck the concrete halls. And in minutes, several quick but excruciating minutes, he would become this place, filling his own hole within a future block of smooth concrete. Atop him thereafter their heels would smack and click, and his pain would help build this cold dark cave.

“Back!” the yell came.

Their toes backed in a bit as the slow iron door rolled back into its own grungy bleak slam. They didn’t cross, though, no matter how slow it was. The dread still hung.

They returned their cold skin to the freeze of the concrete floor. Whom they lay atop few asked anymore.

Three hours more.

Then again they would hear the metal gun sounds of cell guard No. 1. For now they had three hours.

His smoky metal voice sung them to a transitory slumber.




Marla in the mirror

Marla awoke at 3:01 Tuesday morning. One minute early. She rolled onto her side and sat up in the dark. The subdued glow of the moon snuck past the window panes of her room and lightly kissed the hardwood floors beneath her bare feet. Her eyes were still a hazy kind of closed and yet she could still feel that light. She smiled knowing that it was her feet that walked first in the night’s light. She turned back to the body lying on its side under the covers behind her. Lazy worm. The thought ran across her mind and flashed away, as if it never were.

It was time, though. One didn’t wake and rise after midnight without the call.

She stood and walked a few short steps down the moonlit hallway and around the corner, feeling her way into the newly tiled bathroom. The his-and-hers vanity mirrors pulled her toward them. In her trance, she found her own reflection in the looking glass; the moon still caressing her eyes from the windows at the room’s rear to show her what she needed.

The eyes staring back at her were red and pink, filling hollows in a pus-ridden sea of green and dappled grey. The smile in the reflection held a fence – white-picketed with razors, each with its own murky stew of mold and filth.

Marla, it said. Razor smile stiff, waiting. Its voice was deep and dull, and loud. A hive of bees rattled awake mid-slumber. Loud enough for five Marlas to hear at all times, in all places. It was this loudness that called her; it had been calling her since long before.

“Marla”, she whispered back. Marla.

I thirst, it said.

“And you must feed,” Marla answered, voice quiet and dragging.

Ah, my pretty, pretty girl. And what would you have for me?

            “..pretty girl,” Marla’s lips mimicked the words with an unfeeling smile. “I have what the Master commands.” Her body stood tall, yet seemed to be held erect by a force unseen. Her torso shifted slightly, regaining balance when the body began to tip . “I will have always what the Master commands,” she said. Her eyes peered into glass through a glazed screen of ‘dead-to-the-world.’

Yes. Good, it said. What the Master commands. And does my pretty know what the Master commands?

            “Something warm, something red, and something with rhythm,” Marla uttered in an eerie memorized whisper. “Something warm, something red, and something with rhythm…with rhythm.”

Ahh, the wicked fangs released a sigh of contentment, the cold blue lips on the other side creeping up the sallowing walls of the decaying fangs. The rhythm. Such an important matter. Yes, good. Something with rhythm.

On the other side of the mirror, the sickly smile remained on the girl’s face in a reworking of mouth and skin. Her ghoulish eyes were unblinking, and traversed the glass, still holding lock upon Marla’s own eyes, half-lowered as they were when she had entered.

From somewhere above in the dark, as if in the flawless workings of a silent marionette, the thing’s arms raised at the wrist until they were directly out in front of it. The palms flashed outward, toward Marla’s world, revealing their unearthly truths in the foggy vision of the room’s light.

Beneath the open surface of one palm, an eye, thick and beastly, grabbed at Marla’s image across time, space, and dimension. The other palm cracked wide with its own set of teeth, worn rough and brown from aeons of consumption of bone, flesh and lies. The teeth grinded with slow, purposeful passes as the mouth inhaled and exhaled its own fetid expulsions upon the glass of its world.

It’s time, Marla, the mouth spoke from the hand, the voice was the same strident buzz that came out of the girl, whose head was now down behind the two extended hands. Cracks of lightening broke around the girl, a storm in the world beyond the glass. And through it, the buzz of the voice was as clear as water. Bring it here, Marla. Bring your Master his due.

The scene closed in a thunderous clap of silence, and Marla again stared into a replica of her own world. Turning from the mirror, she walked out of the bathroom, leaving the cushion of the moonlight again, and disappeared down the hallway, away from the bedroom and into the darkness of her midnight house.


She stood there and waited for the worm of his form to shift and turn. The silver of her blade was a fleeting glint in the midnight sun when she brought it down into his chest from above her.

The worm writhed and spun, spewing rosy guttural pleas into the air. What came from him was a song, a song to celebrate the Master. Marla knew this. In one bare hand, she held a clawed grip on the worm’s cheek, the other, now becoming wet and thick with the worm’s gift as, again, faster, she brought down into him. What she held in her hand was no longer silver.

While the droplets of him sprayed, fell, and colored her, Marla’s eyes remained half-gazed on her work.

“The Master must feed,” she said, each syllable lending tone to her carving. She knew he could not hear her words. The worm was too concerned with his own selfish keep. “The Master must feed,” she said again, louder.

And with three final plunges into the warm puddle of the worm’s now still shell, her voice thundered in a sonorous inhuman buzz.



