Hello, vlog!!!
I will be reviewing this movie and writing notes as I write it!! It's 2 hours long, but I’ll try to write as much as possible.
“At historically black Mission College, the activist-minded Dap (Larry Fishburne) immerses himself in a world of political rhetoric and social movements -- one day. He hopes to rally the students as a united front. At the other end of the spectrum, Julian (Giancarlo Esposito), the head of the biggest fraternity on campus, is more concerned with maintaining a strict social order. In between, Dap's conflicted cousin, Half-Pint (Spike Lee), spends most of his time rushing the fraternity.”
(Google)
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From the film synopsis I found on Google, I feel like This movie may interest me. I am interested in the black college experiences and how they are portrayed in film. Let's get into it!! :D
1:49
the movie starts with an original song from the soundtrack, “I’m Building Me a Home.” The song slowly passed and sounded as if the blues genre of music inspired it. The music is played over images of colored people, seemingly in the 1900’s. The images depict black excellence and abundance, featuring black military officers and comrades, black working-class women, black athletes, and civil rights activists. and even some black peole in prestgest clothings! The lyrics depict a solemn struggle to find a sense of belonging but the truth to keep working...
“I'm buildin' me a home
This earthly heart
Is gonna soon decay
And the soul's gotta have, oh Lord, somewhere to stay.”
6:33
Oops, the tea between our brothers of Gamma Phi Gamma and the civil rights activist. Do they realize they are responding to the same side of the coin? (black abundance and expression) throwing violence at each other is crazy.
8:25
This is unrelated to the plot, but Rachel is kinda bad tho.
12:55
this was after the first hazing practice seen by the big brothers of Gamma Phi Gamma Frat. All I can say is I am so glad my process didn’t look anything like this. poor Darrel
16:57
black people not supporting black colleges, this pollotic is still up for debate today.. not much has changed, huh?
19:46
eughhh! Bro, it is so awkward! Reminds me exactly of my type, tho teehee teehee. Bro is never going to get non tho.
20:00 notice how every woman he spoke to was a LIGHTSKINNED woman….??? and all the women in the sorority are also light-skinned with loose curly hair. And all of the women against them are dark-skinned with short, kinky 4c type hair.
46:13
Rachel pledging Delta?? I think she's against sororities, but the more I think about it, maybe it’s for the service aspect.
1:01:50
her friends are just as supportive as her boyfriend, so why are they so against pledging? Times were different, and the stereotypes of undergraduate frats and sororities were more commonly shown through their members. For example, “AKAs” are prissy, and many members would hold up that prissy front. Back then, pledging really did change you, usually for the worse
1:04:29
“In life, there are times to be quiet.” This is so true, especially when you are fighting for the rights of someone/something. Sometimes, things must be done in silence to make a bigger impact.
1:09:06
bruh, these state-born individuals are upset because people are coming in out of state, getting a higher education, and taking their job positions. It's self-hatred aimed toward your own community. I hate when uneducated black folk claim that people with an education are close to whiteness just because they have a degree. If “being smart” is white, then what is being dumb?? Black?? I think this is an important undertone to take away from this movie.
1:18:35
THEY ARE SO AGAINST FRATS THAT THEY BECAME ONE?? Now, I'm sure that they see that black Greek life is about spreading ideals and the influence of artistic expression of black culture. Many dances are inspired by African dance culture. go, fellas :))
1:24:59
I know I’m no better than the folk putting up stereotypes when I say this, but Rachel would be a bomb-ass Delta.
1:26:22
ALRIGHT. I KNOW THEY AINT PULL UP MY SGRHO CHANT, “I got a feeling..I got a feeling, sorors,. I’ve gotta feeling.. that somebody’s tryna wear my blue and gold… but it takes a real woman to be a Sigma Gamma Rho..”
1:30:00
these suckas wanna belong so bad... I would do anything to join a fan club. #stopHazing It is so crazy to think that frats are exactly like this; it is so sick.
1:49:51
BRUH, is Julian like a retard or something?? like he is gaslighting his girlfriend(?) for getting with one of the neos, when he told her AND the neo to do so. This was always his plan so that he could break up with her.
1:51:58
Dap is a good cousin because wtf, why would Pint be proud of half of the shit he is doing. he is so edgy, so annoying.
What was that ending?? gosh this movie was a lot to digest. What could the symbolism of “wake up” mean?

FADE IN INT. SVU SQUADROOM - NIGHT DETECTIVES STABLER and ROBO-DRACULA wait at their adjoining desks. Shuffling endless amounts of paperwork in front of them. Mouths drooling with hunger. Stabler notices a CHINESE DELIVERY GUY. Two bags of food in his grasp.
STABLER About god damn time. My tum tum is so hungie
ROBO-DRACULA Approximately 19 minutes late, according to my satellite data.
The Delivery Guy fishes out a RECEIPT from one of the bags in his hands.
CHINESE DELIVERY GUY Eli...ot...Elliot...Stab...ler.
STABLER Close enough.
Stabler holds a TWENTY out for the Delivery Guy. They exchange the bags and money. The Delivery Guy isn’t happy.
CHINESE DELIVERY GUY That food cost $18.97! What, NYPD no tip? You know how hard it is to get to this part of city at this time of night, five-oh? I no scared of you! Po po no keep me down!
Stabler wants to give the Delivery Guy a tip of his fist. But his partner’s gaze tells him to otherwise.
ROBO-DRACULA Elliot... don’t forget our prime directive.
Stabler nods his head. Just wanting the guy to leave.
STABLER Alright. Here.
Stabler suddenly feels something odd in his pants. His eyes widen in disbelief.
STABLER What the...?
Stabler gives the Delivery Guy an extra TEN, his hand shaking nervously.
STABLER (cont’d) Now get out of here before I collar you for robbery.
CHINESE DELIVERY GUY (sarcastic) You too kind, Mr. Police Officer.
The Delivery Guy leaves.
Stabler hands ROBO-DRACULA his bottle of pink medicine as he sits down. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair as he hurries to scoop his food out of the bag. Almost as if he hasn’t eaten for days. He sniffs the air with a concerned look on his face.
ROBO-DRACULA Remind me never to get on your bad side with an empty stomach.
STABLER You read me like an open book, Robo-Dracula.
Stabler digs his fork into his food. Stops. Stands and touches the back of his pants. He sniffs the air again.
ROBO-DRACULA (suspicious) Is everything okay?
STABLER (acting casual) Yeah, everything's fine. Just a little... surprise.
ROBO-DRACULA (concerned) What kind of “minor surprise” are we talking about?
Stabler cautiously slips a hand down the back of his pants, suddenly his face contorts into a look of disgust.
STABLER (whispering) I sharted my pants when I was arguing with that delivery guy!
ROBO-DRACULA Will this impede your ability to function as a detective?
Stabler nods with a defeated look on his face.
STABLER We need to get rid of this thing before it gets even smellier.
ROBO-DRACULA I suggest we find a safe place outside to dispose of it.
Stabler and Robo-Dracula quickly gather their things and head towards the exit, trying their best to conceal the stench emanating from the shart
EXT. BACK ALLEY - NIGHT
Stabler and Robo-Dracula find a secluded spot in the alley. Stabler, fishes the poop from his underwear. He holds the poop carefully, looking around to make sure no one is watching.
STABLER Okay, on the count of three, you use your robo strength to toss it as far as you can. Ready?
ROBO-DRACULA Ready.
Stabler hands Robo-Dracula then turd and takes a deep breath.
STABLER One... two... three!
Robo-Dracula’s arm spins in a furious windmill launching the turd into the sky, they watch it soar through the air and land in a distant dumpster.
STABLER (relieved) Phew! Mission accomplished.
ROBO-DRACULA Indeed. Now we can go back to work.
They return to the squadroom, Stabler sits down to his dinner with a hungry look on his face.
STABLER I’ve waited all day for this... Stabler brings the food to his mouth. Just before he can bite down on it...
JANICE (O.S.) Excuse me. I need to speak with a police officer, please.
Stabler FREEZES with the food in front of his mouth. His head drops with defeat.
Behind, JANICE MCPICKLES, 50’s, upper class, stands in the doorway, eyeing the two detectives. Robo-Dracula manages to quickly drink his pink medicine in a single gulp.
ROBO-DRACULA Greetings. I’m Detective Robo-Dracula. This is my partner Detective Stabler. Please. Have a seat on this human chair.
JANICE Thank you.
Janice enters the squadroom. She takes a seat at the desk. She seems flustered, but still refined. She sniffs the air. Stabler and Robo-Dracula exchange a concerned look.
STABLER (whispering) She can smell it! It still stinks!
Robo-Cop scans Stabler quickly.
ROBO-COP (whispering) Your underwear are compromised. We need to eradicate them to neutralize the smell.
Stabler nods and shoves his food to the side.
ROBO-DRACULA What can we do for you, Ms...?
JANICE McPickles. Janice McPickles.
Stabler’s eye brow cocks.
STABLER As in Mayor McPickles?
JANICE Yes. Alan is my husband. But I’m not here about him. I’m here to report
JANICE wiggles her fingers in the air.
JANICE (cont’d) a vicious crime.
Robo-Dracula activates his recording enhancements.
ROBO-DRACULA What kind of crime?
STABLER Anything cool?
Janice takes a deep breath.
JANICE A dick punching.
ROBO-DRACULA (unflustered) You were dick punched?
JANICE (laughing) Oh dear God, no. But my poor, innocent son has been.
Janice pulls out a photo from her wallet. In the photo there is ALAN MCPICKLES, Janice, and her fraternal twins, HARPER, the girl, and PARKER, the boy. Both no older than 16.
JANICE (cont’d) That’s my little angel right there. Parker. Before his dick was punched. Say, do you two smell that?
Robo-Dracula whirrs as he commits some notes to his hard drive.
STABLER The sewage is backed up. Do you know who punched your son’s dick, Mrs. McPickles?
Janice stares Stabler right in the eye.
JANICE Yes. His teacher. Sylvia Daniels.
Stabler and Robo-Dracula share a look. Uh oh.
CUT TO INT. PATRICK ACADEMY LIBRARY - DAY
SYLVIA DANIELS, mid 20’s, sits at a table in the library tutoring a STUDENT. Very beautiful, but frail. She’s wearing heavy brass knuckles on her left hand.
Robo-Dracula and Stabler enter the library. Eyes locked on to Sylvia.
STABLER (whispering) You sure we couldn’t take a moment for me to change underwear? I can still smell it.
ROBO-DRACULA Every moment Sylvia is free the probability of another dick-punching incident increases. Target locked on.
Stabler climbs on Robo-Dracula’s back as Robo-Dracula lifts into the air. Together they hover across the room. Stabler and Robo-Dracula finally reach Sylvia’s table.
ROBO-DRACULA (cont’d) Sylvia Daniels?
Sylvia looks up. A warm smile on her face. Her nose scrunches.
SYLVIA Yes?
Robo-Dracula and Stabler show their BADGES.
STABLER Detective Stabler and The Robo-Dracula. NYPD Special Victims Unit. Could you stand up please and turn around submissively?
SYLVIA Is something wrong?
Robo-Dracula puts a hand on his police-issued sword.
ROBO-DRACULA Just please stand up, Miss Daniels.
Sylvia slowly rises from her chair. Fear rapidly starting to set in.
Robo-Dracula gently turns her around. Binds Sylvia’s hands behind her back with a fast-setting glue he eject from his robotic fingertips
Robo-Dracula (cont’d) Sylvia Daniels. You are under arrest for dick-punching. You have the right to remain silent. If you refuse that right, anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford one, one will be provided for you...
Student I think she pooped herself! Ughhh! I can smell it!
Stabler winks at the student.
Stabler Happens all the time kid.
Robo-Dracula and Stabler escort the handcuffed Sylvia out of the library as the student laugh and chant.
Students (in unison) TEACHER POOPED HER PANTS!
FADE OUT

I’m trapped. I can hear that thing lumbering through the hallway. My God, what the hell is it? I’m trying my best to keep quiet but I can’t help but whimper. The soft scratching of my pencil on this notepad sounds deafening in the quiet of this tiny closet. I’m almost certainly gonna die in this place. I just hope someone can find this, maybe it will do some good. Or maybe it already doesn’t matter. I’m not sure how long I have until that wheezing thing finds me. Oh God, or that grey stuff might ooze under the door and dissolve me. Oh my God! What it did to Benny, Bill, Jonesy and Donald! To all of them! Even if I don’t survive, the world needs to be warned!
Long story short, I was a cop but I got shot in the head. The doctors said I was lucky, that it went straight through without hitting anything vital. However, I still needed three steel plates to hold my fragmented skull together. Also ended up with permanent tremors in my right hand from brain damage. So it’s no surprise that my cop career didn’t thrive. Just a year later I was a “retired” 45-year-old cop, living on scraps. After a few months, I started to get desperate for work. One evening at my pub, my friend, Graham, mentioned an acquaintance who was looking for employees for some private research institute in the Mojave Desert. “What, are they still blowing A-bombs out there?” I scoffed, eyebrows arched with bemused incredulity. Graham stared down at his beer, “Not sure what the hell they do. But they pay super well, so who cares,” he took a long sip of beer, foam clinging to his lips, “I think it would be a good fit for you”.
Turns out this facility, and it really is known as the “Facility”, was located in the middle of nowhere. When I looked it up online I couldn’t find any information. Later that week I called the number that Graham had scrawled down for me on a beer stained napkin. My right hand was useless to me if I wanted it to do anything that required fine motor function, so when I dialed the number on my phone I had to use my left hand. The phone rang twice before a metallic feminine voice answered and said to hold for an operator. After a few seconds of muted elevator music, I spoke to a soft voiced man who told me my skill set was perfect for their current vacancy: a security management position. He said if I filled out some forms they would pay for me to fly on out for an interview in person.
One month and several NDAs later, I was employed again! By the time I started my new job I realized I had no idea what research went on down here. During the interviews my duties as a security manager had been discussed but any mention of their actual research interests had been carefully avoided, redacted or omitted. The security staff were also told to avoid fraternizing with anyone not from their own department, including security personnel from other sections of the Facility. On my first day I asked others about the nature of the Facility’s research, but no one had any interest. “Just stick to your contract. No point in rocking the boat,” my new boss, Bill, said to me curtly. So since then I’ve not discussed it with anyone else.
If only I had, maybe I would have seen this coming. The section of the Facility which I managed was section B.15. This area, like most of the core Facility, was located several hundred feet below the sun scorched surface of the Mojave Desert and comprised many green painted corridors peppered with tall, wide doors made from dark, stainless steel. The rooms inside were large and sterile. Artefacts were cleaned and studied in these rooms after they were brought from the excavation sites (sites E.1 through E.27). Of course, whether we wanted to know the nature of the research or not, eventually, after patrolling some of the research labs for weeks, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that the scientists were mostly archeologists or paleontologists. I would often find objects of different sizes and shapes lying around in various states of cleanliness. Some looked like ancient amphoras, or large stone bird baths. Others were less identifiable: a chipped statue, a melted lump of some unidentifiable metal or large chunks of a glass-like material. I found this all extremely curious because, as far as I knew, the Mojave Desert didn’t have much in the way of ancient architecture. At least of any ancient civilization that I know.
As the months went by I started to get friendly with the other guards, most of them ex-cops too, and we started playing cards and drinking Irish coffee in the evenings. My two main colleagues consisted of a jovial, short man with orange hair named Jonesy and a much older much grumpier and much balder man, Donald. They were good men and we had a lot of laughs together. My stomach twists when I think about where they are now. Though I grew fonder of my fellow guards, I found myself developing a severe dislike for the white coated researchers. Most of them were pernicious and arrogant. The only scientist my security buddies and me could stand was a scrawny man named Benny. Our favorite thing about Benny was that he never talked about his work.
It was earlier today, at around 1400h, when all the scientists were running from their rooms. They must have received some message a few minutes before and we watched them from the surveillance monitors as they got all excited and leapt up. Their lab coats flapped and flowed around as they jumped to their feet and made for the main exit. Soon after this the large red landline phone near my video surveillance desk began to ring. Expecting the call, I picked up the receiver before the first ring finished, “Hey boss, what’s all the excitement about?” Bill’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant “The diggers have found a friggin’ huge object out here! The biggest thing they’ve ever dug up, it’s really irregular. They want to bring it to B.15 and I need you to organize the logistics and security”. My brow furrowed, “I guess it’s too big for the main entrance? Maybe we could bring it in via the big doors of the auxiliary hangar?” Bill grunted with agreement, “Yea, we’ll have to improvise a bit but should be manageable. I have no idea what it is… well you’ll see for yourself. I’ll get some of the boys from B.14 to help you out. And just, well…” He paused for a moment, “just be careful.” I grunted, my eyebrow arched from surprise; why was he so afraid? “Um thanks, appreciate it, see you guys soon”.
Donald, Jonesy and I had coffee in the office and called the guards at the hangar doors to arrange clearance. About an hour later we were at the platform near the doors waiting for the cargo to arrive. The massive metal hangar doors had been opened, which was rare. What was more irregular was that nearly every staff member from sections B.11 to B.18 were all gathered together in a silent knot of people. Despite the silence the air sizzled with anticipation, as well as the searing heat. I stood transfixed from curiosity at the massive doorway, waiting in the shade of the hangar as the relentless sun beat down outside. In the distance I saw a black speck grow larger against the bright blue sky. Slowly it took the form of a helicopter which was carrying a large rectangular shaped mass below it.
Within less than a minute the helicopter made its cacophonous approach toward the hangar and gently lowered the object onto an enormous wooden scaffold. I barked orders and signed forms as the guards rushed about, making sure the other personnel stayed a safe distance away. The air was blaring with the sound of the helicopter blades and sand rocketed into my face, forcing me to splutter. “Alright, let’s get this thing processed!” I yelled over the sound of the helicopter as its engines powered down, my colleagues and I wiped dirt from our faces. Bill emerged swiftly from the chopper and shook my hand. We quickly reviewed the paper work he gave me and then he made his way back downstairs to his office in section B.1. He was keen to get away for some reason.
“Alright, it’s officially in my care now. Show’s over. Get the non-essential personnel out of here immediately and secure the object. I want to get Benny up here to analyze it ASAP.” As my colleagues cleared away most of the staff and the excitement died down I was finally able to take a moment to inspect the object. It had been lowered onto the wooden scaffold fitted with wheels just outside the hangar and had been pushed slowly into the center. The few aircraft in this hangar were all currently under repairs and were non-operational, therefore there was plenty of space. As soon as I saw the sheer size of the object, I knew it would be difficult to transport, but not impossible. The object was a wall. Or a large fragment of a wall.
It was about twenty feet long, eight feet thick and ten feet high. At first the wall appeared made from some sort of boring grey stone. However, when I looked closer the wall was… alive. The wall’s surface bubbled slightly. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I stepped closer. When I was only a few inches away from it I felt cold. A bead of sweat ran down my cheek and I thought I heard something. It sounded like someone far away calling my name.
I felt a strange pressure around my head. A sudden invasive thought wormed to life: throw yourself into the wall. I shuddered and held myself back despite the sudden strong desire. I heard the faint voice of Benny and crashed back to reality. My eyes snapped open and I found my nose an inch away from the wall. It radiated cold like an open freezer and it smelled like rotting clay. The surface of the wall simmered ever so slightly. It reminded me of the fizz of some grey effervescent medicine. I paled as I took a large step backward, “I.. uh, what is this?” I turned to face Benny who stood with another scientist. He glanced at her briefly before he approached the wall to apply more straps. He was careful to avoid touching the wall with his bare skin. “Honestly, we have no idea”.
I got Donald and Jonesy to help Benny transport the wall down to room 278B via the service elevator. Donald grumbled about how badly the wall smelled and Jonesy had eyes as large as saucers when he saw it up close, “It looks so unreal!” Once downstairs I returned to my office to get some more coffee and file away the paperwork. I tried to put the strangeness of the wall out of my mind, but it had truly unnerved me. I felt so tired, my forehead drenched with cold sweat. I had been working extra shifts lately, but I had never been hit by such exhaustion so rapidly. As I sat at my desk facing the surveillance monitors I was unable to fight the sleep forcing my eyes shut.
I’ve had many hangovers in my life, most of them unpleasant, but when I woke up at my desk I’d never felt quite so singularly awful. My clothes were soaked with sweat and my whole body felt exhausted. My arms felt like molasses as I attempted to move. My forehead throbbed and I felt bruised. I also felt a pressure squeezing my head from all sides. It was quite peculiar. I sat back in my seat and rubbed my eyes.
Then I froze.
A hand was lying motionless on the floor just behind the table in the center of the office. I leapt to my feet and rushed forward. I gasped from horror as I saw Donald lying on the floor, his chest sliced to ribbons. Gallons of crimson red stained his blue uniform and his eyes stared up empty and terrified. Pallid and shaking I went to my office landline to call for backup immediately. As the receiver met my ear my stomach dropped into my feet.
The line was dead.
The sole means of communication within the core Facility is done through landlines. The landlines are monitored at all times and any interruption results in an immediate response from security. We had many protocols and fail safes to ensure communication remained enabled, but the line was dead and there was no sign of any response. In fact, how long had I been asleep? What was happening? I rushed back to the monitors. I hadn’t noticed it before but I couldn’t see anyone. The cameras were all operating normally but not a single person could be seen. The corridors were just as green and bare as most late evenings. I looked at the clock, it was only 1817h. I had slept for about two and a half hours. Where were the janitors? My heart was hammering in my chest and I couldn’t catch my breath. Meanwhile my head was throbbing and my eyes were burning. Suddenly I heard an indistinct whisper. Gooseflesh bloomed all over my back and arms.
I’d heard this voice before.
I’d heard this voice from the wall.
I turned to the monitors and searched for the wall. It had been brought back to the surface; the hangar! It sat upon the bare ground right by the massive doors. However, the doors were all sealed. The wall itself looked different. It was enormous! Almost three times longer and taller and wider. Just then, I realized that the titanium blast doors had been sealed as well. My heart rate doubled as I noticed large dents, scorch marks and scratches all over the doors. Someone had tried to break them down. The hangar floor was covered in blood and ash as well as abandoned weapons. My God, I even saw a rocket-launcher lying blackened and fractured near the doors. What the hell had happened?
I spun my head to look at the security control panel on the wall to my left. My heart, already blaring, felt like it leapt out of my mouth. My eyes grew wide as I realized someone, probably Donald, had activated a quarantine procedure. This meant that the entire Facility would be sealed airtight. The only way to open any doors now was from the outside. My God! Why had he done this? Where was everyone? Did he try to wake me? Did I really sleep through all this? I looked back at Donald, my heart still hammering from seeing his dead eyes stare into mine. I sighed sadly and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was currently 1831h. I returned to the monitors and began to rewind the security footage.
Surveying the screens, I watched my past-self enter the security office at around 1600h. By 1610h I had passed-out on my chair, drool dangling from my mouth. “Ok, so let’s see where the wall was at that time. Should be room 278B.” I thought to myself aloud as I clicked on the button that would display the footage from that room as well as the surrounding corridors. The screen was black as the footage loaded and I was about to hit the play button but hesitated. Did I really want to see this? I closed my eyes and took a few slow breaths. I can’t figure my way out of here if I don’t know what’s going on. I have to know. I hit play.
The camera was located opposite the door giving a full view of the room. At first everything seemed normal. Benny and some other scientists had transported the wall into room 278B. It was 1623h when they were taking the straps off the wall. A loud popping sound was heard and the researchers spun around. The lights in the room dimmed and flickered. Suddenly something long and slimy exploded from the wall, curled around Benny, and pulled him in. He screamed in terror as he vanished, his cries immediately silenced. My jaw dropped open and a small yell escaped me.
Without realizing it, I was instantly on my feet, shaking my head in pure denial. My heart burst. What the hell was that? What the hell? What the hell? My head was full of static. I felt tears in my eyes as I watched guards and researchers rush into the room. The wall shimmered, it’s simmering surface began to boil and bubble and it grew three feet higher. I saw it reshape itself so that intricately carved figures appeared on the wall’s edge. I leant in closer and gasped. One of those figures looked just like Benny, his mouth stretched open wide into a permanent scream. I didn’t want to continue watching, but I had to. The guards and researchers were horrified by what they saw before them. Suddenly, without warning, their body postures relaxed, their eyes grew glassy, and their arms fell slack at their sides. Those within the room moved as if sleepwalking. Some stayed still while others left the room. Brow furrowed from confusion and fear, my eyes swiveled to the footage of the corridor outside. The guards and researchers that had just exited 278B immediately began attacking and grappling those around them. I yelped as a vacant-eyed guard lazily shot another man in the leg. The thrall then dragged the wounded guard into room 278B. The mad guard held the wounded guard’s leg fast as he casually walked into the grey wall, pulling the struggling man in behind him. During this altercation I noticed Donald for the first time, he was hiding behind the corner of the corridor at the far end and was firing his gun at the madmen. He didn’t manage to hit anyone though. He then ran over to help a stray researcher to their feet and then they both ran down the corridor and out of view.
I can still hear the cries of pain and pleas for mercy as those who fell victim to the thralls were each dragged into that horrifying wall. With every person it swallowed, the wall wriggled and grew and grew. More and more ghastly decorations began to bloom on its surface, all of them made from the bones or likenesses of those who had been absorbed. The bigger it got the stronger its psychic influence became until it seemed to reach nearly everyone in the Facility, turning them into thralls. I looked on in horror as one by one, all janitors, researchers, guards, diggers, admin staff, everyone gradually stopped what they were doing, mid conversation, their eyes emptying. The janitors dropped their mops and buckets. Researchers dropped precious materials and equipment without care, letting them smash to pieces. In unison they all slowly, with vacant expressions, moved toward room 278B. Among the horde of thralls, I saw Bill and Jonesy, and so many others I knew by face. A guy who’d held the door for me once, a researcher who always slurped her coffee at lunch. Hundreds of people! What filled me with an unnamable dread was that I knew what was gonna happen. I knew what was coming. I tried to shout at the monitors, “Stop! Wait!” I grabbed the monitors and shook them with frustration.
A terror began to fill my stomach, deep and cold and aching. Suddenly I noticed Donald reappear on the screen. He was trying to hold back the researcher he’d helped earlier, but it was useless. I saw Donald, chest heaving from effort, stare with incredulity as he sat defeated on the ground. Everyone else around him stumbled dreamily toward their doom. But Donald refused to give up. I saw him run from corridor to corridor, trying desperately to stop them. He threw chairs and tables in their way but they simply pushed them aside or jumped over them. I saw him run toward this office. I saw him enter, saw myself slumped on my chair still completely unconscious. I saw Donald try to shake me awake, he slapped me a few times and was yelling in frustration. He gave up with me eventually and ran over to activate the quarantine lockdown. I saw him tear down the hall back toward room 278B, pistol in hand.
My best guess was that he saw what was happening in room 278B and decided he was gonna stop it. However, as soon as he got close to the door a long pale tendril burst through the door directly into Donald’s chest. The tentacle had a hooked end and it slashed at him. I saw blood spurt out of him, saw him stumble and fall from the ground in fright. However, he still managed to get a hold of his gun and fired multiple shots at the tendril. It writhed and flailed. Donald took the opportunity to climb to his feet. He grimaced and clasped his chest as crimson leaked to the floor. He moved back down the corridor, much more slowly than before. Eventually he got back to the office. He locked the door and then collapsed. I cried out in frustration. That whole time I was completely useless!
My mind felt like static again for a few seconds. I couldn’t work out what my next move should be. A thought hit me hard, one I should really have thought of before. Why had Donald and I not been psychically affected by the wall? Everyone had been enslaved, everyone had been forced to walk into that wall. Why not Donald? And me? I knew it must be connected to my horrendous sleepiness. My eyes grew wide with sudden realization. “Shit, the steel plates in my head!” Donald had a single steel plate in his skull because of a rock-climbing accident he had in his 20s. When I got close to the wall, had it sensed my resistance? Had it tried to incapacitate me? If so, it means this thing possesses sentience.
While I pondered this, I noticed some thralls re-strap the wall in room 278B. They transported it to the elevator and back up to the hangar. Once there, the thralls moved the wall off the scaffold onto the floor and began to beat heavily on the large metal doors with bare fists. Some even shot at the doors with their handguns. The ricochets killed a few of them but not one single person seemed to even notice. Some of the guards even used a rocket launcher! I yelled with shock as they fired at deadly close range, lazily blowing themselves up, leaving the doors scorched. After this proved futile, the thralls all grew suddenly rigid. Next, they all formed a line in front of the wall and one shambling step after another, all the remaining employees were - assimilated. Even the dead and wounded were not spared. Those still alive carried the corpses of their fellow thralls into the wall.
It was 1705h when the last employee disappeared forever into the grey horror, and the wall expanded to its current size. Without warning, a large writhing mass of twisted limbs emerged from the wall. I gasped from horror. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was because the lighting in the hangar wasn’t good enough, but it definitely wasn’t human. Its silhouette was about seven feet tall and thin and stretched. It had too many legs and it didn’t seem to have a head. This thing lumbered over to the doors and began to strike them with a strength and ferocity one would only find in a starving polar bear. I could tell that the doors were taking strain, and they began to bend, but even then, they would not yield. After about half an hour of smashing the door, the creature stopped and slowly shambled toward the stairs. My heart froze. It was coming here! Or was it here already?
My eyes swiveled back to the main monitor and I was surprised to see Donald still alive. He was scratched and bleeding badly as he shakily pushed himself from the floor. He then looked up at the ammunitions cupboard and began to search through his keys. I saw him curse. He couldn’t find the key with his trembling, bloodied fingers. In the next instant his eyes bulged and he heaved as if vomiting. His body doubled over and long grey tendrils oozed from his mouth and wriggled furiously. He grabbed his throat and fell forward onto the floor. Frozen in horror I watched as his body squirmed and he wriggled as if his intestines were filled with snakes. I continued to watch absolutely transfixed as three long grey tendrils emerged again from between Donald’s lips. Slowly they wriggled free of his mouth. They were about half a foot long, dull grey and thin like spaghetti.
I watched as they slithered toward my unconscious form on the monitor. I bit my lip and stood up. Slowly my brain put two and two together. Bile rose in my throat. I yelled at myself to wake up and see the worms. Just then my stomach dropped and I could feel an itchiness in my belly. I could feel the wriggling itch of a thousand grey eels in my gut. Or was I imagining it?
My stomach writhed and I was about to puke when I saw myself awake and stretch in my chair. The worms somehow realized I was awake and they moved out of view towards the –before I could watch the screen any longer, I heard a hiss and something slimy and long wrapped itself around my throat so tight I couldn’t breathe. I gasped with surprise and strained my neck to look at the monitor that showed the room in real time. I saw from the camera behind my head that something thin and grey had wrapped itself around my throat. I saw two more of those things coming at me from behind as well. They were about to come wriggling up my chair when I grimaced with anger and grabbed my gun from its holster. The thing around my neck was hissing and making awful clicking and guttural noises. Its small worm head had a mouth that bit and it latched onto my neck to suck my blood. I pulled at the leach and pressed my gun up against it. I pulled the trigger. With an earsplitting bang and a sound like a water balloon popping the leach was reduced to sticky goo. I pulled the remnants of the leach off my neck and spun around just in time to shoot and kill the others. I grinned with a mad-joy and yelled with relief. Immediately, a wave of nausea and exhaustion hit me and I fell back onto my chair. “What the hell was that? What the hell do I do now?” I sat still for a moment and tried not to lose my mind completely. I swear I could hear Woody the woodpecker laughing somewhere in the distance. I needed to keep it together. I took a long deep breath and tried to think of a way out.
Summarizing the details of my predicament, I realized I was trapped alone inside the Facility with an otherworldly force. Also, even if I found a way out, I’d potentially be letting an evil into the world that could destroy all life. At once an old thought returned to me, one I’d often experienced as a cop. “If I need to sacrifice myself to save others, I will do so without complaint.” A wry smile spread over my face. “Once a cop, always a cop.” My smile vanished as a I continued to think. “But my God, if this thing gets out. If it gets into the minds of other people. If it gets larger and larger. Could it swallow the world? The solar system? What other monstrosities would it unleash?” I was talking aloud now; the sound of my voice gave a new reality to my situation that made me shudder. I turned back to the monitor. It seems I was all caught up with what had happened. I stared blankly into the screen while I watched my past-self continue to wake and wince from pain. I switched the monitor off and saw my reflection in the blackness of the screen. I was pale and my eyes were wide and unblinking. “What do I do now?” I turned in my chair to look at Donald’s body. Were all those worms gone? Could some still be hiding? And what should be done with his body? Probably best to have it burned. “Poor Donald, he didn’t deserve this”, I muttered softly as I examined his corpse, making sure there were no unexplained twitches beneath his skin. My eyes moved from his body up to the ammunition’s cupboard just above. “Wait, why was he trying to get into the cupboard earlier? We don’t have much…”, my eyes grew large with realization. “Holy crap, he was trying to get the bomb! Me and Donald were gonna use a left-over bomb from the excavation site to blow some random shit up!”
I sighed sadly and heavily. We never got around to it. I stood up quickly and walked up to the cupboard. I pulled out my keys and quickly found the key I’d need. I opened the cupboard with little effort and found the ten kilos of plastic explosive inside. It had already been set up with a sixty second timer and a remote detonator by a colleague. I sat at the table with the explosive, a vague plan forming in my broken mind. “Maybe if I somehow get this wall-thing to eat this bomb then...”
Before I could formulate my thoughts fully, the lights flickered, and the entire Facility was plunged into darkness unceremoniously. My nerves were burning with fear. What had happened? Had that thing knocked the power out somehow? The next few seconds that past were some of the longest I’d ever experienced. However, dim green light bloomed to life and the reserve power kicked in. Then I heard slow, shuffling footsteps in the corridor just outside the office. I froze once again, my insides turning to mush. My mind raced. Had I remembered to lock the door? My stomach leapt into my feet as I heard the shuffling get louder and louder. I heard hoarse, wheezing breaths, as if the thing struggled to breathe. I jumped from fright but remained absolutely silent as whatever the thing was banged on the door with a deafening blow.
BANG! The door shook and bent slightly.
BANG! Silence for a moment.
BANG! BANG! Again silence. My heart was hammering in my ears and I sat deathly still. I could hear that thing breathing louder. After a few moments I heard it shuffle away. My entire body was shaking as relief washed over me. Whatever the thing was, it had walked away and I could no longer hear it. I turned to look at the monitors. Dare I turn them on and check what it was? After a few seconds of consideration, holding my breath, I turned to the monitors and switched them on. I waited in nervous anticipation as the screens flickered to life showing me that all the corridors between me and the wall were currently empty. I didn’t bother checking the corridor I suspected the shambling thing was in. I didn’t want to see it unless I needed to. I’d had just about all the stress and terror I could take and by this stage I felt weirdly calm. It must be shock. A thin sigh escaped me as I stood. The fear in my blood began to feed a furnace of anger in my heart. I thought about all those who I had lost. I felt my expression turn to granite, “It’s time to kill this thing.”
I opened the door slowly, my fully loaded gun in my good hand. Spare ammo along with the explosive and a shotgun was stashed in my backpack, and the remote detonator was tied to my belt. I held a heavy-duty flashlight in my shaky right hand. I moved cautiously through the dark green corridors. I’d never thought of how creepy this place could be until this moment. Gooseflesh crept up my arms and neck as I continued. All I could hear were my soft footfalls and shallow anxious breaths. I cleared the corridors one by one until I made it to the stairs that would lead me to the thing that looks like a wall. I walked up the stairs slowly, my ears honing in on any sound. That’s when I heard it. I heard the soft sound of crying.
Someone was crying. I stopped dead in my tracks. My entire body shook from the adrenaline surging through me. I took one step. Then another. Slowly, I climbed. Once my head could peek over the top, I froze. Jonesy was squatting on his knees, naked. He was between the wall and me, with his back facing me. The terrifying thing loomed enormous before us. It was now framed intricately with the skeletons of hundreds of people, all twisted and screaming in agony. Writhing, tortured souls fused together. Then came the sound of crying and moaning from the wall. I could hear them all. They were all screaming. Screaming for me to help them. To join them. I felt that pressure squeeze against my skull tighter and tighter. I shook my head in defiance. “No! You bastard! NO! I will not join you! You’re not Jonesy!” All at once the moans and wails stopped. I suddenly found myself at the top of the stairs without knowing when I’d finished climbing them. “But we are Jonesy” came a voice that was not human. It was a voice made from all those it had swallowed up. It was as though something had made a distorted copy of the voices of all those people and then just used them all at once to speak. It didn’t understand the concept of individuality. All of a sudden, the wall rippled and grey tendrils squirmed from the flesh of the wall, curling around Jonesy as they teased his face and slowly pulled him in. As he disappeared there was a horrendous sucking, squelching noise. “We are Jonesy. We are all. We can be all. We will be all. All and all and more than all.” The voice was chanting this over and over. Louder and louder.
A deafening blast came from the wall and a slithering, writhing mass of tangled human limbs emerged. It had four legs and several arms. It looked like the bodies of eight or more people shuffled and glued into an otherworldly horror. Its multiple mouths screamed a high pitch squeal that was more horrifying than the screams of the damned, and its sharp pointed teeth gnashed and chomped. I only had a second to dodge this monster. I leapt to the side and fired multiple shots at the thing’s center of mass. Its horrifying body of fused torsos wriggled and bled black ichor. It screamed with pain and jumped at me, grabbing my leg. It tossed me into the air and I almost lost my gun as I slammed into the floor a few feet away. Before I could catch my breath, it was upon me again. From the ground I fired several shots at it. This made it jump away and scuttle down the stairs. With it momentarily out of sight, I quickly got to my feet and kept my eyes on the stairs.
After a second, I decided to kneel and take off my backpack as fast as I could. I pulled out the bomb and started the timer. I also decided to get the shotgun out and get it loaded. I needed to do this now or never. As the final shell clicked into place I heard a roar coming from the stairs. The thing was back. Before I could react, it leapt at me and knocked me to the ground. The bomb flew from my grasp. It bared down on me, grabbing at my throat ready to tear me apart. My reflexes saved me though and I managed to use my shotgun to hold the thing at bay, but it was too strong. Desperate, I kicked it hard in the chest and it let go. I used this moment to grab the bomb that lay behind me; only 37 seconds to go! Terrified and crazed, sweat pouring down my face, my mind in pieces, I rammed the bomb into the creature’s mouth and kicked it back again as hard as I could. I heard it yelp like a wounded dog and it lost its footing. It fell sideways and in that second, I took my shotgun and fired at it in the chest. The force of the close-range blast sent me flying. At the same time the creature was hurled back into the wall where it was enveloped quickly.
My head was fuzzy. I was dizzy and the wind had been knocked out of me. Was the bomb going to work? I felt something warm and wet drip into my ear and touched the side of my head. My fingertips came away soaked in blood. My head was spinning. With a foggy mind I grabbed my bag, collecting my weapons and flashlight. As I stood up I heard a low rumbling sound. The ground beneath my feet shook and for a moment I was confused. Then I looked up at the wall. Its surface was roiling and boiling like I’d never seen before. It was shaking and growing. I turned to run when suddenly there was a massive blast from inside it, and the entire wall exploded into hundreds of small grey chunks. These chunks rained down all around the hangar, smashing several aircraft. The blast knocked me off my feet and this time I definitely passed out because when I awoke I could see daylight through the tiny cracks in the blast door. Where the wall had once been now stood a small blackened crater. I turned around to inspect the wall pieces and found that they – my eyes grew wide and my mouth opened. They were melting. As I approached a fragment of wall, a horrible twisted hand shot out at me. I yelled and jumped away. It was still alive! I watched in dumbfounded horror as the pieces continued to melt and began to merge, just like that scene from Terminator 2.
It was rebuilding itself. Then I heard a groan. My blood became ice. I turned slowly in terror to find the shambling, wheezing monstrosity behind me. Like the creature I'd shot, this one seemed made from bits and pieces of human limbs knitted together randomly. This one had legs which came out its mouth, its head positioned within its torso where the bellybutton should be, and it wheezed in pain. I almost puked from fright but my legs were already carrying me away. I sprinted down the corridors, ignoring all the pain and fear and exhaustion and anger and frustration I had inside me. Without thinking, I leapt into the first janitor's closet I found and locked the door with a dull clunking sound. After catching my breath, I found this notepad and pencil, and have been writing this report in the sterile glow of my flashlight. Hopefully, I have left some useful information for anyone who may find this.
Now I lie in wait for that thing. Now I lie in wait for that grey ooze. What is that thing? Is it truly indestructible? If it can survive a bomb like that, what hope do we have? It’s no wall at all. It’s a membrane. An interface. Somewhere very different is pressing up against us. It has torn a small hole, and was now prying it open further. I should blow up this whole damn place! I should burn it! But would it matter? Or would it just be buried, to be rediscovered? I think even if I survive this, nothing can help us. So here I wait, hoping to be saved, but even as I write this I can hear that thing walking past the door. With a soft click I turn off my flashlight. I try not to breathe. I can hear the snuffling, it’s right outside! I can smell its ugly breath.
Oh God! I hear the jingling of keys. The door is unlocking! How? How?
Oh God! The doorknob is turning...