Marla released her grip on the worm’s sticky scarlet face and left the muddied hilt of her tool visible above its buried lower half. She dipped both hands into the body’s warmth and, with several rips and tears, removed the warm rhythmic bundle of him. Still pulsing beneath her half-shut eyes, she dismounted her hunt, and walked again with dutiful step to her place behind the vanity mirrors.

The glow of the moon behind her was lower now, softer, weaker. And the girl beyond the glass doors licked her own cold lips through the yellow muck of her angled fangs.

Yes, my pretty girl. Yes, you’ve done well. Now, Marla, give the Master his lamb, a flailing tongue followed, tickled was the daemon at its prize.

Marla, of course, obeyed, looking down at the warm now slow-beating prize she held. She watched the drips of it fall from her underturned knuckles in to the darkening pink pool of the once white basin in front of her. She watched the droplets run down her downy skin, and Marla’s smile was unfeeling.

The girl beyond the glass growled a deep victorious growl, and the Master fed.




*thanks to IrishxoxQueen for use of the photo



The following is from a session between Dr. Jack Harrison and a female subject placed under his care for a period of two months whose name will remain anonymous. For the duration of their time together, she was given the name Jaime. LAPD has, during this time, been conducting a full search for the youngest of her children (named herein as Joey) and as of date of this release, have not found any further leads. This is the final recording of their session.

DH: Jamie, tell me about the fire.
J: The fire?
DH: Yes.

no response

DH: Do you remember the fire, Jaime?
J: ….rrrrr ….rrrr….rrRobin!?
DH: Jamie?
J: Robin? Where’s Joey? Robin? …..Robin? Where are you?
I’m here, Mommy.

alteration of voice between first and second utterance


J: Where’s Joey, honey?
Joey’s gone?

breathing increases


DH: Jaime? Jaime who are you talking to? Is Joey th-
J: Robin, get back!

breathing speed increased

J:          Mommy, the room – it’s’s smoky.

J:  (initial moaning sound, sniffles, a sound of fear and sadness come from the throat) Joeeeyy!  NO! Baby! NO!

patient is flexing all visible muscles, completely tense.

DH: Jaime, I need to you tell me what you see? Where are you?
J: (through tears) Nooo, noo noooooo…I’m in aaahhnanana (incomprehensible – patient begins to wail.)

Fingers no longer tense, but grasp each side of the therapy couch

DH: Jaime, are you in the kitchen?
J: (wailing continues, louder)
DH: Jaime. Jaime. Are you in the kitchen? Listen to me. Are you in the kitchen? Yes?

patient nods twice

DH: Jaime, what is happening?
J: NAAHH! My baby!! (coughs hard through screams)

patient wails repeatedly. The words ‘my baby’ voiced with high repetition. 


DH: Jaime, is there a fire? Where is Joey?
J: (breathing and sobs more audible)

patient shakes head mournfully, fists still gripping the couch

J: Gone…she gone gone gone gone (wails)
DH: Jaime, is Robin safe?  Robin, Jaime. Is she safe?
J: (nods)
DH: Jaime, did you kill Joey?

all commotion ceases. Patient visibly relaxes.  No response.

DH: Jaime, did you hear me? Did you k-
J:           Oh, I heard you the first time, Doctor.

another clear alteration of voice, higher pitched, juvenile. Patient smiles. Eyes still closed and soft.

J:           You want to know about me, do you?
DH: Is this Joey?
J:          Ah huh, but I’m not in the house?
DH: You’re not, are you? Well, –
J:         Where am I? (giggles) Where am I? Is that your question?
DH: ..Yes, Jody. Yes, that’s right. That is my question.
J:          I’m out back. I never saw the fire. Wasn’t around for it. Fire started long after she buried us.

arms and hands of patient in full motion as patient speaks

DH: Is that right? Well, where exactly are you?
J:  (no response)
DH: Jody? … Jody, you still there?
J:        Third maple tree back, behind the chicken coop. Mom’s house.
DH: I see. And when did your mom bury you, then?
J:         (giggle) Mom’s with me, Doctor. Dooooctooooor. Doctor, doctor, doctor, doctor, poctor, locktor, mocktor….d-d-d (giggle). That’s a funny word, ‘doctor.’
DH: Yes. Yes, I suppose it is, Joey.
J:         (giggles) Yeah.
DH: Well, if you’re mom’s with you, who buried you then?
J:          The talker you have there. That one.

patient points to herself.

J:         You won’t catch her, though. Poctor. You won’t catch her.
DH: I won’t, won’t I? Well, what makes you say that?
J:         She has a sharp kitchen knife. Moctor doctor. Took it from out kitchen, boctor. Smoky doctor, moctor,.

more frequent juvenile speech


J:         Lights go out first, though. Lights first, moctor. Smoke second.

DH: Jaime? We’re relaxing, remember? Jaime? What are you do- .. Oh god! <>


Dr. Harrison has been reported missing since Feb 24th, 20**. This is the last recording of his voice.