I’m trapped. I can hear that thing lumbering through the hallway. My God, what the hell is it? I’m trying my best to keep quiet but I can’t help but whimper. The soft scratching of my pencil on this notepad sounds deafening in the quiet of this tiny closet. I’m almost certainly gonna die in this place. I just hope someone can find this, maybe it will do some good. Or maybe it already doesn’t matter. I’m not sure how long I have until that wheezing thing finds me. Oh God, or that grey stuff might ooze under the door and dissolve me. Oh my God! What it did to Benny, Bill, Jonesy and Donald! To all of them! Even if I don’t survive, the world needs to be warned!
Long story short, I was a cop but I got shot in the head. The doctors said I was lucky, that it went straight through without hitting anything vital. However, I still needed three steel plates to hold my fragmented skull together. Also ended up with permanent tremors in my right hand from brain damage. So it’s no surprise that my cop career didn’t thrive. Just a year later I was a “retired” 45-year-old cop, living on scraps. After a few months, I started to get desperate for work. One evening at my pub, my friend, Graham, mentioned an acquaintance who was looking for employees for some private research institute in the Mojave Desert. “What, are they still blowing A-bombs out there?” I scoffed, eyebrows arched with bemused incredulity. Graham stared down at his beer, “Not sure what the hell they do. But they pay super well, so who cares,” he took a long sip of beer, foam clinging to his lips, “I think it would be a good fit for you”.
Turns out this facility, and it really is known as the “Facility”, was located in the middle of nowhere. When I looked it up online I couldn’t find any information. Later that week I called the number that Graham had scrawled down for me on a beer stained napkin. My right hand was useless to me if I wanted it to do anything that required fine motor function, so when I dialed the number on my phone I had to use my left hand. The phone rang twice before a metallic feminine voice answered and said to hold for an operator. After a few seconds of muted elevator music, I spoke to a soft voiced man who told me my skill set was perfect for their current vacancy: a security management position. He said if I filled out some forms they would pay for me to fly on out for an interview in person.
One month and several NDAs later, I was employed again! By the time I started my new job I realized I had no idea what research went on down here. During the interviews my duties as a security manager had been discussed but any mention of their actual research interests had been carefully avoided, redacted or omitted. The security staff were also told to avoid fraternizing with anyone not from their own department, including security personnel from other sections of the Facility. On my first day I asked others about the nature of the Facility’s research, but no one had any interest. “Just stick to your contract. No point in rocking the boat,” my new boss, Bill, said to me curtly. So since then I’ve not discussed it with anyone else.
If only I had, maybe I would have seen this coming. The section of the Facility which I managed was section B.15. This area, like most of the core Facility, was located several hundred feet below the sun scorched surface of the Mojave Desert and comprised many green painted corridors peppered with tall, wide doors made from dark, stainless steel. The rooms inside were large and sterile. Artefacts were cleaned and studied in these rooms after they were brought from the excavation sites (sites E.1 through E.27). Of course, whether we wanted to know the nature of the research or not, eventually, after patrolling some of the research labs for weeks, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that the scientists were mostly archeologists or paleontologists. I would often find objects of different sizes and shapes lying around in various states of cleanliness. Some looked like ancient amphoras, or large stone bird baths. Others were less identifiable: a chipped statue, a melted lump of some unidentifiable metal or large chunks of a glass-like material. I found this all extremely curious because, as far as I knew, the Mojave Desert didn’t have much in the way of ancient architecture. At least of any ancient civilization that I know.
As the months went by I started to get friendly with the other guards, most of them ex-cops too, and we started playing cards and drinking Irish coffee in the evenings. My two main colleagues consisted of a jovial, short man with orange hair named Jonesy and a much older much grumpier and much balder man, Donald. They were good men and we had a lot of laughs together. My stomach twists when I think about where they are now. Though I grew fonder of my fellow guards, I found myself developing a severe dislike for the white coated researchers. Most of them were pernicious and arrogant. The only scientist my security buddies and me could stand was a scrawny man named Benny. Our favorite thing about Benny was that he never talked about his work.
It was earlier today, at around 1400h, when all the scientists were running from their rooms. They must have received some message a few minutes before and we watched them from the surveillance monitors as they got all excited and leapt up. Their lab coats flapped and flowed around as they jumped to their feet and made for the main exit. Soon after this the large red landline phone near my video surveillance desk began to ring. Expecting the call, I picked up the receiver before the first ring finished, “Hey boss, what’s all the excitement about?” Bill’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant “The diggers have found a friggin’ huge object out here! The biggest thing they’ve ever dug up, it’s really irregular. They want to bring it to B.15 and I need you to organize the logistics and security”. My brow furrowed, “I guess it’s too big for the main entrance? Maybe we could bring it in via the big doors of the auxiliary hangar?” Bill grunted with agreement, “Yea, we’ll have to improvise a bit but should be manageable. I have no idea what it is… well you’ll see for yourself. I’ll get some of the boys from B.14 to help you out. And just, well…” He paused for a moment, “just be careful.” I grunted, my eyebrow arched from surprise; why was he so afraid? “Um thanks, appreciate it, see you guys soon”.
Donald, Jonesy and I had coffee in the office and called the guards at the hangar doors to arrange clearance. About an hour later we were at the platform near the doors waiting for the cargo to arrive. The massive metal hangar doors had been opened, which was rare. What was more irregular was that nearly every staff member from sections B.11 to B.18 were all gathered together in a silent knot of people. Despite the silence the air sizzled with anticipation, as well as the searing heat. I stood transfixed from curiosity at the massive doorway, waiting in the shade of the hangar as the relentless sun beat down outside. In the distance I saw a black speck grow larger against the bright blue sky. Slowly it took the form of a helicopter which was carrying a large rectangular shaped mass below it.
Within less than a minute the helicopter made its cacophonous approach toward the hangar and gently lowered the object onto an enormous wooden scaffold. I barked orders and signed forms as the guards rushed about, making sure the other personnel stayed a safe distance away. The air was blaring with the sound of the helicopter blades and sand rocketed into my face, forcing me to splutter. “Alright, let’s get this thing processed!” I yelled over the sound of the helicopter as its engines powered down, my colleagues and I wiped dirt from our faces. Bill emerged swiftly from the chopper and shook my hand. We quickly reviewed the paper work he gave me and then he made his way back downstairs to his office in section B.1. He was keen to get away for some reason.
“Alright, it’s officially in my care now. Show’s over. Get the non-essential personnel out of here immediately and secure the object. I want to get Benny up here to analyze it ASAP.” As my colleagues cleared away most of the staff and the excitement died down I was finally able to take a moment to inspect the object. It had been lowered onto the wooden scaffold fitted with wheels just outside the hangar and had been pushed slowly into the center. The few aircraft in this hangar were all currently under repairs and were non-operational, therefore there was plenty of space. As soon as I saw the sheer size of the object, I knew it would be difficult to transport, but not impossible. The object was a wall. Or a large fragment of a wall.
It was about twenty feet long, eight feet thick and ten feet high. At first the wall appeared made from some sort of boring grey stone. However, when I looked closer the wall was… alive. The wall’s surface bubbled slightly. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I stepped closer. When I was only a few inches away from it I felt cold. A bead of sweat ran down my cheek and I thought I heard something. It sounded like someone far away calling my name.
I felt a strange pressure around my head. A sudden invasive thought wormed to life: throw yourself into the wall. I shuddered and held myself back despite the sudden strong desire. I heard the faint voice of Benny and crashed back to reality. My eyes snapped open and I found my nose an inch away from the wall. It radiated cold like an open freezer and it smelled like rotting clay. The surface of the wall simmered ever so slightly. It reminded me of the fizz of some grey effervescent medicine. I paled as I took a large step backward, “I.. uh, what is this?” I turned to face Benny who stood with another scientist. He glanced at her briefly before he approached the wall to apply more straps. He was careful to avoid touching the wall with his bare skin. “Honestly, we have no idea”.
I got Donald and Jonesy to help Benny transport the wall down to room 278B via the service elevator. Donald grumbled about how badly the wall smelled and Jonesy had eyes as large as saucers when he saw it up close, “It looks so unreal!” Once downstairs I returned to my office to get some more coffee and file away the paperwork. I tried to put the strangeness of the wall out of my mind, but it had truly unnerved me. I felt so tired, my forehead drenched with cold sweat. I had been working extra shifts lately, but I had never been hit by such exhaustion so rapidly. As I sat at my desk facing the surveillance monitors I was unable to fight the sleep forcing my eyes shut.
I’ve had many hangovers in my life, most of them unpleasant, but when I woke up at my desk I’d never felt quite so singularly awful. My clothes were soaked with sweat and my whole body felt exhausted. My arms felt like molasses as I attempted to move. My forehead throbbed and I felt bruised. I also felt a pressure squeezing my head from all sides. It was quite peculiar. I sat back in my seat and rubbed my eyes.
Then I froze.
A hand was lying motionless on the floor just behind the table in the center of the office. I leapt to my feet and rushed forward. I gasped from horror as I saw Donald lying on the floor, his chest sliced to ribbons. Gallons of crimson red stained his blue uniform and his eyes stared up empty and terrified. Pallid and shaking I went to my office landline to call for backup immediately. As the receiver met my ear my stomach dropped into my feet.
The line was dead.
The sole means of communication within the core Facility is done through landlines. The landlines are monitored at all times and any interruption results in an immediate response from security. We had many protocols and fail safes to ensure communication remained enabled, but the line was dead and there was no sign of any response. In fact, how long had I been asleep? What was happening? I rushed back to the monitors. I hadn’t noticed it before but I couldn’t see anyone. The cameras were all operating normally but not a single person could be seen. The corridors were just as green and bare as most late evenings. I looked at the clock, it was only 1817h. I had slept for about two and a half hours. Where were the janitors? My heart was hammering in my chest and I couldn’t catch my breath. Meanwhile my head was throbbing and my eyes were burning. Suddenly I heard an indistinct whisper. Gooseflesh bloomed all over my back and arms.
I’d heard this voice before.
I’d heard this voice from the wall.
I turned to the monitors and searched for the wall. It had been brought back to the surface; the hangar! It sat upon the bare ground right by the massive doors. However, the doors were all sealed. The wall itself looked different. It was enormous! Almost three times longer and taller and wider. Just then, I realized that the titanium blast doors had been sealed as well. My heart rate doubled as I noticed large dents, scorch marks and scratches all over the doors. Someone had tried to break them down. The hangar floor was covered in blood and ash as well as abandoned weapons. My God, I even saw a rocket-launcher lying blackened and fractured near the doors. What the hell had happened?
I spun my head to look at the security control panel on the wall to my left. My heart, already blaring, felt like it leapt out of my mouth. My eyes grew wide as I realized someone, probably Donald, had activated a quarantine procedure. This meant that the entire Facility would be sealed airtight. The only way to open any doors now was from the outside. My God! Why had he done this? Where was everyone? Did he try to wake me? Did I really sleep through all this? I looked back at Donald, my heart still hammering from seeing his dead eyes stare into mine. I sighed sadly and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was currently 1831h. I returned to the monitors and began to rewind the security footage.
Surveying the screens, I watched my past-self enter the security office at around 1600h. By 1610h I had passed-out on my chair, drool dangling from my mouth. “Ok, so let’s see where the wall was at that time. Should be room 278B.” I thought to myself aloud as I clicked on the button that would display the footage from that room as well as the surrounding corridors. The screen was black as the footage loaded and I was about to hit the play button but hesitated. Did I really want to see this? I closed my eyes and took a few slow breaths. I can’t figure my way out of here if I don’t know what’s going on. I have to know. I hit play.
The camera was located opposite the door giving a full view of the room. At first everything seemed normal. Benny and some other scientists had transported the wall into room 278B. It was 1623h when they were taking the straps off the wall. A loud popping sound was heard and the researchers spun around. The lights in the room dimmed and flickered. Suddenly something long and slimy exploded from the wall, curled around Benny, and pulled him in. He screamed in terror as he vanished, his cries immediately silenced. My jaw dropped open and a small yell escaped me.
Without realizing it, I was instantly on my feet, shaking my head in pure denial. My heart burst. What the hell was that? What the hell? What the hell? My head was full of static. I felt tears in my eyes as I watched guards and researchers rush into the room. The wall shimmered, it’s simmering surface began to boil and bubble and it grew three feet higher. I saw it reshape itself so that intricately carved figures appeared on the wall’s edge. I leant in closer and gasped. One of those figures looked just like Benny, his mouth stretched open wide into a permanent scream. I didn’t want to continue watching, but I had to. The guards and researchers were horrified by what they saw before them. Suddenly, without warning, their body postures relaxed, their eyes grew glassy, and their arms fell slack at their sides. Those within the room moved as if sleepwalking. Some stayed still while others left the room. Brow furrowed from confusion and fear, my eyes swiveled to the footage of the corridor outside. The guards and researchers that had just exited 278B immediately began attacking and grappling those around them. I yelped as a vacant-eyed guard lazily shot another man in the leg. The thrall then dragged the wounded guard into room 278B. The mad guard held the wounded guard’s leg fast as he casually walked into the grey wall, pulling the struggling man in behind him. During this altercation I noticed Donald for the first time, he was hiding behind the corner of the corridor at the far end and was firing his gun at the madmen. He didn’t manage to hit anyone though. He then ran over to help a stray researcher to their feet and then they both ran down the corridor and out of view.
I can still hear the cries of pain and pleas for mercy as those who fell victim to the thralls were each dragged into that horrifying wall. With every person it swallowed, the wall wriggled and grew and grew. More and more ghastly decorations began to bloom on its surface, all of them made from the bones or likenesses of those who had been absorbed. The bigger it got the stronger its psychic influence became until it seemed to reach nearly everyone in the Facility, turning them into thralls. I looked on in horror as one by one, all janitors, researchers, guards, diggers, admin staff, everyone gradually stopped what they were doing, mid conversation, their eyes emptying. The janitors dropped their mops and buckets. Researchers dropped precious materials and equipment without care, letting them smash to pieces. In unison they all slowly, with vacant expressions, moved toward room 278B. Among the horde of thralls, I saw Bill and Jonesy, and so many others I knew by face. A guy who’d held the door for me once, a researcher who always slurped her coffee at lunch. Hundreds of people! What filled me with an unnamable dread was that I knew what was gonna happen. I knew what was coming. I tried to shout at the monitors, “Stop! Wait!” I grabbed the monitors and shook them with frustration.
A terror began to fill my stomach, deep and cold and aching. Suddenly I noticed Donald reappear on the screen. He was trying to hold back the researcher he’d helped earlier, but it was useless. I saw Donald, chest heaving from effort, stare with incredulity as he sat defeated on the ground. Everyone else around him stumbled dreamily toward their doom. But Donald refused to give up. I saw him run from corridor to corridor, trying desperately to stop them. He threw chairs and tables in their way but they simply pushed them aside or jumped over them. I saw him run toward this office. I saw him enter, saw myself slumped on my chair still completely unconscious. I saw Donald try to shake me awake, he slapped me a few times and was yelling in frustration. He gave up with me eventually and ran over to activate the quarantine lockdown. I saw him tear down the hall back toward room 278B, pistol in hand.
My best guess was that he saw what was happening in room 278B and decided he was gonna stop it. However, as soon as he got close to the door a long pale tendril burst through the door directly into Donald’s chest. The tentacle had a hooked end and it slashed at him. I saw blood spurt out of him, saw him stumble and fall from the ground in fright. However, he still managed to get a hold of his gun and fired multiple shots at the tendril. It writhed and flailed. Donald took the opportunity to climb to his feet. He grimaced and clasped his chest as crimson leaked to the floor. He moved back down the corridor, much more slowly than before. Eventually he got back to the office. He locked the door and then collapsed. I cried out in frustration. That whole time I was completely useless!
My mind felt like static again for a few seconds. I couldn’t work out what my next move should be. A thought hit me hard, one I should really have thought of before. Why had Donald and I not been psychically affected by the wall? Everyone had been enslaved, everyone had been forced to walk into that wall. Why not Donald? And me? I knew it must be connected to my horrendous sleepiness. My eyes grew wide with sudden realization. “Shit, the steel plates in my head!” Donald had a single steel plate in his skull because of a rock-climbing accident he had in his 20s. When I got close to the wall, had it sensed my resistance? Had it tried to incapacitate me? If so, it means this thing possesses sentience.
While I pondered this, I noticed some thralls re-strap the wall in room 278B. They transported it to the elevator and back up to the hangar. Once there, the thralls moved the wall off the scaffold onto the floor and began to beat heavily on the large metal doors with bare fists. Some even shot at the doors with their handguns. The ricochets killed a few of them but not one single person seemed to even notice. Some of the guards even used a rocket launcher! I yelled with shock as they fired at deadly close range, lazily blowing themselves up, leaving the doors scorched. After this proved futile, the thralls all grew suddenly rigid. Next, they all formed a line in front of the wall and one shambling step after another, all the remaining employees were - assimilated. Even the dead and wounded were not spared. Those still alive carried the corpses of their fellow thralls into the wall.
It was 1705h when the last employee disappeared forever into the grey horror, and the wall expanded to its current size. Without warning, a large writhing mass of twisted limbs emerged from the wall. I gasped from horror. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was because the lighting in the hangar wasn’t good enough, but it definitely wasn’t human. Its silhouette was about seven feet tall and thin and stretched. It had too many legs and it didn’t seem to have a head. This thing lumbered over to the doors and began to strike them with a strength and ferocity one would only find in a starving polar bear. I could tell that the doors were taking strain, and they began to bend, but even then, they would not yield. After about half an hour of smashing the door, the creature stopped and slowly shambled toward the stairs. My heart froze. It was coming here! Or was it here already?
My eyes swiveled back to the main monitor and I was surprised to see Donald still alive. He was scratched and bleeding badly as he shakily pushed himself from the floor. He then looked up at the ammunitions cupboard and began to search through his keys. I saw him curse. He couldn’t find the key with his trembling, bloodied fingers. In the next instant his eyes bulged and he heaved as if vomiting. His body doubled over and long grey tendrils oozed from his mouth and wriggled furiously. He grabbed his throat and fell forward onto the floor. Frozen in horror I watched as his body squirmed and he wriggled as if his intestines were filled with snakes. I continued to watch absolutely transfixed as three long grey tendrils emerged again from between Donald’s lips. Slowly they wriggled free of his mouth. They were about half a foot long, dull grey and thin like spaghetti.
I watched as they slithered toward my unconscious form on the monitor. I bit my lip and stood up. Slowly my brain put two and two together. Bile rose in my throat. I yelled at myself to wake up and see the worms. Just then my stomach dropped and I could feel an itchiness in my belly. I could feel the wriggling itch of a thousand grey eels in my gut. Or was I imagining it?
My stomach writhed and I was about to puke when I saw myself awake and stretch in my chair. The worms somehow realized I was awake and they moved out of view towards the –before I could watch the screen any longer, I heard a hiss and something slimy and long wrapped itself around my throat so tight I couldn’t breathe. I gasped with surprise and strained my neck to look at the monitor that showed the room in real time. I saw from the camera behind my head that something thin and grey had wrapped itself around my throat. I saw two more of those things coming at me from behind as well. They were about to come wriggling up my chair when I grimaced with anger and grabbed my gun from its holster. The thing around my neck was hissing and making awful clicking and guttural noises. Its small worm head had a mouth that bit and it latched onto my neck to suck my blood. I pulled at the leach and pressed my gun up against it. I pulled the trigger. With an earsplitting bang and a sound like a water balloon popping the leach was reduced to sticky goo. I pulled the remnants of the leach off my neck and spun around just in time to shoot and kill the others. I grinned with a mad-joy and yelled with relief. Immediately, a wave of nausea and exhaustion hit me and I fell back onto my chair. “What the hell was that? What the hell do I do now?” I sat still for a moment and tried not to lose my mind completely. I swear I could hear Woody the woodpecker laughing somewhere in the distance. I needed to keep it together. I took a long deep breath and tried to think of a way out.
Summarizing the details of my predicament, I realized I was trapped alone inside the Facility with an otherworldly force. Also, even if I found a way out, I’d potentially be letting an evil into the world that could destroy all life. At once an old thought returned to me, one I’d often experienced as a cop. “If I need to sacrifice myself to save others, I will do so without complaint.” A wry smile spread over my face. “Once a cop, always a cop.” My smile vanished as a I continued to think. “But my God, if this thing gets out. If it gets into the minds of other people. If it gets larger and larger. Could it swallow the world? The solar system? What other monstrosities would it unleash?” I was talking aloud now; the sound of my voice gave a new reality to my situation that made me shudder. I turned back to the monitor. It seems I was all caught up with what had happened. I stared blankly into the screen while I watched my past-self continue to wake and wince from pain. I switched the monitor off and saw my reflection in the blackness of the screen. I was pale and my eyes were wide and unblinking. “What do I do now?” I turned in my chair to look at Donald’s body. Were all those worms gone? Could some still be hiding? And what should be done with his body? Probably best to have it burned. “Poor Donald, he didn’t deserve this”, I muttered softly as I examined his corpse, making sure there were no unexplained twitches beneath his skin. My eyes moved from his body up to the ammunition’s cupboard just above. “Wait, why was he trying to get into the cupboard earlier? We don’t have much…”, my eyes grew large with realization. “Holy crap, he was trying to get the bomb! Me and Donald were gonna use a left-over bomb from the excavation site to blow some random shit up!”
I sighed sadly and heavily. We never got around to it. I stood up quickly and walked up to the cupboard. I pulled out my keys and quickly found the key I’d need. I opened the cupboard with little effort and found the ten kilos of plastic explosive inside. It had already been set up with a sixty second timer and a remote detonator by a colleague. I sat at the table with the explosive, a vague plan forming in my broken mind. “Maybe if I somehow get this wall-thing to eat this bomb then...”
Before I could formulate my thoughts fully, the lights flickered, and the entire Facility was plunged into darkness unceremoniously. My nerves were burning with fear. What had happened? Had that thing knocked the power out somehow? The next few seconds that past were some of the longest I’d ever experienced. However, dim green light bloomed to life and the reserve power kicked in. Then I heard slow, shuffling footsteps in the corridor just outside the office. I froze once again, my insides turning to mush. My mind raced. Had I remembered to lock the door? My stomach leapt into my feet as I heard the shuffling get louder and louder. I heard hoarse, wheezing breaths, as if the thing struggled to breathe. I jumped from fright but remained absolutely silent as whatever the thing was banged on the door with a deafening blow.
BANG! The door shook and bent slightly.
BANG! Silence for a moment.
BANG! BANG! Again silence. My heart was hammering in my ears and I sat deathly still. I could hear that thing breathing louder. After a few moments I heard it shuffle away. My entire body was shaking as relief washed over me. Whatever the thing was, it had walked away and I could no longer hear it. I turned to look at the monitors. Dare I turn them on and check what it was? After a few seconds of consideration, holding my breath, I turned to the monitors and switched them on. I waited in nervous anticipation as the screens flickered to life showing me that all the corridors between me and the wall were currently empty. I didn’t bother checking the corridor I suspected the shambling thing was in. I didn’t want to see it unless I needed to. I’d had just about all the stress and terror I could take and by this stage I felt weirdly calm. It must be shock. A thin sigh escaped me as I stood. The fear in my blood began to feed a furnace of anger in my heart. I thought about all those who I had lost. I felt my expression turn to granite, “It’s time to kill this thing.”
I opened the door slowly, my fully loaded gun in my good hand. Spare ammo along with the explosive and a shotgun was stashed in my backpack, and the remote detonator was tied to my belt. I held a heavy-duty flashlight in my shaky right hand. I moved cautiously through the dark green corridors. I’d never thought of how creepy this place could be until this moment. Gooseflesh crept up my arms and neck as I continued. All I could hear were my soft footfalls and shallow anxious breaths. I cleared the corridors one by one until I made it to the stairs that would lead me to the thing that looks like a wall. I walked up the stairs slowly, my ears honing in on any sound. That’s when I heard it. I heard the soft sound of crying.
Someone was crying. I stopped dead in my tracks. My entire body shook from the adrenaline surging through me. I took one step. Then another. Slowly, I climbed. Once my head could peek over the top, I froze. Jonesy was squatting on his knees, naked. He was between the wall and me, with his back facing me. The terrifying thing loomed enormous before us. It was now framed intricately with the skeletons of hundreds of people, all twisted and screaming in agony. Writhing, tortured souls fused together. Then came the sound of crying and moaning from the wall. I could hear them all. They were all screaming. Screaming for me to help them. To join them. I felt that pressure squeeze against my skull tighter and tighter. I shook my head in defiance. “No! You bastard! NO! I will not join you! You’re not Jonesy!” All at once the moans and wails stopped. I suddenly found myself at the top of the stairs without knowing when I’d finished climbing them. “But we are Jonesy” came a voice that was not human. It was a voice made from all those it had swallowed up. It was as though something had made a distorted copy of the voices of all those people and then just used them all at once to speak. It didn’t understand the concept of individuality. All of a sudden, the wall rippled and grey tendrils squirmed from the flesh of the wall, curling around Jonesy as they teased his face and slowly pulled him in. As he disappeared there was a horrendous sucking, squelching noise. “We are Jonesy. We are all. We can be all. We will be all. All and all and more than all.” The voice was chanting this over and over. Louder and louder.
A deafening blast came from the wall and a slithering, writhing mass of tangled human limbs emerged. It had four legs and several arms. It looked like the bodies of eight or more people shuffled and glued into an otherworldly horror. Its multiple mouths screamed a high pitch squeal that was more horrifying than the screams of the damned, and its sharp pointed teeth gnashed and chomped. I only had a second to dodge this monster. I leapt to the side and fired multiple shots at the thing’s center of mass. Its horrifying body of fused torsos wriggled and bled black ichor. It screamed with pain and jumped at me, grabbing my leg. It tossed me into the air and I almost lost my gun as I slammed into the floor a few feet away. Before I could catch my breath, it was upon me again. From the ground I fired several shots at it. This made it jump away and scuttle down the stairs. With it momentarily out of sight, I quickly got to my feet and kept my eyes on the stairs.
After a second, I decided to kneel and take off my backpack as fast as I could. I pulled out the bomb and started the timer. I also decided to get the shotgun out and get it loaded. I needed to do this now or never. As the final shell clicked into place I heard a roar coming from the stairs. The thing was back. Before I could react, it leapt at me and knocked me to the ground. The bomb flew from my grasp. It bared down on me, grabbing at my throat ready to tear me apart. My reflexes saved me though and I managed to use my shotgun to hold the thing at bay, but it was too strong. Desperate, I kicked it hard in the chest and it let go. I used this moment to grab the bomb that lay behind me; only 37 seconds to go! Terrified and crazed, sweat pouring down my face, my mind in pieces, I rammed the bomb into the creature’s mouth and kicked it back again as hard as I could. I heard it yelp like a wounded dog and it lost its footing. It fell sideways and in that second, I took my shotgun and fired at it in the chest. The force of the close-range blast sent me flying. At the same time the creature was hurled back into the wall where it was enveloped quickly.
My head was fuzzy. I was dizzy and the wind had been knocked out of me. Was the bomb going to work? I felt something warm and wet drip into my ear and touched the side of my head. My fingertips came away soaked in blood. My head was spinning. With a foggy mind I grabbed my bag, collecting my weapons and flashlight. As I stood up I heard a low rumbling sound. The ground beneath my feet shook and for a moment I was confused. Then I looked up at the wall. Its surface was roiling and boiling like I’d never seen before. It was shaking and growing. I turned to run when suddenly there was a massive blast from inside it, and the entire wall exploded into hundreds of small grey chunks. These chunks rained down all around the hangar, smashing several aircraft. The blast knocked me off my feet and this time I definitely passed out because when I awoke I could see daylight through the tiny cracks in the blast door. Where the wall had once been now stood a small blackened crater. I turned around to inspect the wall pieces and found that they – my eyes grew wide and my mouth opened. They were melting. As I approached a fragment of wall, a horrible twisted hand shot out at me. I yelled and jumped away. It was still alive! I watched in dumbfounded horror as the pieces continued to melt and began to merge, just like that scene from Terminator 2.
It was rebuilding itself. Then I heard a groan. My blood became ice. I turned slowly in terror to find the shambling, wheezing monstrosity behind me. Like the creature I'd shot, this one seemed made from bits and pieces of human limbs knitted together randomly. This one had legs which came out its mouth, its head positioned within its torso where the bellybutton should be, and it wheezed in pain. I almost puked from fright but my legs were already carrying me away. I sprinted down the corridors, ignoring all the pain and fear and exhaustion and anger and frustration I had inside me. Without thinking, I leapt into the first janitor's closet I found and locked the door with a dull clunking sound. After catching my breath, I found this notepad and pencil, and have been writing this report in the sterile glow of my flashlight. Hopefully, I have left some useful information for anyone who may find this.
Now I lie in wait for that thing. Now I lie in wait for that grey ooze. What is that thing? Is it truly indestructible? If it can survive a bomb like that, what hope do we have? It’s no wall at all. It’s a membrane. An interface. Somewhere very different is pressing up against us. It has torn a small hole, and was now prying it open further. I should blow up this whole damn place! I should burn it! But would it matter? Or would it just be buried, to be rediscovered? I think even if I survive this, nothing can help us. So here I wait, hoping to be saved, but even as I write this I can hear that thing walking past the door. With a soft click I turn off my flashlight. I try not to breathe. I can hear the snuffling, it’s right outside! I can smell its ugly breath.
Oh God! I hear the jingling of keys. The door is unlocking! How? How?
Oh God! The doorknob is turning...

I’m trapped. I can hear that thing lumbering through the hallway. My God, what the hell is it? I’m trying my best to keep quiet but I can’t help but whimper. The soft scratching of my pencil on this notepad sounds deafening in the quiet of this tiny closet. I’m almost certainly gonna die in this place. I just hope someone can find this, maybe it will do some good. Or maybe it already doesn’t matter. I’m not sure how long I have until that wheezing thing finds me. Oh God, or that grey stuff might ooze under the door and dissolve me. Oh my God! What it did to Benny, Bill, Jonesy and Donald! To all of them! Even if I don’t survive, the world needs to be warned!
Long story short, I was a cop but I got shot in the head. The doctors said I was lucky, that it went straight through without hitting anything vital. However, I still needed three steel plates to hold my fragmented skull together. Also ended up with permanent tremors in my right hand from brain damage. So it’s no surprise that my cop career didn’t thrive. Just a year later I was a “retired” 45-year-old cop, living on scraps. After a few months, I started to get desperate for work. One evening at my pub, my friend, Graham, mentioned an acquaintance who was looking for employees for some private research institute in the Mojave Desert. “What, are they still blowing A-bombs out there?” I scoffed, eyebrows arched with bemused incredulity. Graham stared down at his beer, “Not sure what the hell they do. But they pay super well, so who cares,” he took a long sip of beer, foam clinging to his lips, “I think it would be a good fit for you”.
Turns out this facility, and it really is known as the “Facility”, was located in the middle of nowhere. When I looked it up online I couldn’t find any information. Later that week I called the number that Graham had scrawled down for me on a beer stained napkin. My right hand was useless to me if I wanted it to do anything that required fine motor function, so when I dialed the number on my phone I had to use my left hand. The phone rang twice before a metallic feminine voice answered and said to hold for an operator. After a few seconds of muted elevator music, I spoke to a soft voiced man who told me my skill set was perfect for their current vacancy: a security management position. He said if I filled out some forms they would pay for me to fly on out for an interview in person.
One month and several NDAs later, I was employed again! By the time I started my new job I realized I had no idea what research went on down here. During the interviews my duties as a security manager had been discussed but any mention of their actual research interests had been carefully avoided, redacted or omitted. The security staff were also told to avoid fraternizing with anyone not from their own department, including security personnel from other sections of the Facility. On my first day I asked others about the nature of the Facility’s research, but no one had any interest. “Just stick to your contract. No point in rocking the boat,” my new boss, Bill, said to me curtly. So since then I’ve not discussed it with anyone else.
If only I had, maybe I would have seen this coming. The section of the Facility which I managed was section B.15. This area, like most of the core Facility, was located several hundred feet below the sun scorched surface of the Mojave Desert and comprised many green painted corridors peppered with tall, wide doors made from dark, stainless steel. The rooms inside were large and sterile. Artefacts were cleaned and studied in these rooms after they were brought from the excavation sites (sites E.1 through E.27). Of course, whether we wanted to know the nature of the research or not, eventually, after patrolling some of the research labs for weeks, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that the scientists were mostly archeologists or paleontologists. I would often find objects of different sizes and shapes lying around in various states of cleanliness. Some looked like ancient amphoras, or large stone bird baths. Others were less identifiable: a chipped statue, a melted lump of some unidentifiable metal or large chunks of a glass-like material. I found this all extremely curious because, as far as I knew, the Mojave Desert didn’t have much in the way of ancient architecture. At least of any ancient civilization that I know.
As the months went by I started to get friendly with the other guards, most of them ex-cops too, and we started playing cards and drinking Irish coffee in the evenings. My two main colleagues consisted of a jovial, short man with orange hair named Jonesy and a much older much grumpier and much balder man, Donald. They were good men and we had a lot of laughs together. My stomach twists when I think about where they are now. Though I grew fonder of my fellow guards, I found myself developing a severe dislike for the white coated researchers. Most of them were pernicious and arrogant. The only scientist my security buddies and me could stand was a scrawny man named Benny. Our favorite thing about Benny was that he never talked about his work.
It was earlier today, at around 1400h, when all the scientists were running from their rooms. They must have received some message a few minutes before and we watched them from the surveillance monitors as they got all excited and leapt up. Their lab coats flapped and flowed around as they jumped to their feet and made for the main exit. Soon after this the large red landline phone near my video surveillance desk began to ring. Expecting the call, I picked up the receiver before the first ring finished, “Hey boss, what’s all the excitement about?” Bill’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant “The diggers have found a friggin’ huge object out here! The biggest thing they’ve ever dug up, it’s really irregular. They want to bring it to B.15 and I need you to organize the logistics and security”. My brow furrowed, “I guess it’s too big for the main entrance? Maybe we could bring it in via the big doors of the auxiliary hangar?” Bill grunted with agreement, “Yea, we’ll have to improvise a bit but should be manageable. I have no idea what it is… well you’ll see for yourself. I’ll get some of the boys from B.14 to help you out. And just, well…” He paused for a moment, “just be careful.” I grunted, my eyebrow arched from surprise; why was he so afraid? “Um thanks, appreciate it, see you guys soon”.
Donald, Jonesy and I had coffee in the office and called the guards at the hangar doors to arrange clearance. About an hour later we were at the platform near the doors waiting for the cargo to arrive. The massive metal hangar doors had been opened, which was rare. What was more irregular was that nearly every staff member from sections B.11 to B.18 were all gathered together in a silent knot of people. Despite the silence the air sizzled with anticipation, as well as the searing heat. I stood transfixed from curiosity at the massive doorway, waiting in the shade of the hangar as the relentless sun beat down outside. In the distance I saw a black speck grow larger against the bright blue sky. Slowly it took the form of a helicopter which was carrying a large rectangular shaped mass below it.
Within less than a minute the helicopter made its cacophonous approach toward the hangar and gently lowered the object onto an enormous wooden scaffold. I barked orders and signed forms as the guards rushed about, making sure the other personnel stayed a safe distance away. The air was blaring with the sound of the helicopter blades and sand rocketed into my face, forcing me to splutter. “Alright, let’s get this thing processed!” I yelled over the sound of the helicopter as its engines powered down, my colleagues and I wiped dirt from our faces. Bill emerged swiftly from the chopper and shook my hand. We quickly reviewed the paper work he gave me and then he made his way back downstairs to his office in section B.1. He was keen to get away for some reason.
“Alright, it’s officially in my care now. Show’s over. Get the non-essential personnel out of here immediately and secure the object. I want to get Benny up here to analyze it ASAP.” As my colleagues cleared away most of the staff and the excitement died down I was finally able to take a moment to inspect the object. It had been lowered onto the wooden scaffold fitted with wheels just outside the hangar and had been pushed slowly into the center. The few aircraft in this hangar were all currently under repairs and were non-operational, therefore there was plenty of space. As soon as I saw the sheer size of the object, I knew it would be difficult to transport, but not impossible. The object was a wall. Or a large fragment of a wall.
It was about twenty feet long, eight feet thick and ten feet high. At first the wall appeared made from some sort of boring grey stone. However, when I looked closer the wall was… alive. The wall’s surface bubbled slightly. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I stepped closer. When I was only a few inches away from it I felt cold. A bead of sweat ran down my cheek and I thought I heard something. It sounded like someone far away calling my name.
I felt a strange pressure around my head. A sudden invasive thought wormed to life: throw yourself into the wall. I shuddered and held myself back despite the sudden strong desire. I heard the faint voice of Benny and crashed back to reality. My eyes snapped open and I found my nose an inch away from the wall. It radiated cold like an open freezer and it smelled like rotting clay. The surface of the wall simmered ever so slightly. It reminded me of the fizz of some grey effervescent medicine. I paled as I took a large step backward, “I.. uh, what is this?” I turned to face Benny who stood with another scientist. He glanced at her briefly before he approached the wall to apply more straps. He was careful to avoid touching the wall with his bare skin. “Honestly, we have no idea”.
I got Donald and Jonesy to help Benny transport the wall down to room 278B via the service elevator. Donald grumbled about how badly the wall smelled and Jonesy had eyes as large as saucers when he saw it up close, “It looks so unreal!” Once downstairs I returned to my office to get some more coffee and file away the paperwork. I tried to put the strangeness of the wall out of my mind, but it had truly unnerved me. I felt so tired, my forehead drenched with cold sweat. I had been working extra shifts lately, but I had never been hit by such exhaustion so rapidly. As I sat at my desk facing the surveillance monitors I was unable to fight the sleep forcing my eyes shut.
I’ve had many hangovers in my life, most of them unpleasant, but when I woke up at my desk I’d never felt quite so singularly awful. My clothes were soaked with sweat and my whole body felt exhausted. My arms felt like molasses as I attempted to move. My forehead throbbed and I felt bruised. I also felt a pressure squeezing my head from all sides. It was quite peculiar. I sat back in my seat and rubbed my eyes.
Then I froze.
A hand was lying motionless on the floor just behind the table in the center of the office. I leapt to my feet and rushed forward. I gasped from horror as I saw Donald lying on the floor, his chest sliced to ribbons. Gallons of crimson red stained his blue uniform and his eyes stared up empty and terrified. Pallid and shaking I went to my office landline to call for backup immediately. As the receiver met my ear my stomach dropped into my feet.
The line was dead.
The sole means of communication within the core Facility is done through landlines. The landlines are monitored at all times and any interruption results in an immediate response from security. We had many protocols and fail safes to ensure communication remained enabled, but the line was dead and there was no sign of any response. In fact, how long had I been asleep? What was happening? I rushed back to the monitors. I hadn’t noticed it before but I couldn’t see anyone. The cameras were all operating normally but not a single person could be seen. The corridors were just as green and bare as most late evenings. I looked at the clock, it was only 1817h. I had slept for about two and a half hours. Where were the janitors? My heart was hammering in my chest and I couldn’t catch my breath. Meanwhile my head was throbbing and my eyes were burning. Suddenly I heard an indistinct whisper. Gooseflesh bloomed all over my back and arms.
I’d heard this voice before.
I’d heard this voice from the wall.
I turned to the monitors and searched for the wall. It had been brought back to the surface; the hangar! It sat upon the bare ground right by the massive doors. However, the doors were all sealed. The wall itself looked different. It was enormous! Almost three times longer and taller and wider. Just then, I realized that the titanium blast doors had been sealed as well. My heart rate doubled as I noticed large dents, scorch marks and scratches all over the doors. Someone had tried to break them down. The hangar floor was covered in blood and ash as well as abandoned weapons. My God, I even saw a rocket-launcher lying blackened and fractured near the doors. What the hell had happened?
I spun my head to look at the security control panel on the wall to my left. My heart, already blaring, felt like it leapt out of my mouth. My eyes grew wide as I realized someone, probably Donald, had activated a quarantine procedure. This meant that the entire Facility would be sealed airtight. The only way to open any doors now was from the outside. My God! Why had he done this? Where was everyone? Did he try to wake me? Did I really sleep through all this? I looked back at Donald, my heart still hammering from seeing his dead eyes stare into mine. I sighed sadly and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was currently 1831h. I returned to the monitors and began to rewind the security footage.
Surveying the screens, I watched my past-self enter the security office at around 1600h. By 1610h I had passed-out on my chair, drool dangling from my mouth. “Ok, so let’s see where the wall was at that time. Should be room 278B.” I thought to myself aloud as I clicked on the button that would display the footage from that room as well as the surrounding corridors. The screen was black as the footage loaded and I was about to hit the play button but hesitated. Did I really want to see this? I closed my eyes and took a few slow breaths. I can’t figure my way out of here if I don’t know what’s going on. I have to know. I hit play.
The camera was located opposite the door giving a full view of the room. At first everything seemed normal. Benny and some other scientists had transported the wall into room 278B. It was 1623h when they were taking the straps off the wall. A loud popping sound was heard and the researchers spun around. The lights in the room dimmed and flickered. Suddenly something long and slimy exploded from the wall, curled around Benny, and pulled him in. He screamed in terror as he vanished, his cries immediately silenced. My jaw dropped open and a small yell escaped me.
Without realizing it, I was instantly on my feet, shaking my head in pure denial. My heart burst. What the hell was that? What the hell? What the hell? My head was full of static. I felt tears in my eyes as I watched guards and researchers rush into the room. The wall shimmered, it’s simmering surface began to boil and bubble and it grew three feet higher. I saw it reshape itself so that intricately carved figures appeared on the wall’s edge. I leant in closer and gasped. One of those figures looked just like Benny, his mouth stretched open wide into a permanent scream. I didn’t want to continue watching, but I had to. The guards and researchers were horrified by what they saw before them. Suddenly, without warning, their body postures relaxed, their eyes grew glassy, and their arms fell slack at their sides. Those within the room moved as if sleepwalking. Some stayed still while others left the room. Brow furrowed from confusion and fear, my eyes swiveled to the footage of the corridor outside. The guards and researchers that had just exited 278B immediately began attacking and grappling those around them. I yelped as a vacant-eyed guard lazily shot another man in the leg. The thrall then dragged the wounded guard into room 278B. The mad guard held the wounded guard’s leg fast as he casually walked into the grey wall, pulling the struggling man in behind him. During this altercation I noticed Donald for the first time, he was hiding behind the corner of the corridor at the far end and was firing his gun at the madmen. He didn’t manage to hit anyone though. He then ran over to help a stray researcher to their feet and then they both ran down the corridor and out of view.
I can still hear the cries of pain and pleas for mercy as those who fell victim to the thralls were each dragged into that horrifying wall. With every person it swallowed, the wall wriggled and grew and grew. More and more ghastly decorations began to bloom on its surface, all of them made from the bones or likenesses of those who had been absorbed. The bigger it got the stronger its psychic influence became until it seemed to reach nearly everyone in the Facility, turning them into thralls. I looked on in horror as one by one, all janitors, researchers, guards, diggers, admin staff, everyone gradually stopped what they were doing, mid conversation, their eyes emptying. The janitors dropped their mops and buckets. Researchers dropped precious materials and equipment without care, letting them smash to pieces. In unison they all slowly, with vacant expressions, moved toward room 278B. Among the horde of thralls, I saw Bill and Jonesy, and so many others I knew by face. A guy who’d held the door for me once, a researcher who always slurped her coffee at lunch. Hundreds of people! What filled me with an unnamable dread was that I knew what was gonna happen. I knew what was coming. I tried to shout at the monitors, “Stop! Wait!” I grabbed the monitors and shook them with frustration.
A terror began to fill my stomach, deep and cold and aching. Suddenly I noticed Donald reappear on the screen. He was trying to hold back the researcher he’d helped earlier, but it was useless. I saw Donald, chest heaving from effort, stare with incredulity as he sat defeated on the ground. Everyone else around him stumbled dreamily toward their doom. But Donald refused to give up. I saw him run from corridor to corridor, trying desperately to stop them. He threw chairs and tables in their way but they simply pushed them aside or jumped over them. I saw him run toward this office. I saw him enter, saw myself slumped on my chair still completely unconscious. I saw Donald try to shake me awake, he slapped me a few times and was yelling in frustration. He gave up with me eventually and ran over to activate the quarantine lockdown. I saw him tear down the hall back toward room 278B, pistol in hand.
My best guess was that he saw what was happening in room 278B and decided he was gonna stop it. However, as soon as he got close to the door a long pale tendril burst through the door directly into Donald’s chest. The tentacle had a hooked end and it slashed at him. I saw blood spurt out of him, saw him stumble and fall from the ground in fright. However, he still managed to get a hold of his gun and fired multiple shots at the tendril. It writhed and flailed. Donald took the opportunity to climb to his feet. He grimaced and clasped his chest as crimson leaked to the floor. He moved back down the corridor, much more slowly than before. Eventually he got back to the office. He locked the door and then collapsed. I cried out in frustration. That whole time I was completely useless!
My mind felt like static again for a few seconds. I couldn’t work out what my next move should be. A thought hit me hard, one I should really have thought of before. Why had Donald and I not been psychically affected by the wall? Everyone had been enslaved, everyone had been forced to walk into that wall. Why not Donald? And me? I knew it must be connected to my horrendous sleepiness. My eyes grew wide with sudden realization. “Shit, the steel plates in my head!” Donald had a single steel plate in his skull because of a rock-climbing accident he had in his 20s. When I got close to the wall, had it sensed my resistance? Had it tried to incapacitate me? If so, it means this thing possesses sentience.
While I pondered this, I noticed some thralls re-strap the wall in room 278B. They transported it to the elevator and back up to the hangar. Once there, the thralls moved the wall off the scaffold onto the floor and began to beat heavily on the large metal doors with bare fists. Some even shot at the doors with their handguns. The ricochets killed a few of them but not one single person seemed to even notice. Some of the guards even used a rocket launcher! I yelled with shock as they fired at deadly close range, lazily blowing themselves up, leaving the doors scorched. After this proved futile, the thralls all grew suddenly rigid. Next, they all formed a line in front of the wall and one shambling step after another, all the remaining employees were - assimilated. Even the dead and wounded were not spared. Those still alive carried the corpses of their fellow thralls into the wall.
It was 1705h when the last employee disappeared forever into the grey horror, and the wall expanded to its current size. Without warning, a large writhing mass of twisted limbs emerged from the wall. I gasped from horror. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was because the lighting in the hangar wasn’t good enough, but it definitely wasn’t human. Its silhouette was about seven feet tall and thin and stretched. It had too many legs and it didn’t seem to have a head. This thing lumbered over to the doors and began to strike them with a strength and ferocity one would only find in a starving polar bear. I could tell that the doors were taking strain, and they began to bend, but even then, they would not yield. After about half an hour of smashing the door, the creature stopped and slowly shambled toward the stairs. My heart froze. It was coming here! Or was it here already?
My eyes swiveled back to the main monitor and I was surprised to see Donald still alive. He was scratched and bleeding badly as he shakily pushed himself from the floor. He then looked up at the ammunitions cupboard and began to search through his keys. I saw him curse. He couldn’t find the key with his trembling, bloodied fingers. In the next instant his eyes bulged and he heaved as if vomiting. His body doubled over and long grey tendrils oozed from his mouth and wriggled furiously. He grabbed his throat and fell forward onto the floor. Frozen in horror I watched as his body squirmed and he wriggled as if his intestines were filled with snakes. I continued to watch absolutely transfixed as three long grey tendrils emerged again from between Donald’s lips. Slowly they wriggled free of his mouth. They were about half a foot long, dull grey and thin like spaghetti.
I watched as they slithered toward my unconscious form on the monitor. I bit my lip and stood up. Slowly my brain put two and two together. Bile rose in my throat. I yelled at myself to wake up and see the worms. Just then my stomach dropped and I could feel an itchiness in my belly. I could feel the wriggling itch of a thousand grey eels in my gut. Or was I imagining it?
My stomach writhed and I was about to puke when I saw myself awake and stretch in my chair. The worms somehow realized I was awake and they moved out of view towards the –before I could watch the screen any longer, I heard a hiss and something slimy and long wrapped itself around my throat so tight I couldn’t breathe. I gasped with surprise and strained my neck to look at the monitor that showed the room in real time. I saw from the camera behind my head that something thin and grey had wrapped itself around my throat. I saw two more of those things coming at me from behind as well. They were about to come wriggling up my chair when I grimaced with anger and grabbed my gun from its holster. The thing around my neck was hissing and making awful clicking and guttural noises. Its small worm head had a mouth that bit and it latched onto my neck to suck my blood. I pulled at the leach and pressed my gun up against it. I pulled the trigger. With an earsplitting bang and a sound like a water balloon popping the leach was reduced to sticky goo. I pulled the remnants of the leach off my neck and spun around just in time to shoot and kill the others. I grinned with a mad-joy and yelled with relief. Immediately, a wave of nausea and exhaustion hit me and I fell back onto my chair. “What the hell was that? What the hell do I do now?” I sat still for a moment and tried not to lose my mind completely. I swear I could hear Woody the woodpecker laughing somewhere in the distance. I needed to keep it together. I took a long deep breath and tried to think of a way out.
Summarizing the details of my predicament, I realized I was trapped alone inside the Facility with an otherworldly force. Also, even if I found a way out, I’d potentially be letting an evil into the world that could destroy all life. At once an old thought returned to me, one I’d often experienced as a cop. “If I need to sacrifice myself to save others, I will do so without complaint.” A wry smile spread over my face. “Once a cop, always a cop.” My smile vanished as a I continued to think. “But my God, if this thing gets out. If it gets into the minds of other people. If it gets larger and larger. Could it swallow the world? The solar system? What other monstrosities would it unleash?” I was talking aloud now; the sound of my voice gave a new reality to my situation that made me shudder. I turned back to the monitor. It seems I was all caught up with what had happened. I stared blankly into the screen while I watched my past-self continue to wake and wince from pain. I switched the monitor off and saw my reflection in the blackness of the screen. I was pale and my eyes were wide and unblinking. “What do I do now?” I turned in my chair to look at Donald’s body. Were all those worms gone? Could some still be hiding? And what should be done with his body? Probably best to have it burned. “Poor Donald, he didn’t deserve this”, I muttered softly as I examined his corpse, making sure there were no unexplained twitches beneath his skin. My eyes moved from his body up to the ammunition’s cupboard just above. “Wait, why was he trying to get into the cupboard earlier? We don’t have much…”, my eyes grew large with realization. “Holy crap, he was trying to get the bomb! Me and Donald were gonna use a left-over bomb from the excavation site to blow some random shit up!”
I sighed sadly and heavily. We never got around to it. I stood up quickly and walked up to the cupboard. I pulled out my keys and quickly found the key I’d need. I opened the cupboard with little effort and found the ten kilos of plastic explosive inside. It had already been set up with a sixty second timer and a remote detonator by a colleague. I sat at the table with the explosive, a vague plan forming in my broken mind. “Maybe if I somehow get this wall-thing to eat this bomb then...”
Before I could formulate my thoughts fully, the lights flickered, and the entire Facility was plunged into darkness unceremoniously. My nerves were burning with fear. What had happened? Had that thing knocked the power out somehow? The next few seconds that past were some of the longest I’d ever experienced. However, dim green light bloomed to life and the reserve power kicked in. Then I heard slow, shuffling footsteps in the corridor just outside the office. I froze once again, my insides turning to mush. My mind raced. Had I remembered to lock the door? My stomach leapt into my feet as I heard the shuffling get louder and louder. I heard hoarse, wheezing breaths, as if the thing struggled to breathe. I jumped from fright but remained absolutely silent as whatever the thing was banged on the door with a deafening blow.
BANG! The door shook and bent slightly.
BANG! Silence for a moment.
BANG! BANG! Again silence. My heart was hammering in my ears and I sat deathly still. I could hear that thing breathing louder. After a few moments I heard it shuffle away. My entire body was shaking as relief washed over me. Whatever the thing was, it had walked away and I could no longer hear it. I turned to look at the monitors. Dare I turn them on and check what it was? After a few seconds of consideration, holding my breath, I turned to the monitors and switched them on. I waited in nervous anticipation as the screens flickered to life showing me that all the corridors between me and the wall were currently empty. I didn’t bother checking the corridor I suspected the shambling thing was in. I didn’t want to see it unless I needed to. I’d had just about all the stress and terror I could take and by this stage I felt weirdly calm. It must be shock. A thin sigh escaped me as I stood. The fear in my blood began to feed a furnace of anger in my heart. I thought about all those who I had lost. I felt my expression turn to granite, “It’s time to kill this thing.”
I opened the door slowly, my fully loaded gun in my good hand. Spare ammo along with the explosive and a shotgun was stashed in my backpack, and the remote detonator was tied to my belt. I held a heavy-duty flashlight in my shaky right hand. I moved cautiously through the dark green corridors. I’d never thought of how creepy this place could be until this moment. Gooseflesh crept up my arms and neck as I continued. All I could hear were my soft footfalls and shallow anxious breaths. I cleared the corridors one by one until I made it to the stairs that would lead me to the thing that looks like a wall. I walked up the stairs slowly, my ears honing in on any sound. That’s when I heard it. I heard the soft sound of crying.
Someone was crying. I stopped dead in my tracks. My entire body shook from the adrenaline surging through me. I took one step. Then another. Slowly, I climbed. Once my head could peek over the top, I froze. Jonesy was squatting on his knees, naked. He was between the wall and me, with his back facing me. The terrifying thing loomed enormous before us. It was now framed intricately with the skeletons of hundreds of people, all twisted and screaming in agony. Writhing, tortured souls fused together. Then came the sound of crying and moaning from the wall. I could hear them all. They were all screaming. Screaming for me to help them. To join them. I felt that pressure squeeze against my skull tighter and tighter. I shook my head in defiance. “No! You bastard! NO! I will not join you! You’re not Jonesy!” All at once the moans and wails stopped. I suddenly found myself at the top of the stairs without knowing when I’d finished climbing them. “But we are Jonesy” came a voice that was not human. It was a voice made from all those it had swallowed up. It was as though something had made a distorted copy of the voices of all those people and then just used them all at once to speak. It didn’t understand the concept of individuality. All of a sudden, the wall rippled and grey tendrils squirmed from the flesh of the wall, curling around Jonesy as they teased his face and slowly pulled him in. As he disappeared there was a horrendous sucking, squelching noise. “We are Jonesy. We are all. We can be all. We will be all. All and all and more than all.” The voice was chanting this over and over. Louder and louder.
A deafening blast came from the wall and a slithering, writhing mass of tangled human limbs emerged. It had four legs and several arms. It looked like the bodies of eight or more people shuffled and glued into an otherworldly horror. Its multiple mouths screamed a high pitch squeal that was more horrifying than the screams of the damned, and its sharp pointed teeth gnashed and chomped. I only had a second to dodge this monster. I leapt to the side and fired multiple shots at the thing’s center of mass. Its horrifying body of fused torsos wriggled and bled black ichor. It screamed with pain and jumped at me, grabbing my leg. It tossed me into the air and I almost lost my gun as I slammed into the floor a few feet away. Before I could catch my breath, it was upon me again. From the ground I fired several shots at it. This made it jump away and scuttle down the stairs. With it momentarily out of sight, I quickly got to my feet and kept my eyes on the stairs.
After a second, I decided to kneel and take off my backpack as fast as I could. I pulled out the bomb and started the timer. I also decided to get the shotgun out and get it loaded. I needed to do this now or never. As the final shell clicked into place I heard a roar coming from the stairs. The thing was back. Before I could react, it leapt at me and knocked me to the ground. The bomb flew from my grasp. It bared down on me, grabbing at my throat ready to tear me apart. My reflexes saved me though and I managed to use my shotgun to hold the thing at bay, but it was too strong. Desperate, I kicked it hard in the chest and it let go. I used this moment to grab the bomb that lay behind me; only 37 seconds to go! Terrified and crazed, sweat pouring down my face, my mind in pieces, I rammed the bomb into the creature’s mouth and kicked it back again as hard as I could. I heard it yelp like a wounded dog and it lost its footing. It fell sideways and in that second, I took my shotgun and fired at it in the chest. The force of the close-range blast sent me flying. At the same time the creature was hurled back into the wall where it was enveloped quickly.
My head was fuzzy. I was dizzy and the wind had been knocked out of me. Was the bomb going to work? I felt something warm and wet drip into my ear and touched the side of my head. My fingertips came away soaked in blood. My head was spinning. With a foggy mind I grabbed my bag, collecting my weapons and flashlight. As I stood up I heard a low rumbling sound. The ground beneath my feet shook and for a moment I was confused. Then I looked up at the wall. Its surface was roiling and boiling like I’d never seen before. It was shaking and growing. I turned to run when suddenly there was a massive blast from inside it, and the entire wall exploded into hundreds of small grey chunks. These chunks rained down all around the hangar, smashing several aircraft. The blast knocked me off my feet and this time I definitely passed out because when I awoke I could see daylight through the tiny cracks in the blast door. Where the wall had once been now stood a small blackened crater. I turned around to inspect the wall pieces and found that they – my eyes grew wide and my mouth opened. They were melting. As I approached a fragment of wall, a horrible twisted hand shot out at me. I yelled and jumped away. It was still alive! I watched in dumbfounded horror as the pieces continued to melt and began to merge, just like that scene from Terminator 2.
It was rebuilding itself. Then I heard a groan. My blood became ice. I turned slowly in terror to find the shambling, wheezing monstrosity behind me. Like the creature I'd shot, this one seemed made from bits and pieces of human limbs knitted together randomly. This one had legs which came out its mouth, its head positioned within its torso where the bellybutton should be, and it wheezed in pain. I almost puked from fright but my legs were already carrying me away. I sprinted down the corridors, ignoring all the pain and fear and exhaustion and anger and frustration I had inside me. Without thinking, I leapt into the first janitor's closet I found and locked the door with a dull clunking sound. After catching my breath, I found this notepad and pencil, and have been writing this report in the sterile glow of my flashlight. Hopefully, I have left some useful information for anyone who may find this.
Now I lie in wait for that thing. Now I lie in wait for that grey ooze. What is that thing? Is it truly indestructible? If it can survive a bomb like that, what hope do we have? It’s no wall at all. It’s a membrane. An interface. Somewhere very different is pressing up against us. It has torn a small hole, and was now prying it open further. I should blow up this whole damn place! I should burn it! But would it matter? Or would it just be buried, to be rediscovered? I think even if I survive this, nothing can help us. So here I wait, hoping to be saved, but even as I write this I can hear that thing walking past the door. With a soft click I turn off my flashlight. I try not to breathe. I can hear the snuffling, it’s right outside! I can smell its ugly breath.
Oh God! I hear the jingling of keys. The door is unlocking! How? How?
Oh God! The doorknob is turning...