U.S. Media, Brainwashing, “The News” – Erasing the Human Ability to Think

The News


Unless I’m required to (for work or school), I don’t watch the news. I don’t read it either. I don’t listen to it, ask others about it, inject it; listen, I don’t absorb news. Why? Because it’s tainted. It’s media-injected fear-laced propaganda that sinks into our brains like liquid on human skin. There’s a design to it – a very deviously strategic design to “the news.”

You ever think about “who” runs the news? Anyone? Yeah, well, that’s actually pretty public information (which I’m almost surprised about – we’re just steps away from information like that being taken out of the public circle). Go ahead and run any general search for something like “owners of news”, and you come up with a nice light set of gems you can hold in one hand.

Five to Seven people run the United States Media, controlling everything you read, watch, and hear with regard to “the news”, and it’s not just with regard to what we “should know” it’s about what THEY want us to “know”. Those of us who blindly believe the shit they just tell us are the perfect children, the most obedient acolytes, and just the docile citizenry they want.  And the ‘news’ isn’t just shown on different stations and at different times. It’s all day long.

The news tells you who to hate, how to be afraid, who the ‘enemy’ is, why you shouldn’t support FILL IN THE BLANK, what to eat,  what pills to take when you’re tummy’s not feeling well after you ate what you were supposed to, and which insurance to buy, just to include a few.


Today apparently some crazy shit went down in Connecticut. Here’s a question – what business is that of ours? I mean aside from the people who were affected with the issue, what concern is that of ours. Some would say, “Well, it makes us think about what’s going on out there in the world, and the safety of our children.” No it doesn’t! It makes you afraid. It makes you afraid of the world and distrustful of people.

The entire nation does NOT have to know about shit like this. Imagery, violence, negativity are highly effective on people’s outlook and perceptions of what reality is.

Why can’t the police just take care of stuff, notify only the people who it affected, and leave it at that? Because, the only shit they want to report on is the disheartening, the painful, the emotionally challenging, the stuff that pisses people off , tears people apart, asks people to destroy themselves. It’s all a game, political subterfuge, and, on a national level, mass crowd control.

My favorite quotation from Albert Einstein is:

“The most important decision you ever have to make is whether you live in a friendly universe or a hostile universe – in a positive universe or a negative universe.”

            That choice is completely up to you, but the more you watch, listen, read the “news” the more you’re allowing them to numb you, to wash you. Yes, I’m telling you that they are brainwashing us, all of us. They’ve been brainwashing us for years – they just don’t call it that. They call it giving you ‘the news’ (Fair and Balanced). ABC, CBS, CNN, MSNBC – it’s all Big Brother by different names, folks.

Do you realize that when you read the papers about terrorist attacks, you are, indirectly, giving THEM power. You’re giving the media power, you’re giving the political crowd-control background power, you’re giving terrorist groups (if they exist – no I don’t believe they do – and yes, you can call me naïve or ignorant or whatever; it’s a different discussion altogether) power, etc.

People all over the world just want one thing – peace. People just want to relax, chill out with some friends, have some food & drink, laugh, love, and live life. It’s the 1% of power-wielding shitheads out there that just aren’t cool with that. Why?

Because World Peace isn’t profitable.

What IS profitable, however is telling the masses of one nation how they should hate their neighbor nations (or other nations), how they should put money into war and weaponry “just in case”. As long as there’s an enemy, there’s a way to make cash.

People ask, “Well, if I don’t watch the news, I can’t stay informed.” The Internet it the most prodigious knowledge bank human history, and you’re worried about not being informed if you don’t watch “news” from certain ‘respectable sources’. They’re NOT respectable sources. They exist to fuck you – to change you, to rewire you. You have a brain to think for yourself, not to spew forth what someone else tells you to – no matter how much money it’s worth. People today are affixing numbing agent after numbing agent to their own creative spirit by avaricious means. If there’s money involved, and the price is right, they’ll do it.

I’ve digressed.

There are ways to find news out there that carries a more positive (at least objective) slant. If you value being informed by the day, you may want to ask yourself why it is you think that. Why do you need to be informed? Do you need to show that you know stuff. How about go learn all the capitals of Europe or the major rivers of South America. Go learn the Periodic Table of Elements  or the names of all the John Hughes movies. I mean if you just want to know shit, go learn shit. Learn shit that’s relative though, as opposed to feeling pissed off that people were killed by yet another series of bullets in some school. That’s just what they want you to feel – they want you to feel anger – YOU’RE PLAYING RIGHT INTO THEIR HANDS.

Stop reading the news, stop watching their dummy-lined goofy shows with lights, colors and people dressed in suits with nice haircuts. It’s all fake, false, and replete with propaganda – it’s poison and you’re the dummy rat…and they have endless supplies of it.

It’s your mind, it’s the most angelic, magical tool you have. You can do things with it, you would never believe until you witnessed it yourself. At the same time, you can give into their distractions, dumb-down candy, and poison. You can just accept the world they give you.

Protect it. Consider the thoughts you have and ask yourself if they’re your own or if they were handed to you with such frequency and for so long, that you’ve simply accepted them.

Blessings to all my brothers and sisters of Humanity. Blessings, Kindness, and Health.