Jews and other anti-racists: The blatant anti-Jewish threats on college campuses have gone far beyond civil speech to the point where they are threatening. It is imperative that we each write to our college alma mater and demand the administration proactively warn students that not all speech is acceptable on campus. It would not be acceptable to tell Hispanic/Latino students to "go back to Mexico" or to chant "hang the Negro." Similarly, it is not acceptable to scream "gas the Jews" or call for another Intafada.
Demand they proactively protect Jewish institutions on campus, including fraternity, sororities, Hillels, and office spaces. Remind them that exclusionary notices (e.g., no Zionists) are not acceptable because they are hidden racism.
Write to your university president, college president, alumni office, and fundraising office. Withhold contributions (better still, cancel contributions) if they don't promise to protect our students the way they would every other minority.
With that said, חג פסח סמך

"R. Sucuna" as we know him with his CT "Shrine" should not be possible.
Like mechamaru keeping his HR's benefits because he has his body healed by mahito using IT, toji breaking fate by preventing gojo from insuring tengen merges with the Star Plasma Vessel because he has 0CE.
The "R. Sucuna" we know is the combination of two people as we know now. What is important is that this isn't a maki/mai identical twin situation.
Instead "R.Sucuna" and his twin "jin" are fraternal twins they should have had two different CT and two different bodies. Due to specific circumstances "R.Sucuna" ate his twin consuming all of the traits of his twin.
R.Sucuna originally had the CT of Cleave/dismantle while his twin had his own distinct CT "fire arrow".
They each had their own original body that was separated from the other. One most likely had a form of HR as well as their own CT, the other had their own CT and a different secondary trait. Had they been born normally they would not have been seen as one person by jujutsu. Instead the "R.Sucuna" we know was born as a result of two different people merging, their physical traits merged HR+?, while each of their CT merged cleave/dismantle+FireArrow.
As a result of the circumstances of HR+? Physical traits combining sucuna broke the HR rules and didn't have to give up anything. Because "R.Sucuna" and his twins CT merged it created the CT "shrine".
R. Sucuna(heian Era form) is a physical monster and by jujutsu's normal rules should not exist. He has HR abilities, and his actual body is built for sorcerer. If you gave any CT to R. Sucuna then he would make it godly.
"Shrine" is a "divine CT" as stated by the narrator. What makes it different is the incredible circumstances of being originally two different CT that merged into one CT. "Shrine" is not the over arching CT with cleave/dismantle being the lapse and fire arrow being the reversal. "Fuga" is how sucuna would switch between his and his twins brains, in other words sucunas black box(brain) contains cleave/dismantle, while the twins black box(brain) contains fire arrow.
This is why sucuna chanted "open" Instead of simply "Shrine reversal; fuga", this is also why sucuna CT isn't "shrine lapse: dismantle" or "shrine lapse: cleave". There is only "fuga/black box open" to swap CT, and the individual CT themselves.
Now let me talk about my prediction.
Since R.Sucuna has already experienced the process of consuming one soul and body there by gaining the CT and physical traits of his twin. He will repeat the process consuming megumi's soul and megumi's CT.
This will refresh(heal) sucunas body and/or cause sucuna to transform again(3 sets of eyes, 3 mouths, 6 arms) gain even more CE. This will also have the effect of adding 10st to "shrine" which will be accessible by chanting "black box open". This new "shrine: 10 shadow technique" will be a refreshed 10 shadows that starts all the way over as if it's a intirely new user.
This also means yuji who appears to have all of sucunas abilities will have access to his own "shrine" with cleave/dismantle, whatever the fire arrow is, and 10st.
What makes me thing such thing is happening? (A) sucuna would rather die than let yuji get any W. (B) yuji hit mahito with a BF right before mahito had a tremendous power up and evolved. (C) right before yuji could kill mahito and get his W kenjaku showed up, ate mahito, and started the CG.
So as soon as yuji "defeats" sucuna then he will eat megumi and evolve.
Tell me what you think, and thank you for reading.

(In each case, both statements are bad from the point of view of SGIWhistleblowers. In real life, since they are contradictory, if one is bad, the other must be at least partially good. But SGIWhistleblowers don't have much room for such realities since their minds are filled with hatred. So to them both can be true, though contradictory. PS: In most cases neither is actually always true.)
Some of these have been posted before, but we have a new entry in the Sad Shameless Absurd Contradictions (Sad SACs) of SGIWhistleblowers:
SGI is intolerant and thinks other religions are evil and has nothing to do with them . . . SGI interfaith activities are not the correct teachings of Buddhism.
And the Golden Oldie Sad SAC (with a little research, you can find all these things posted on sgiwhistleblowers):
SGI isolates its members from family and society . .. SGI tells its members they must stay in relationships and jobs they don't like.
The early Japanese female members of the SGI who came to America and pioneered the movement here were sent here because they were prostitutes in Japan and an embarrassment to the organization . .. They were given the responsibility of running the American organization to be sure that it was consistent with the Japanese policies.
(prior to November 2023) Ikeda Sensei is a human vegetable. Or perhaps he's dead. . . Yet he rules every little aspect of the SGI throughout the world with iron fisted control.
SGI has no social events for children. . . SGI exploits children sometimes were questionable purposes by holding social events for them.
SGI is prejudiced against the LGBTQ members . .. The SGI has activities for LGBTQ members and had a gay vice General Director.
SGI wants it members fraternizing only with other members and not with anyone outside the group. . . SGI doesn't hold social events, so its members can fraternize.
SGI cares only about numbers. . . The SGI hasn’t recruited new members since 1970.
SGI friendships are not real, but are based on membership and participation. Therefore, if you quit practicing SGI members whom you thought were your friends will now ignore you. . . If you quit practicing SGI members will harass you by calling once in a while to see how you're doing and offering to meet.
Just because someone has a good experience in the SGI, that does not mean that someone with a bad experience in the SGI is wrong or otherwise invalid. . . Because someone has a good experience in the SGI, that experience is wrong or otherwise invalid.
Unlike MITA, SGIWhistleblowers is a delightful example of free and open speech...... Yet Blanche has banned most MITA co-moderators from her site, and anyone stating so much as a neutral opinion of the SGI is hooted and bullied away.
SGIWhistleblowers can rant, call names, make up disgusting memes and post all kinds of conspiracy and accusations at the SGI, Ikeda Sensei, MITA-heads, etc. BUT......criticism of SGIWhistleblowers constitutes harassment and an attempt to infringe on their freedom of speech.
The SGI teaches Karma, which is the same as victim blaming. … Everyone on SGIWhistleblowers claims to being a victim.
There are many examples in the past of the SGI being mean, bullying, being insensitive. … President Ikeda should not have reformed and changed the SGI.
All SGI meetings are the same, boring and tedious. . . At SGI meetings, members jump around, dance and have fun.
99.5% of one-time SGI have left the organization... but the organization has such Insidious cult mind control techniques that no one can leave.
Teaching that just chanting to the Gohonzon for something is teaching people to believe in magic . . . saying the person praying must also take action is victim blaming.
Ikeda Sensei gives guidance that are just bland bromides everyone should know anyway, and SGI members should already know how to be nice people. . . If SGI members are nice to others, it’s “love bombing” -- they are surreptitiously trying to brainwash them.
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Our holy Father Gregory was born in Constantinople in 1296 of aristocratic parents who had emigrated from Asia Minor in the face of the Turkish invasion, and were attached to the court of the pious Emperor Andronicus II Palaeologus (1282-1328). Despite his official duties, Gregory's father led a life of fervent prayer. Sometimes as he sat in the Senate, he would be so deep in prayer as to be unaware of the Emperor addressing him. While Gregory was still young, his father died after being clothed in the monastic habit; and his mother for her part wanted to take the veil, but delayed doing so in order to take care of the education of her seven children. Gregory, the eldest, was instructed by the most highly reputed masters of secular learning and, after some years, was so proficient in philosophical reasoning that, on listening to him, his master could believe he was hearing Aristotle himself. Notwithstanding these intellectual successes, the young man's real interest lay only with the things of God. He associated with monks of renown in the city and found a spiritual father in Theoleptus of Philadelphia, who instructed him in the way of holy sobriety and of prayer of the heart.
About the year 1316, Gregory decided to abandon the vanities of the world. His mother, two sisters, two brothers and a great many of his servants entered upon the monastic life with him. He and his two brothers went on foot to the holy Mountain of Athos, where they settled near the Monastery of Vatopedi under the direction of the Elder Nicodemus, who came from Mount Auxentius. Gregory made rapid progress in the holy activity of prayer, for he had put into practice since childhood the fundamental virtues of obedience, humility, meekness, fasting, vigil and the different kinds of renunciation that make the body subject to the spirit. Night and day he besought God ceaselessly with tears saying, "Lighten my darkness!" After some time, the Mother of God, in whom he had put his trust since his youth, sent Saint John the Theologian to him with the promise of her protection in this life and in the next.
After only three years, the early death of his brother Theodosius, followed by that of the Elder Nicodemus, led Gregory and his second brother, Macarius, to attach themselves to the Monastery of the Great Lavra. Gregory was appointed chanter. His conduct in the cenobitic life was beyond reproach, and the brethren admired his zeal for putting into practice all the holy evangelic virtues. He lived with such abstinence as to appear unburdened by the flesh to the extent of being able to go three months without sleep. At the end of three years of common life, his soul thirsting for the sweet waters of the wilderness, he retired to the hermitage of Glossia, under the direction of an eminent monk called Gregory of Byzantium. With the passions purified, he was now able to rise up in prayer to the contemplation of the mysteries of the Creation. Solitude and inner stillness enabled him to keep his intellect fixed at all times in the depths of his heart, where he called on the Lord Jesus with compunction, so that he became all prayer, and sweet tears flowed continually from his eyes as from two fountains.
The incessant raids of Turkish pirates soon obliged Gregory and his companions to leave their hermitage. Together with twelve monks, he wanted to make the pilgrimage to the Holy Places and to seek refuge at Mount Sinai; but this did not prove feasible. Instead, he spent some time in Thessalonica, where he joined the group around the future Patriarch Isidore, who was endeavoring to spread the practice of the Jesus prayer among the faithful so that they might profit from the experience of the monks. In 1326, Gregory was ordained a priest, having understood in a vision that this was indeed the will of God. He then departed to found a hermitage in the area of Beroea, where he practiced an even stricter ascesis than before. For five days of the week he remained alone, fasting, keeping vigil and praying with abundant tears. He only appeared on Saturdays and Sundays to serve the Divine Liturgy, share a fraternal meal, and converse on some spiritual subject with his companions in the ascetic life. He continued thus to rise up in contemplation and to enter into closer union with God in his heart.
When his mother died, he went to Constantinople to fetch his sisters, whom he settled in a hermitage near his own. But as Serbian raids in the region became more and more frequent, he decided to go back to Mount Athos. He settled a little above the Lavra in the hermitage of Saint Savas, where he lived in greater seclusion than before, and could converse alone with God. He went to the monastery only infrequently and would receive his rare visitors on Sundays and feast days. Going on from that contemplation which is still outward, Gregory then attained to the vision of God in the light of the Holy Spirit and to the deification promised by Christ to His perfect disciples.
One day in a dream, he saw that he was full of a milk from heaven which, as it overflowed, changed into wine and filled the surrounding air with a wonderful scent. This was a sign to him that the moment had come to teach his brethren the mysteries that God revealed to him. He wrote several ascetic treatises at this time, and, in 1335, was appointed Abbot of the Monastery of Esphigmenou. But the two hundred monks who lived there understood neither his zeal nor his spiritual expectations so, after a year, he returned to his hermitage.
At that time, Barlaam, a monk from Calabria, won a great name for himself as a speculative thinker in Constantinople. He was particularly fond of expounding the mystical writings of Saint Dionysius the Areopagite, which he interpreted in an entirely philosophical way, making knowledge of God the object of cold reason and not of experience. When this refined humanist learned of the methods of prayer of some simple monks of his acquaintance, who allowed a place to the sensory element in spiritual life, he was scandalized. He took occasion to calumniate then and to accuse them of heresy. The hesychast monks appealed to Gregory who then wrote several polemical treatises in which he answered the accusations of Barlaam by locating monastic spirituality in a dogmatic synthesis.
He showed that ascesis and prayer are the outcome of the whole mystery of Redemption, and are the way for each person to make the grace given at Baptism blossom within himself. He also defended the authenticity of the methods which the Hesychasts used to fix the intellect in the heart; for since the Incarnation we have to seek the grace of the Holy Spirit in our bodies, which are sanctified by the Sacraments and grafted by the Eucharist into the Body of Christ. This uncreated grace is the very glory of God which, as it sprang forth from the body of Christ on the day of the Transfiguration, overwhelmed the disciples (Matthew 17). Shining now in the heart purified from the passions, it truly unites us to God, illumines us, deifies us and gives us a pledge of that same glory which will shine on the bodies of the Saints after the general Resurrection. In thus affirming the full reality of deification, Gregory was far from denying the absolute transcendence and unknowableness of God in His essence. Following the ancient Fathers, but in a more precise manner, he made a distinction between God's imparticipable essence and the eternal, creative and providential energies by which the Lord enables created beings to participate in His being, His life and His light without, however, introducing any division into the unity of the divine Nature. God is not a philosophical concept for Saint Gregory: He is Love, He is Living Person and consuming fire, as Scripture teaches (Deuteronomy 4:24), Who does everything to make us godlike.
Saint Gregory's brilliant answer to Barlaam was first accepted by the authorities of Mount Athos in the Hagiorite Tome and then adopted by the Church, which condemned Barlaam (and with him the philosophical humanism that would soon inspire the European Renaissance), during the course of two Councils at the Church of Saint Sophia in 1341.
Barlaam's condemnation and his departure for Italy did not bring the controversy to an end. No sooner had Gregory returned to his Athonite hermitage from Thessalonica where he had been writing his treatises in seclusion than Akindynos, an old friend of his, restated the substance of Barlaam's arguments and condemned Gregory's distinction between essence and energies as an innovation. Akindynos, who at first aspired to be an umpire between Barlaam and Gregory, was the kind of rigid conservative who does no more than repeat set phrases without seeking to enter into the spirit of the tradition. At the same time, a dreadful civil war broke out as a result of the rivalry between the Duke Alexis Apokaukos and Saint Gregory's friend, John Cantacuzenus (1341-47). The Patriarch, John Calecas, sided with Apokaukos and encouraged Akindynos to bring a charge of heresy against Gregory, which led to the excommunication and imprisonment of the Saint.
During the four years of Gregory's confinement, there was no slackening of his activity. He carried on a huge correspondence, and wrote an important work against Akindynos. When John Cantacuzenus gained the upper hand in 1346, the Regent, Ann of Savoy, came to the defense of the Saint and deposed the Patriarch on the eve of Cantacuzenus' triumphal entry into the City. He nominated Isidore as Patriarch (1347-50), and summoned a new Council to vindicate the Hesychasts. The controversy was not finally resolved until 1351, at a third Council which condemned the humanist Nicephorus Gregoras. In the Synodal Tome the doctrine of Saint Gregory on the uncreated energies and on the nature of grace was recognized as the rule of faith of the Orthodox Church.
Among Isidore's new episcopal appointments, Gregory was named Archbishop of Thessalonica in 1347; but he was unable to take possession of his see as the city was in the hands of the Zealots, the party opposed to Cantacuzenus. After finding shelter for a while in Lemnos, where he showed heroic devotion during an epidemic, Gregory was eventually able to enter the city acclaimed as if Christ Himself were coming in triumph, with the chanting of Paschal hymns.
During a voyage to Constantinople, he fell into the hands of some Turks, who held him for a year in Asia Minor (1354-55), but allowed him a measure of freedom. This, and his openness of spirit, enabled him to engage in amicable theological discussions with the Muslim doctors of religion and with the son of the Emir Orkhan. When he was set free, thanks to a ransom from Serbia, he returned to Thessalonica to take up his activity again as pastor and wonderworker. He suffered a long illness and, some time before his death, Saint John Chrysostom appeared to him with the invitation to join the choir of holy hierarchs immediately after his own feast. And, indeed, on November 14, 1359 the Saint gave up his soul to God. When he died, his countenance was radiant with a light like to that which shone on Saint Stephen (Acts 6:15). In this way God showed, through the person of his servant, the truth of his doctrine on the reality of deification by the uncreated light of the Holy Spirit. The veneration of Saint Gregory was approved by the Church in 1368. The Saint works many miracles even to the present day and, after Saint Demetrios, is regarded as the Protector of Thessalonica.
(from goarch.org)

Levi wiped the sweat from his brow as he navigated the battered truck down the dusty dirt road. The Algerian sun beat down mercilessly, baking the cracked earth and turning the air into a shimmering haze. He'd been driving for hours, ferrying soldiers to the construction site of the trans-Saharan railway, where thousands of forced laborers toiled under the watchful eyes of the military. Tuaregs, dissidents, and poor souls rounded up from the colonies - all breaking their backs under the pitiless sun for the glory of the Republic.
Levi tried not to think too hard about the thin, haunted faces of the laborers, or the way the soldiers fingered their rifle triggers as they watched them work. He was just doing his job, same as everyone else. Keeping his head down, trying to survive in this strange new world.
It was grim, thankless work, but it paid better than anything else a Jew could hope to find in National France these days. He remembered the day that his truck and business was brought under the military heel years ago,
He was just sitting down to a breakfast of black coffee and stale bread when a sharp knock sounded at the door. He opened the door to find two soldiers standing in the hallway, their faces grim. Levi remembered his stomach turning to lead.
"Levi Benhaim?" one of the soldiers asked, consulting a clipboard.
"Yes," Levi said, his mouth dry. "What's this about?"
"Under Military ordinance, approved by the Marshal two days ago, Your truck has been requisitioned," the soldier said brusquely. "Report to the motor pool at 0800 for reassignment."
Levi remembered struggling to process the words. "But... I need my truck for my livelihood. How am I supposed to earn a living without it?"
The soldier shrugged, unmoved. "Take it up with the quartermaster. We're just following orders. 0800, Benhaim. Don't be late."
They turned and marched away, leaving Isaac staring after them in shock. He closed the door slowly, his mind reeling.
This was it, then. The moment he'd been dreading since the ships came in from the mainland, packed with soldiers and refugees. The military had finally decided they needed his truck more than he did. Ever since the Commune had taken Paris and the government had fled to Algiers, life had become increasingly difficult for people like him. The military junta that ruled in Marshal Pétain's name was suspicious of anyone who didn't fit their narrow vision of French identity - white, Catholic, and fiercely nationalist.
Levi glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. He was running late. If he didn't make it back to the city before curfew, he'd be in trouble. The military police were always looking for an excuse to rough up someone.
He reached for the radio, hoping for some music to take his mind off his troubles. But instead of the soothing strains of jazz, the airwaves crackled with the bombastic tones of official propaganda.
"...the decadent Syndicalist regime that has usurped our beloved homeland," the announcer droned. "But fear not, loyal citizens of France! Our brave soldiers, under the leadership of Marshal Pétain, will soon reclaim what is rightfully ours and restore the glory of the French nation!"
Levi snorted and switched the radio off. He'd heard it all before. The promise of a glorious reconquest, the demonization of the Commune, vigilance against "the subversives" among them. It was the same tired rhetoric they'd been spouting for years, even as the people grew more restless and the cracks in the façade of unity began to show.
He was jerked out of his thoughts by the sight of a checkpoint looming ahead. He slowed the truck, his heart hammering. The soldiers waved him to a stop, their faces grim beneath their kepis.
"Papers," one captain barked, holding out a hand.
Levi fumbled for his identity papers, military timetable and travel permit. The soldier studied the documents, his eyes narrowed at the address stenciled on the truck, then finally waved him through with a grunt.
Isaac let out the breath he'd been holding as he accelerated away. One obstacle down. Now he just had to make it through the city streets and hope he didn't run afoul of any thugs spoiling for a fight.
-----------
As he neared the Casbah , Levi's heart sank. Up ahead, a crowd was gathering, blocking the road. He could see the blue flags of Action Française fluttering above the sea of heads, hear the angry chants of the mob.
"France for the French! Death to the traitors! Vive le Roi!"
Levi's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He was all too familiar with the Action Française and their ilk. They'd been a thorn in the side of Algerian Jews for years, but since the fall of the Metropole, their rhetoric had grown even more vicious. They blamed the Jews for everything from the Commune's victory to the economic hardships of the military government to the existence of the Republican government itself, and they weren't shy about expressing their hatred with fists and clubs.
He slowed the truck and looked desperately for a way around the crowd. But the narrow streets of the medina left no room for maneuver. He was trapped.
Taking a deep breath, Levi eased the truck forward, praying silently to a God he wasn't sure he believed in anymore. If he could just make it through without drawing attention to himself...
The truck crept forward, inch by painstaking inch. Levi hunched low over the wheel, his heart pounding against his ribs. The chants of the Action Française grew louder, more frenzied, as he neared the edge of the crowd.
"Non, non, la France bouge, elle voit rouge! Non, non, assez de trahisons! Non, non, la France bouge, elle voit rouge! Non, non, assez de trahisons!"
A knot of blue-shirted men broke from the throng, moving to block his path. Levi braked, fighting down the urge to gun the engine and plow through them. That would only make things worse. The men surrounded the truck, staring at the stenciled address on the side - twisting into hate as soon as they recognised his quartier.
One of them, a burly brute with a scar down his cheek, stepped forward and slapped his palm against the hood. "Where do you think you're going, huh?" he sneered. "This is a French street. No room for your kind here."
Levi licked his dry lips, trying to keep his voice steady. "Please, monsieur. I'm just trying to get home. I don't want any trouble."
"Hear that, boys?" the scarred man jeered. "The Jew doesn't want any trouble! Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you betrayed France, huh? Before your kind in the banks and factories sold us out to the Kaiser, and left France to the mercy of the Reds!"
The mob roared its approval, pressing closer to the truck. Levi could feel their breath on his face, see the madness in their eyes. They were like wild animals, whipped into a blind frenzy.
"I've never betrayed anyone," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm a loyal French citizen, just like you."
"Liar!" The scarred man slammed his fist on the hood, making Levi flinch. "You're a parasite, sucking the lifeblood from true Frenchmen! A rootless cosmopolitan, with no allegiance to King, God or country! We're sick of you lot, with your greasy hands in everyone's pockets. Maybe it's time someone taught you Yids a lesson!"
The crowd surged forward, hands clawing at the truck, at Levi. He cringed back, certain that at any moment they would drag him out and tear him limb from limb.
But then, miraculously, the shot of a revolver cut through the din.
The crowd went silent and turned, towards the direction of a tall man in the uniform of the Gendarmerie.
"That's enough! Let him through!"
The mob parted reluctantly.
"This isn't worth our time," the policeman said.
"We have bigger traitors to deal with. The Syndicalists, secessionists, insurrectionists. They're the real enemy."
The scarred man looked mutinous, but he backed away from the truck. "You're right, Lieutenant. We'll save our strength for the real fight."
The policeman nodded curtly and walked up to Levi's window through. "Get out of here, Levi. Next time, I might not be here to save your hide", he whispers.
Levi nods. "I'll have Rachel send your wife a basket as thanks, Jacques".
Then, almost casually, Levi grabbed a cigarette carton and matchbook, and rested his arm on the windowsill. Jacques leaned into the cabin.
To those fanatics outside, it looked like he was giving the Jew a well-deserved beating, or an inpromptu search on the fifth-columnist. A good enough deception for Jacques to slap Levi in the back and surreptitiously slip the pick-me-ups into his hand.
Stepping back, Jacques waved Levi through.
Levi didn't need to be told twice. He stepped on the pedal, the truck lurching forward through the gap in the crowd.
In the rearview mirror, he could see the mob closing in behind him, their attention already turning to some new target to hunt.
As he left the Casbah behind and entered the European quarter, the streets widened and the buildings grew grander, their Art Deco facades gleaming in the fading light. But even here, signs of strain were evident. Sandbags and barbed wire surrounded government buildings, and armed soldiers with Adrian helmets and kepis patrolled in pairs, their eyes hard and wary.
The sun was sinking low on the horizon as Levi turned onto his street. The muezzin's call to evening prayer echoed from the nearby mosque, mingling with the distant sounds of the city - honking horns, shouting voices, the occasional burst of gunfire and the ringing of a church bell in a vain attempt to drown out the call to prayer.
Algiers was a powder keg these days, with tensions between the French Exiles and the native Algerians constantly threatening to explode into violence. The military junta did their best to keep a lid on things, but Levi knew it was only a matter of time before the whole rotten regime came crashing down. The only question was whether it comes before the attempted Reclamation, or after.
He pulled the truck into the narrow alley beside his building and killed the engine. For a moment he just sat there, hands trembling on the wheel, as the adrenaline drained away and left him feeling weak and shaky.
That had been too close. If Jacques hadn't intervened... Levi shuddered, not wanting to think about what would have happened. He'd heard stories of Jews who'd fallen into the hands of Action Française. Beaten, humiliated, even killed, their deaths brushed off as "unfortunate accidents." In the French Republic, Jewish lives were cheap. Not as cheap as an Algerian, but still cheap.
Wearily, he climbed out of the truck and made his way up the rickety stairs to his apartment. Inside, his wife Rachel was waiting, her face pinched with worry.
"You're late," she said, hurrying to embrace him. "I was so afraid... I heard on the radio there was trouble in the streets."
Levi held her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. "It was nothing," he lied. "Just a traffic jam. You know how it is."
Rachel pulled back, searching his face.
"You're sure? You look pale." "I'm just tired. It was a long day." Levi mustered a smile.
"Is David home?" "He's in his room, studying. He wants to be an engineer, build things to help the people. I worry for him, Levi. A Jewish boy, with dreams like that... it's dangerous."
"I know. But we can't crush his hopes. Not now. He needs something to believe in."
Rachel sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. "We all do. But I'm afraid, Levi. Afraid of what's happening to our city, our people. Every day it gets worse. And the Marshal... All he and his army clique cares about is that this hatred, the violence is useful, emotions to be redirected to restoring the Metropole. When will it end?"
Levi paused, thinking. But he could only shake his head and slump his shoulders.
"I don't know," Levi admitted. "But we'll survive. That's all we can do."
Outside, the last light of day faded from the sky, and the rumble of armoured cars announced the start of curfew. Another night of huddling in the dark, praying that the knock on the door wouldn't come. Another night of fear under the eyes of a government that promises liberty, equality, fraternity. But even as the darkness closed in, Levi held tight to a stubborn flicker of hope. Hope that somehow, someday, the tide would turn.
That the true France - the France of reason, of enlightenment, of "liberté, égalité, fraternité" - would come. Where workers can decide their own fate, and not the whims of a desperate, paranoid, tyrannical "republic". A France of the Communes.
Until then, all they could do was endure. And pray that dawn will come.

I dont know if this is even the right sub reddit or even the right tag, but here we go.
I am currently a freshman at my college and just want to know more about frats. For now, I have no intent in joining any or really want to. I just need to know what it is about and why?
More specifically, what benefits do I get to joining a frat.
Is it exactly like in movies where a bunch of Bros haze you and then party all the time, or are there ones who actually do other shit outside of partying.
Is there a frat hierarchy and how would I know what frat my college has.
Also, where do I find specific information on frats cause there are so many.
Are there rivalries between frat.
And most importantly, do I get anything for free joining one.
Again, I dont even know if I am allowed to ask since I heard there is a rule of no talking about frats and that some have weird animalistic chants (are they a cult?). Please go easy on me. I am asking just for info and not to make anyone mad. Have a good fay
Side note: is there a secret history of fraternities like some kind of cult? I ain't saying fraternity are cults, but they very much remind me of one. Now,have a good day

The death penalty isn’t just inhumane — it’s bonkers
By Jeremy Clarkson (The Sunday Times, Feb. 18)
Obviously, we should have the death penalty for people who drop litter. No trial. No jury. Just marksmen on every tall building and in the branches of every roadside tree in the countryside. Drop an empty burger wrapper and blam: lights out. I think we can all agree on that.
And I think we can also agree that for everything else, we should not have a death penalty. Because let’s face it, a state should not be entrusted with the power of life and death when it can’t even mend potholes.
All of the people in all of the world’s properly civilised countries recognise this. Which of course brings us on to America. America is not a properly civilised country, so as a result, 27 of the 50 states allow its judges to sentence a person to death. And I can’t really get my head round the reasoning, especially when the methods of execution are so gormlessly inefficient and mad.
It’s not difficult to kill someone. You can cut their head off or shoot them in the face or inject them with a pint of heroin. But strangely, given that the US is the home of the school shooting, our American friends are completely useless at it.
A couple of weeks ago, a convicted murderer was killed in Alabama using nitrogen gas. How the bloody hell did they arrive at that idea? Was there a meeting? And if so, how many other methods were discussed before some bright spark stood up and said: “Hey, fellas. How ’bout nitrogen?”
We are allowed, over here, to use nitrogen to stun pigs so they can be slaughtered, painlessly, while unconscious. But for some reason, Hank J Dieselburger decided that it should be the method of execution itself.
It didn’t go well, apparently. Official timekeepers at the event say that it took 22 minutes for the man to die. But critics point out that the so-called execution curtain was drawn long before this time was reached. So it could have been half an hour. Or two days. All we do know is that for the first few minutes, the man writhed around like that chap in The Green Mile.
So why, you may be wondering, do they not use the lethal injection very much any more? Well apparently this is because they bought the necessary poisons from a Danish-based pharmaceutical company which decided back in 2011 not to export them any more. Quite why some American company didn’t make the concoction itself is beyond me, but they didn’t — so that meant no more syringes and no more fumbling around looking for a vein.
You’d think that in the face of this bureaucratic snafu, they’d go back to Old Sparky. It’s so simple. You tie a man to the electric chair using leather straps, put a damp sea-sponge on his head, and then an electrified colander and then … actually, it’s not simple at all. It’s bonkers. And unreliable.
Even as recently as 1990, when you might have thought they’d got the hang of it, they electrocuted a man called Jesse Tafero for seven minutes until his head caught fire. And then in 1997, while they were trying to execute Pedro Medina, flames shot out of both his ears. Afterwards, the state of Nebraska came to the amazing conclusion that the electric chair was a “cruel and unusual” punishment which is not allowed in America. And banned it. Hanging was banned for the same reason.
Which brings me on to the lawyer representing the man who was going to be killed using nitrogen. The state might have been able to argue that this method of execution wasn’t “cruel”, but even I, with an extremely limited grasp of American law, might have been able to convince the judge that it was at the very least “unusual”. And therefore not allowed. He didn’t, though. So it was.
So what about a firing squad? It’s not like there’s a shortage of guns in America, or a shortage of good ol’ boys who’d be happy to pull the trigger. So what’s the problem with it? Well, the victim’s family may be upset by all the mess a firing squad causes. Far better to let them sit there watching Dad writhe about in nitrogen-induced agony.
To solve this, maybe they should have looked at a system used in China until quite recently. The executioner would remove the criminal’s nose, feet and genitals and then cut him in half, at the waist, using a large sword. And then, to make sure his family weren’t able to wallow in the horror of this spectacle, they too would be killed in a similar fashion. Parents, children, aunts, uncles, even the in-laws.
Or perhaps some kind of comedic aspect could be introduced to take the family’s mind off what was happening. This was something the Greeks tried. They built a hollow, life-sized bull out of bronze, put the doomed man inside and then lit a fire underneath it so he’d be roasted to death. Horrific? Absolutely. But to bring a light touch to proceedings, the inside of the bull was equipped with a complicated set of pipes which would harness the screams of the man inside and make it sound like the bull was mooing. Oh, how the crowd laughed.
The problem is, of course, that none of these ideas will realistically pass muster even with the hardline, gun-toting US Klansmen, because these are deeply Christian people — so as a result, in the Wrangler-land of sippin’ whisky and line dancing, an execution must be, somehow, humane. There should be no undue suffering. So how’s this for an idea: catch the murderer, try him, and if he’s found guilty, put him in a prison. That’s the best idea, surely, unless he’s dropped some litter, obviously.
Because littering is done by people who are stupid, lazy and antisocial and we are better off without such people in society. Whereas other criminals are motivated by sickness, greed, passion, desperation, hunger and a million other things, none of which should be punishable by death.
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The eco mob should go after golfers not hunters
By Jeremy Clarkson (The Sunday Times, Feb. 18)
As I write, the longest month of the year is drawing to a close. It’s January 43rd and, outside, I can hear the area’s chins smoking the last of the low hens, and the ribald banter of the country folk as they enjoy their beaters’ days. What I’m trying to say is: it’s the end of the shooting season.
Normally this is a time for everyone with a pair of tweed shorts to oil their heat and be grumpy until the middle of August, when it’s possible to head north to waste some grouse. But I wonder. Is the time coming when we put our guns away for the very last time?
Shooting is such an easy target for Sir Starmer and I feel sure he will raise the issue, much like Mr Blair did with foxhunting, whenever he needs to distract the electorate from an awkward moment. You mark my words: if the economy tanks or he misses an immigration target or one of his backbenchers throws some paint at a statue of Winston Churchill, he’ll pop up out of nowhere and say, “I think we need to stop people from shooting pheasants.”
And immediately every BLT+ student, academic, human resources enthusiast and vegetablist will run amok in London, smashing windows in St James’s and burning tweed to show their support. And how will the shooting fraternity respond to the chanting and the lawlessness? By saying very little because, on the face of it, rearing birds so that they can be shot for sport is fairly hard to defend.
I’ll try my best, though. Golf is worse for the environment. To run a shoot you need to be at one with nature; you need to nurture it and allow it to do its thing. And you need woods and hedges and crops where not just the pheasants but also songbirds can hide and thrive. Golf courses, on the other hand, are just filled with emerald green splodges, some sandpits and people who think Donald Trump is a snappy dresser. So if I wanted to ban something to help the environment, I’d go after golf.
Animal cruelty then? Well, yes, on a big day where eight guns bring down fifteen hundred partridges, it’s hard to argue that they’re all taken home and eaten by grateful cleaning ladies. But on a little family shoot where you bag a few dozen birds and everyone involved takes a brace home? That is surely fine because what is the alternative? Eating the bird while it’s still alive? Strangling it? Kicking it to death? Shooting is the best and most humane option.
I’ve heard it said that the gamekeepers who run these shooting days will also shoot any bird that they think will interfere with their flock. Ospreys, for example. Well, I’m sure that there are some wrong ’uns out there, but you can’t judge a whole fraternity because of a single rotten apple. That’d be like banning the West Riding of Yorkshire because of Peter Sutcliffe.
I could go on. Game shooting provides 74,000 full-time jobs, so it’s a bigger employer than the steel industry. And these are not people who can get re-employed elsewhere. The country is all they know. And they know it a damn sight better than pretty well anyone in Whitehall. Gerald, for example, on my farm, has a better understanding of the way things work out here than anyone in Sir Starmer’s Labour Party. Making a negroni? They win. Getting a pheasant out of a thicket? The G Dog is your man.
I’ll nail my colours to the mast here. I used to have a small shoot at Diddly Squat. On the first day, maybe 25 years ago, the bag was three woodcock, one pheasant, one fox and a trout. But many years later, after a lot of hard work, we had a day where we shot 100 birds. That sounds pretty impressive. Except on the first drive the bag was zero, on the second it was zero and on the third it was zero. Then, on the fourth, it was a hot-barrelled blizzard.
Brexit finished it, though. Pheasant chicks (poults) are often imported from France and used to cost a couple of quid. But then we left the EU, legislation arrived, Covid messed around with supply and the price shot up in some places to £8. Factor in the cost of rearing, feeding and good husbandry and the cost of shooting a single bird rocketed up to about £45. Times that by 100 birds on my shoot and it’s £4,500 a day. So five shooting days a year would cost £22,500. You could run a private jet for that.
But it brings us on to the main reason why Sir Starmer wants to see the end of shooting. Because winding up the chins always goes down well with those who wish to keep the red flag flying.
Happily, however, I am already ahead of the curve, because last year I hosted a shooting day. All the usual suspects turned up and we had the usual sloe gin and champagne cocktails for breakfast. But instead of stomping off into the woods to shoot some lunch, we wandered down to the bottom of the garden and shot clays instead.
I’ve never really liked the idea of clay-pigeon shooting because there’s a lot of noise and then afterwards nothing to serve with the vegetables. It’s sort of airborne golf.
And yet. What a day it was. A company from Shropshire turned up with three traps that fired two different types of clays at various random heights and in various random directions. You never knew where the next one was coming from, or how fast it would be, or how far it would be into the sky. All I do know is that when the whistle blew after five minutes, signifying it was time for your shooting partner to have a go, everyone was sweating like a shoplifter in downtown Tehran.
Five minutes later, after the second rank of guns had had their turn, we all repaired to the boot of my car for a couple more refreshments, and then something strange happened. Many of us had children there, and on a normal shoot they’d be saying things such as, “Is it lunchtime soon?” But on my clay day they all wanted to have a go.
So there we were. Ten proud fathers on a lovely sunny day, showing their sons and daughters how to load a shotgun and where to aim and how to keep on swinging after pulling the trigger.
And I couldn’t help thinking, as I surveyed this idyllic scene, that Starmer can do his worst and it won’t be so bad. Apart from the fact that half of the woods in the British countryside will be chopped down because there’s no need for them any more, the countryside will become even more full of people with alcohol problems, the songbird population will plummet and half of the country’s labradors will be out of work.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
And here's the Sun column. Clarkson's columns are regularly collected as books. You can buy them from his boss or your local bookshop.

TL/DR: The Soka Gakkai has identical characteristics to most of Japan's other "New Religions"; it was never particularly special or unique in any sense, and developed similarly in the post-war Occupation era of Japan the same way all the other Japanese "New Religions" did. Japanese religions firmly rooted in Japanese culture for Japanese people. There's a reason none of these have significantly taken off outside of Japan. And no matter how "empowering" their enculted membership believes their beliefs and practice to be, they'll never change society for the better.
This comes from Dr. Stone's paper, "NICHIREN'S ACTIVIST HEIRS: Sōka Gakkai, Risshō Kōseikai, Nipponzon Myōhōji", in the journal ACTION DHARMA: New Studies in Engaged Buddhism, 2003, starting on p. 74:

Given their radically different, even opposed understandings of the the [sic] Lotus Sūtra and of Nichiren, why do Sōka Gakkai and Risshō Kōseikai display such similar forms of social engagement and embrace so similar an ethos? The short answer is that their style of social engagement and its supporting rationale may owe less to Nichiren and the Lotus Sūtra than to the broader religious culture of modern Japan. Let us briefly consider some of the larger trends in which their common ethos is grounded.
Both Sōka Gakkai and Risshō Kōseikai participate in what scholars have termed the "vitalistic theory of salvation" found in a number of Japanese New Religions of both Buddhist and Shinto derivation and have remote roots in agrarian religion. According to this theory, all phenomena in the universe are expressions of a "great life" (daiseimei) or "life force" (seimei-ryoku) and are therefore all interrelated. Human ignorance of or disconnection from this fundamental life force is deemed responsible for discord, sickness and misfortune, while "salvation" entails bringing oneself into harmony with this life force, resulting in improved health, prosperity, harmonious family relations, and, on a broad scale, a brighter, happier world. Thus achievement of this-worldly benefits, individual salvation, and the realization of an ideal society are all grounded in the same principle and placed on the same plane. Sōka Gakkai's Toda Jōsei, while imprisoned during the war, is said to have undergone a mystical experience in which he realized that "Buddha is none other than life itself," an insight that underlaid his later explication of "life philosophy" (seimei tetsugaku). In Sōka Gakkai literature, "life force" often replaces more classically Buddhist notions of emptiness or dependent origination as the ontological ground of reality. One sees this in Kōseikai publications as well. Interpreting the Lotus Sūtra's phrase "true aspect of the dharmas" (shohō jissō), Niwano Nikkyō not only equates "emptiness" with "life" but argues that realization of this "great life" is the source of world peace:

Voidness [i.e. sunyata] is the only one, real existence that makes everything and every phenomenon of the universe. Scientifically speaking, it is the fundamental energy that is manifested in all phenomena, and religiously speaking it is the great life force that permeates everything that exists in the universe, namely the Eternal, Original Buddha... [I]f the real embodiment of all things is a single entity, ... when one can fully realize this, then fraternal love, the feeling that all human beings are brothers and sisters, will spring up in one's heart. One will be filled with a sense of harmony and cooperation. This sentiment of fraternity is the benevolence or compassion taught in Buddhism.

The ethos of "Buddhism is daily life" taught by Sōka Gakkai and Risshō Kōseikai also has roots in what Yasumaro Yoshio has called the "conventional morality" (tsūzoku dōtoku) promoted by popular movements of self-cultivation that emerged among farmers and merchants during the Edo period (1603-1868) and stressed individual moral development through diligent efforts in one's given circumstances. Self-cultivation was rooted in what Yasumaro terms a "philosophy of the mind (or heart)" (kokoro no tetsugaku), "mind" here indicating the universal ground of self, society, and the cosmos. In the rigidly stratified society of early modern Japan, this emphasis on personal cultivation, in Yasumaro's analysis, encouraged subjective formation of self and positive engagement with one's tasks, invested occupations such [as] agriculture and trade with a profound moral, even religious, significance, and thus contributed to the process of modernization.

You can easily see how this would have served the powerful in society extremely well - aren't the best slaves the ones who love their work and consider it an honor to be allowed to do it? In a feudal system with no social mobility, everything works better when everyone is content with their status and occupation, doesn't it?
Notice how frequently the SGI and its corpse mentor advise people to remain in whatever circumstances they're in, whether an unsatisfactory workplace, poor housing, and unhappy marriage, and "win where you are", when realistically, why not just get a better job, start working toward upgrading your living situation, or divorce the person it's clearly not working out with, instead of the kind of self-denying, self-defeating stasis they're advocating?

They [SGI members] have blinders on and can only see a deluded prepackaged view.

That's the world of "animality", as defined here:

Another realm is the animal realm, or having the mind like that of an animal. Here we find security by making certain that everything is totally predictable. We only buy blue chip stock, never take a chance and never look at new possibilities. The thought of new possibilities frightens us and we look with scorn at anyone who suggests anything innovative. This realm is characterised by ignorance. We put on blinders and only look straight ahead, never to the right or left.

The Ikeda cult has always indoctrinated to NEVER change up your situation until you "win where you are". So if you're in a crappy job, you have to stay there until you magically transform it into a great job. If you're in a crappy marriage, you can't divorce; you have to chant until it becomes healthy (especially if you're a woman). Even if you're in an abusive marriage. YOU have to fix everybody else.

Women within the Gakkai have traditionally been encouraged to accept 100% of the responsibility for supporting their families through faith in order to change their own destiny and that of their family members. When there is a problem, it should not be necessary for the wife to force the husband out of the home; if she chants enough daimoku and it is best, he will leave on his own. Source

SGI's approach: The woman must be utterly PASSIVE and wait for the man to do something.

This only serves to keep people stuck where they are. I can guarantee you nobody joined the Dead-Ikeda cult SGI because they WANTED to be stuck! But that's what happened anyway...
Note that this "guidance" denies women's agency to make the choice to end the relationship and initiate divorce. Divorce remains highly stigmatized in Japan, yet there are still numerous references in the "Newww Human Revolution" novels about Soka Gakkai members who are divorced women!

As a member of SGI, I made myself feel secure through chanting. I attached myself to the idea that if I continued to practice, my life would be stable and predictable. Part of that security was not being willing to look at ideas outside of the cult’s narrow realm; anyone who didn’t see the wisdom or sense of the practice was foolish, and anyone who criticized it was just horrifyingly wrong. I kept my eyes straight ahead, never looking anywhere other than right in front of me. Source

Toda: "Just put all your energy into your present job and become an indispensable person there."
Such statements, while not pernicious in and of themselves, are NOT counterbalanced by statements encouraging individuals to be aware of unjust and toxic situations and how they needn't ever feel obligated to remain in harmful situations, given that there's a whole world of possibilities out there. For example, you never see something like, "Do your best at your job and become as indispensable as you can, while also applying for better jobs in your free time" or "Do your best at your job and become as indispensable as you can, and in your free time, perhaps take some classes or pursue a certification that will enable you to qualify for a better job in the future"! Of course the SGI would never recommend such a thing; the Dead-Ikeda-cult SGI wants ALL the cult members' time to exploit for itself! This isn't as obvious now as it was in the go-go NSA days when there were meetings every single night, but many people still report an extremely high level of demands to participate in Dead-Ikeda-cult SGI activities - as here and here:

One Region Leader in particular (a YWD who bullied me for the better part of 2017 - 2021, even when she was 3000 miles away from me) actually told me, "If you give up the opportunity to be a Byakuren while our Mentor is alive, you will regret it for the rest of your life." Another member said, "While Sensei is still alive, we need to go all out." Source

Well, I guess THAT's not a motivator any more (if it ever was in the first place)...
I don't understand how "this contributed to the process of modernization", though...that part isn't explained.

While society is no longer divided into fixed status groups, the values of harmony, sincerity, and industry central to Yasumaro's "conventional morality," along with its assumptions about the limitless potential to be tapped through cultivating the mind, are still very much alive in what Helen Hardacre has described as "the world view of the New Religions." Hardacre notes in particular the notion that "other people are mirrors" - meaning that other people's behavior is said to reflect aspects of one's own inner state. Harsh or inconsiderate treatment at the hands of others, even if the believer is not obviously at fault, is to be taken as a sign of one's own shortcomings or karmic hindrances and as an occasion for repentance and further effort - a point stressed repeatedly in the practical guidance of both Sōka Gakkai and Risshō Kōseikai.
Does this ethos effectively contribute to social betterment? On the one hand, there is much that may be said in its favor. First, it locates all agency in individuals, who are taught that⏤because they can tap the supreme life-force of the universe⏤there is no hardship that cannot be overcome. Such an outlook instills courage and cheerfulness in the face of adversity and the will to challenge limitations. It is also personally empowering, in that one's own efforts, however humble, are infused with immense significance as bodhisattva practice linked directly to the accomplishment of world peace. More than the actions of politicians, diplomats, and world leaders, it is the daily acts of practitioners that are seen as laying the foundation for this goal. It may well be here, in this sense of individual empowerment and personal mission, that Sōka Gakkai and Risshō Kōseikai have exerted their greatest appeal.

Yes, those things are great, so long as you can still believe in them. There is simply too much "actual proof" out there that it doesn't work - reflected in the Dead-Ikeda-cult SGI's failure to successfully recruit new members and the fact that members are leaving in a hemorrhage. Even just the "actual proof" of the members who remain - the SGI-USA is "attributed almost exclusively as a Buddhism of lower classes and minorities in the United States" - if there were such a direct line to the limitless "life-force of the universe" (or the Mystic Law, in SGI terminology), WHY would they not be remarkable instead, even a little? The concept of "actual proof" is in fact a double-edged sword. For all their claims of "benefit" and "improvement", the rest of us can see how unimpressive their grubby little lives are.
MY perspective is that this whole "stay right where you are and work hard" really only serves the powerful; it is encouragement to sacrifice oneself for the benefit of others. That's not healthy - you are as deserving of satisfaction and prosperity as anyone else, so why should you sacrifice yours just so they can have more?? It's like the way corporate management will often tell the employees that they expect them to work longer hours to help out the corporation during its busy season or whatever, but the efforts only go in the one direction - you never see the corporation offering to give the employees money so they can go visit their families or whatever. Their paid time off is only at their existing rate of pay - what if the company were to give the employees double or even triple their pay for their vacations?? Let the corporations "lean in" for once instead of the employees having to do ALL of it!

By teaching that the individual is ultimately responsible for his or her circumstances, the ethos of these groups also works to undercut an egoistic sense of personal entitlement, litigiousness, and other unedifying tendencies to protect self at the expense of others.

As I observed earlier, this is expecting the individual to sacrifice for the benefit of the others - it's a one-way effort. You can see this expressed in the Dead-Ikeda-cult SGI's callous, even cruel, attitudes toward people who are suffering and the censorship we've all seen of true expression - that happy-mask is expected to be kept FIRMLY in place. Of course that makes the other SGI members more comfortable - nothing of others' difficult emotions to confront - and it enables the SGI to promote itself as a harmonious group. BY ignoring or punishing expressions of discontent in hopes that nobody sees it! We see this same attitude here on reddit, where anyone who attempts to address something emotionally-difficult with the SGI members is "encouraged" to do so privately, off the main board, "behind the scenes" - keeping all discontent deliberately hidden. THEN there's the fact that SGI members so often treat each other horribly. It all circles back to the Dead-Ikeda-cult SGI's "actual proof" problem.
See also The Soka Gakkai was always anti-union.

Jane Hurst, in her study of the Sōka Gakkai's movement in the United States, credits this ethos with the organization's remarkable level of racial harmony; belief that the individual is responsible for his or her own circumstances precludes racial or ethnic scapegoating as a way of blaming others for one's own problems.

Except that there ARE racial problems, as you can see here. The Dead-Ikeda-cult SGI's Soka University's appalling mishandling of the concerns of its students of color is another glaring example; one of the faculty members who supported the students' efforts has now been fired, despite being tenured.
Within SGI-USA, there is no genuine diversity; you can see some percentages by ethnicity here - the Japanese are heavily overrepresented among the membership and particularly the leadership.
That "racial harmony" is a façade, in other words; not only are people of Japanese descent overrepresented in the membership, but the top leadership positions are disproportionately filled with/reserved for JAPANESE people.

Always the favour shown to members from Japan Source

My initial reaction...Is there a Sacremento Prefecture in Japan??? 😂😂😂😂😂 Source
RE: Buddhists of African Descent (BAD):

Wow that’s the group SGI USA labeled as a problem non Sgi group at an all leaders mtg during pandemic. It was them and a group called Sgi on Clubhouse that was started by some Black youth after George Floyd was killed. They got 4K followers within first week. Another online group Spanish speaking also started with expansive growth. As a non black wd leader with a predominantly black membership, I was told to keep my ears open if my members mentioned any of these groups and report to my higher ups. This is when I realized my gestapo participation days were ending. The virtual reality was here and how dare SGI try to stop folks from creating support systems among themselves, during a pandemic shutdown. Many black members were harassed and bullied by the leadership for participating on the clubhouse platform. They were reported by other sgi members within the group. Unfortunately I was part of a few of those zoom visits as a 3rd party witness. Before pandemic there were many Japanese anti ikeda groups within SGI that only us high up the food chain leaders knew about .. they probably still exist and they comprise of youth. After I stepped back from leadership I let some of my black members know about the Buddhist of African descent group and to my joy they already knew about it!! Source
The membership I was responsible for were predominantly Black, yet myself and the other leaders were not. I would constantly “raise successors” who were 9 times out of 10 passed over or given low level appointments. Whenever it was questioned the response was “that person is sincere but doesn’t have the heart of SIN SAAAAY”. WTF is that but some made up shit. But let a Japanese transplant come into town, barely speaking English and they are immediately made District or chapter leaders. ... SGi flaunts being multi ethnic which they are in bodies but not in recognizing or integrating multi ethnic ideas. They will extract lines out of new human revolution that relate to an encounter with a black person, or Africa and place in the publication. The one that blew up in my group was the appointment of the first chapter in Africa. Sounds impressive but it’s not, my well read group member, went to her bookcase and pulled out the related volume… well it was a Japanese husband & wife who relocated with their employer from London to Africa. They were appointed the leaders of a new chapter in Africa that had no members. Source

That last "appointed chapter leaders" bit fits with this observation, BTW:

SGI has not grown by its concepts taking root within foreigners spending time in Japan and then bringing it back home with them. Instead, SGI has grown by exporting Japanese SGI members.

It seems that the existence of Soka Gakkai members overseas came about not by the conversion of non-Japanese overseas, nor even by the return home of foreigners converted in Japan, but by Japanese Soka Gakkai members moving abroad. Source

...which explains the very high proportion of Asian faces within SGI. Source

Within the SGI, there remains this Japanese clique - they speak in Japanese when they don't want the gaijin to understand what's being said, they only confide in each other, and within the SGI, no matter what country, people of Japanese ethnicity or part Japanese are automatically on the fast track to leadership and organizational power. Source

Over 90% of Soka Gakkai/SGI members are Japanese.

At the same time, however, while personally empowering, the idea that external change is a function of inner cultivation tends to be politically conservative. In particular, the notion that others' harsh or unfair treatment reflects some unresolved shortcoming in oneself undercuts even the concept of a structural problem, reducing everything to an issue of individual self-development.

That's right - this approach serves the status quo, you'll notice. Those who are affected by, say, real estate redlining or Jim Crow laws, well, they just need to chant more!

As Hardacre notes, "Placing blame and responsibility on the individual also denies the idea that 'society' can be blamed for one's problems; hence concepts of exploitation and discrimination are ruled out of consideration."

THAT's supposedly "empowering"? Only if one is either in a privileged class or delusional.
It's no surprise that the Soka Gakkai has ALWAYS been against labor unions and has NEVER provided any sort of social services/safety nets for anyone, not even its own poor, vulnerable members. No soup kitchen or free meals; no rent assistance; no emergency money - nothing.

The continual injunction not to complain but to take even adversity and ill treatment as an occasion for spiritual growth may work to foster acquiescence to the status quo, rather than the critical spirit necessary to recognize social inequity and speak out against it. Some observers have also argued that excessive emphasis on personal cultivation is inadequate as a basis for achieving peace:

[I]t tends to lose sight of the fact that wars occur as the result of a political process that cannot always be reduced to individual, or collective, greed, envy, hate, or whatever... until the concentric waves of morality have perfected every human being, arguably more will be done to avoid war⏤if not to establish true and lasting peace⏤by seeking to influence political processes.

An example of this is how the federal government striking down laws against interracial marriage resulted in FAR more rapid normalization and acceptance of interracial marriage than if it had all been left up to individuals to decide those were bad laws and then calling their representatives, demanding change.

The conviction that social change, to be effective must be accompanied by mental cultivation is probably shared by most forms of socially engaged Buddhism; this is, after all, what distinguishes it from purely secular programs of social melioration.

One might ask, however, how far inner transformation can be emphasized before it becomes in effect an endorsement of the existing system, rather than a force for improving it.

The next paragraph lists some of the social welfare programs Kōseikai and a couple other New Religions engage in; of course there's nothing to include from Sōka Gakkai. This paragraph ends with:

At the same time, this is a style of social engagement that tends to "work within the system"; it does not issue a direct challenge to existing social structures or attempt fundamentally to transform them. (pp. 74-77)

SGIWhistleblowers made this same observation here:
Why the SGI can NEVER do anything to contribute to world peace
SGI never does anything to help the community + Long-time SGI members appear violently allergic to altruism + From SGI/USA + Where are the SGI heroes?
REAL "Human Revolution": If SGI wants the world to be a better place, stop jerking each other off and fuck something
Fact: SGI is exactly the way its Japanese masters (SGI World) in Tokyo want it. Nothing is EVER going to change except in the direction of MORE Japanese control.

"It is likely that the Japanese will remain in firm control of the organization and it is highly unlikely that a genuinely 'international' Soka Gakkai will develop in the near future"

I’m trapped. I can hear that thing lumbering through the hallway. My God, what the hell is it? I’m trying my best to keep quiet but I can’t help but whimper. The soft scratching of my pencil on this notepad sounds deafening in the quiet of this tiny closet. I’m almost certainly gonna die in this place. I just hope someone can find this, maybe it will do some good. Or maybe it already doesn’t matter. I’m not sure how long I have until that wheezing thing finds me. Oh God, or that grey stuff might ooze under the door and dissolve me. Oh my God! What it did to Benny, Bill, Jonesy and Donald! To all of them! Even if I don’t survive, the world needs to be warned!
Long story short, I was a cop but I got shot in the head. The doctors said I was lucky, that it went straight through without hitting anything vital. However, I still needed three steel plates to hold my fragmented skull together. Also ended up with permanent tremors in my right hand from brain damage. So it’s no surprise that my cop career didn’t thrive. Just a year later I was a “retired” 45-year-old cop, living on scraps. After a few months, I started to get desperate for work. One evening at my pub, my friend, Graham, mentioned an acquaintance who was looking for employees for some private research institute in the Mojave Desert. “What, are they still blowing A-bombs out there?” I scoffed, eyebrows arched with bemused incredulity. Graham stared down at his beer, “Not sure what the hell they do. But they pay super well, so who cares,” he took a long sip of beer, foam clinging to his lips, “I think it would be a good fit for you”.
Turns out this facility, and it really is known as the “Facility”, was located in the middle of nowhere. When I looked it up online I couldn’t find any information. Later that week I called the number that Graham had scrawled down for me on a beer stained napkin. My right hand was useless to me if I wanted it to do anything that required fine motor function, so when I dialed the number on my phone I had to use my left hand. The phone rang twice before a metallic feminine voice answered and said to hold for an operator. After a few seconds of muted elevator music, I spoke to a soft voiced man who told me my skill set was perfect for their current vacancy: a security management position. He said if I filled out some forms they would pay for me to fly on out for an interview in person.
One month and several NDAs later, I was employed again! By the time I started my new job I realized I had no idea what research went on down here. During the interviews my duties as a security manager had been discussed but any mention of their actual research interests had been carefully avoided, redacted or omitted. The security staff were also told to avoid fraternizing with anyone not from their own department, including security personnel from other sections of the Facility. On my first day I asked others about the nature of the Facility’s research, but no one had any interest. “Just stick to your contract. No point in rocking the boat,” my new boss, Bill, said to me curtly. So since then I’ve not discussed it with anyone else.
If only I had, maybe I would have seen this coming. The section of the Facility which I managed was section B.15. This area, like most of the core Facility, was located several hundred feet below the sun scorched surface of the Mojave Desert and comprised many green painted corridors peppered with tall, wide doors made from dark, stainless steel. The rooms inside were large and sterile. Artefacts were cleaned and studied in these rooms after they were brought from the excavation sites (sites E.1 through E.27). Of course, whether we wanted to know the nature of the research or not, eventually, after patrolling some of the research labs for weeks, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that the scientists were mostly archeologists or paleontologists. I would often find objects of different sizes and shapes lying around in various states of cleanliness. Some looked like ancient amphoras, or large stone bird baths. Others were less identifiable: a chipped statue, a melted lump of some unidentifiable metal or large chunks of a glass-like material. I found this all extremely curious because, as far as I knew, the Mojave Desert didn’t have much in the way of ancient architecture. At least of any ancient civilization that I know.
As the months went by I started to get friendly with the other guards, most of them ex-cops too, and we started playing cards and drinking Irish coffee in the evenings. My two main colleagues consisted of a jovial, short man with orange hair named Jonesy and a much older much grumpier and much balder man, Donald. They were good men and we had a lot of laughs together. My stomach twists when I think about where they are now. Though I grew fonder of my fellow guards, I found myself developing a severe dislike for the white coated researchers. Most of them were pernicious and arrogant. The only scientist my security buddies and me could stand was a scrawny man named Benny. Our favorite thing about Benny was that he never talked about his work.
It was earlier today, at around 1400h, when all the scientists were running from their rooms. They must have received some message a few minutes before and we watched them from the surveillance monitors as they got all excited and leapt up. Their lab coats flapped and flowed around as they jumped to their feet and made for the main exit. Soon after this the large red landline phone near my video surveillance desk began to ring. Expecting the call, I picked up the receiver before the first ring finished, “Hey boss, what’s all the excitement about?” Bill’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant “The diggers have found a friggin’ huge object out here! The biggest thing they’ve ever dug up, it’s really irregular. They want to bring it to B.15 and I need you to organize the logistics and security”. My brow furrowed, “I guess it’s too big for the main entrance? Maybe we could bring it in via the big doors of the auxiliary hangar?” Bill grunted with agreement, “Yea, we’ll have to improvise a bit but should be manageable. I have no idea what it is… well you’ll see for yourself. I’ll get some of the boys from B.14 to help you out. And just, well…” He paused for a moment, “just be careful.” I grunted, my eyebrow arched from surprise; why was he so afraid? “Um thanks, appreciate it, see you guys soon”.
Donald, Jonesy and I had coffee in the office and called the guards at the hangar doors to arrange clearance. About an hour later we were at the platform near the doors waiting for the cargo to arrive. The massive metal hangar doors had been opened, which was rare. What was more irregular was that nearly every staff member from sections B.11 to B.18 were all gathered together in a silent knot of people. Despite the silence the air sizzled with anticipation, as well as the searing heat. I stood transfixed from curiosity at the massive doorway, waiting in the shade of the hangar as the relentless sun beat down outside. In the distance I saw a black speck grow larger against the bright blue sky. Slowly it took the form of a helicopter which was carrying a large rectangular shaped mass below it.
Within less than a minute the helicopter made its cacophonous approach toward the hangar and gently lowered the object onto an enormous wooden scaffold. I barked orders and signed forms as the guards rushed about, making sure the other personnel stayed a safe distance away. The air was blaring with the sound of the helicopter blades and sand rocketed into my face, forcing me to splutter. “Alright, let’s get this thing processed!” I yelled over the sound of the helicopter as its engines powered down, my colleagues and I wiped dirt from our faces. Bill emerged swiftly from the chopper and shook my hand. We quickly reviewed the paper work he gave me and then he made his way back downstairs to his office in section B.1. He was keen to get away for some reason.
“Alright, it’s officially in my care now. Show’s over. Get the non-essential personnel out of here immediately and secure the object. I want to get Benny up here to analyze it ASAP.” As my colleagues cleared away most of the staff and the excitement died down I was finally able to take a moment to inspect the object. It had been lowered onto the wooden scaffold fitted with wheels just outside the hangar and had been pushed slowly into the center. The few aircraft in this hangar were all currently under repairs and were non-operational, therefore there was plenty of space. As soon as I saw the sheer size of the object, I knew it would be difficult to transport, but not impossible. The object was a wall. Or a large fragment of a wall.
It was about twenty feet long, eight feet thick and ten feet high. At first the wall appeared made from some sort of boring grey stone. However, when I looked closer the wall was… alive. The wall’s surface bubbled slightly. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I stepped closer. When I was only a few inches away from it I felt cold. A bead of sweat ran down my cheek and I thought I heard something. It sounded like someone far away calling my name.
I felt a strange pressure around my head. A sudden invasive thought wormed to life: throw yourself into the wall. I shuddered and held myself back despite the sudden strong desire. I heard the faint voice of Benny and crashed back to reality. My eyes snapped open and I found my nose an inch away from the wall. It radiated cold like an open freezer and it smelled like rotting clay. The surface of the wall simmered ever so slightly. It reminded me of the fizz of some grey effervescent medicine. I paled as I took a large step backward, “I.. uh, what is this?” I turned to face Benny who stood with another scientist. He glanced at her briefly before he approached the wall to apply more straps. He was careful to avoid touching the wall with his bare skin. “Honestly, we have no idea”.
I got Donald and Jonesy to help Benny transport the wall down to room 278B via the service elevator. Donald grumbled about how badly the wall smelled and Jonesy had eyes as large as saucers when he saw it up close, “It looks so unreal!” Once downstairs I returned to my office to get some more coffee and file away the paperwork. I tried to put the strangeness of the wall out of my mind, but it had truly unnerved me. I felt so tired, my forehead drenched with cold sweat. I had been working extra shifts lately, but I had never been hit by such exhaustion so rapidly. As I sat at my desk facing the surveillance monitors I was unable to fight the sleep forcing my eyes shut.
I’ve had many hangovers in my life, most of them unpleasant, but when I woke up at my desk I’d never felt quite so singularly awful. My clothes were soaked with sweat and my whole body felt exhausted. My arms felt like molasses as I attempted to move. My forehead throbbed and I felt bruised. I also felt a pressure squeezing my head from all sides. It was quite peculiar. I sat back in my seat and rubbed my eyes.
Then I froze.
A hand was lying motionless on the floor just behind the table in the center of the office. I leapt to my feet and rushed forward. I gasped from horror as I saw Donald lying on the floor, his chest sliced to ribbons. Gallons of crimson red stained his blue uniform and his eyes stared up empty and terrified. Pallid and shaking I went to my office landline to call for backup immediately. As the receiver met my ear my stomach dropped into my feet.
The line was dead.
The sole means of communication within the core Facility is done through landlines. The landlines are monitored at all times and any interruption results in an immediate response from security. We had many protocols and fail safes to ensure communication remained enabled, but the line was dead and there was no sign of any response. In fact, how long had I been asleep? What was happening? I rushed back to the monitors. I hadn’t noticed it before but I couldn’t see anyone. The cameras were all operating normally but not a single person could be seen. The corridors were just as green and bare as most late evenings. I looked at the clock, it was only 1817h. I had slept for about two and a half hours. Where were the janitors? My heart was hammering in my chest and I couldn’t catch my breath. Meanwhile my head was throbbing and my eyes were burning. Suddenly I heard an indistinct whisper. Gooseflesh bloomed all over my back and arms.
I’d heard this voice before.
I’d heard this voice from the wall.
I turned to the monitors and searched for the wall. It had been brought back to the surface; the hangar! It sat upon the bare ground right by the massive doors. However, the doors were all sealed. The wall itself looked different. It was enormous! Almost three times longer and taller and wider. Just then, I realized that the titanium blast doors had been sealed as well. My heart rate doubled as I noticed large dents, scorch marks and scratches all over the doors. Someone had tried to break them down. The hangar floor was covered in blood and ash as well as abandoned weapons. My God, I even saw a rocket-launcher lying blackened and fractured near the doors. What the hell had happened?
I spun my head to look at the security control panel on the wall to my left. My heart, already blaring, felt like it leapt out of my mouth. My eyes grew wide as I realized someone, probably Donald, had activated a quarantine procedure. This meant that the entire Facility would be sealed airtight. The only way to open any doors now was from the outside. My God! Why had he done this? Where was everyone? Did he try to wake me? Did I really sleep through all this? I looked back at Donald, my heart still hammering from seeing his dead eyes stare into mine. I sighed sadly and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was currently 1831h. I returned to the monitors and began to rewind the security footage.
Surveying the screens, I watched my past-self enter the security office at around 1600h. By 1610h I had passed-out on my chair, drool dangling from my mouth. “Ok, so let’s see where the wall was at that time. Should be room 278B.” I thought to myself aloud as I clicked on the button that would display the footage from that room as well as the surrounding corridors. The screen was black as the footage loaded and I was about to hit the play button but hesitated. Did I really want to see this? I closed my eyes and took a few slow breaths. I can’t figure my way out of here if I don’t know what’s going on. I have to know. I hit play.
The camera was located opposite the door giving a full view of the room. At first everything seemed normal. Benny and some other scientists had transported the wall into room 278B. It was 1623h when they were taking the straps off the wall. A loud popping sound was heard and the researchers spun around. The lights in the room dimmed and flickered. Suddenly something long and slimy exploded from the wall, curled around Benny, and pulled him in. He screamed in terror as he vanished, his cries immediately silenced. My jaw dropped open and a small yell escaped me.
Without realizing it, I was instantly on my feet, shaking my head in pure denial. My heart burst. What the hell was that? What the hell? What the hell? My head was full of static. I felt tears in my eyes as I watched guards and researchers rush into the room. The wall shimmered, it’s simmering surface began to boil and bubble and it grew three feet higher. I saw it reshape itself so that intricately carved figures appeared on the wall’s edge. I leant in closer and gasped. One of those figures looked just like Benny, his mouth stretched open wide into a permanent scream. I didn’t want to continue watching, but I had to. The guards and researchers were horrified by what they saw before them. Suddenly, without warning, their body postures relaxed, their eyes grew glassy, and their arms fell slack at their sides. Those within the room moved as if sleepwalking. Some stayed still while others left the room. Brow furrowed from confusion and fear, my eyes swiveled to the footage of the corridor outside. The guards and researchers that had just exited 278B immediately began attacking and grappling those around them. I yelped as a vacant-eyed guard lazily shot another man in the leg. The thrall then dragged the wounded guard into room 278B. The mad guard held the wounded guard’s leg fast as he casually walked into the grey wall, pulling the struggling man in behind him. During this altercation I noticed Donald for the first time, he was hiding behind the corner of the corridor at the far end and was firing his gun at the madmen. He didn’t manage to hit anyone though. He then ran over to help a stray researcher to their feet and then they both ran down the corridor and out of view.
I can still hear the cries of pain and pleas for mercy as those who fell victim to the thralls were each dragged into that horrifying wall. With every person it swallowed, the wall wriggled and grew and grew. More and more ghastly decorations began to bloom on its surface, all of them made from the bones or likenesses of those who had been absorbed. The bigger it got the stronger its psychic influence became until it seemed to reach nearly everyone in the Facility, turning them into thralls. I looked on in horror as one by one, all janitors, researchers, guards, diggers, admin staff, everyone gradually stopped what they were doing, mid conversation, their eyes emptying. The janitors dropped their mops and buckets. Researchers dropped precious materials and equipment without care, letting them smash to pieces. In unison they all slowly, with vacant expressions, moved toward room 278B. Among the horde of thralls, I saw Bill and Jonesy, and so many others I knew by face. A guy who’d held the door for me once, a researcher who always slurped her coffee at lunch. Hundreds of people! What filled me with an unnamable dread was that I knew what was gonna happen. I knew what was coming. I tried to shout at the monitors, “Stop! Wait!” I grabbed the monitors and shook them with frustration.
A terror began to fill my stomach, deep and cold and aching. Suddenly I noticed Donald reappear on the screen. He was trying to hold back the researcher he’d helped earlier, but it was useless. I saw Donald, chest heaving from effort, stare with incredulity as he sat defeated on the ground. Everyone else around him stumbled dreamily toward their doom. But Donald refused to give up. I saw him run from corridor to corridor, trying desperately to stop them. He threw chairs and tables in their way but they simply pushed them aside or jumped over them. I saw him run toward this office. I saw him enter, saw myself slumped on my chair still completely unconscious. I saw Donald try to shake me awake, he slapped me a few times and was yelling in frustration. He gave up with me eventually and ran over to activate the quarantine lockdown. I saw him tear down the hall back toward room 278B, pistol in hand.
My best guess was that he saw what was happening in room 278B and decided he was gonna stop it. However, as soon as he got close to the door a long pale tendril burst through the door directly into Donald’s chest. The tentacle had a hooked end and it slashed at him. I saw blood spurt out of him, saw him stumble and fall from the ground in fright. However, he still managed to get a hold of his gun and fired multiple shots at the tendril. It writhed and flailed. Donald took the opportunity to climb to his feet. He grimaced and clasped his chest as crimson leaked to the floor. He moved back down the corridor, much more slowly than before. Eventually he got back to the office. He locked the door and then collapsed. I cried out in frustration. That whole time I was completely useless!
My mind felt like static again for a few seconds. I couldn’t work out what my next move should be. A thought hit me hard, one I should really have thought of before. Why had Donald and I not been psychically affected by the wall? Everyone had been enslaved, everyone had been forced to walk into that wall. Why not Donald? And me? I knew it must be connected to my horrendous sleepiness. My eyes grew wide with sudden realization. “Shit, the steel plates in my head!” Donald had a single steel plate in his skull because of a rock-climbing accident he had in his 20s. When I got close to the wall, had it sensed my resistance? Had it tried to incapacitate me? If so, it means this thing possesses sentience.
While I pondered this, I noticed some thralls re-strap the wall in room 278B. They transported it to the elevator and back up to the hangar. Once there, the thralls moved the wall off the scaffold onto the floor and began to beat heavily on the large metal doors with bare fists. Some even shot at the doors with their handguns. The ricochets killed a few of them but not one single person seemed to even notice. Some of the guards even used a rocket launcher! I yelled with shock as they fired at deadly close range, lazily blowing themselves up, leaving the doors scorched. After this proved futile, the thralls all grew suddenly rigid. Next, they all formed a line in front of the wall and one shambling step after another, all the remaining employees were - assimilated. Even the dead and wounded were not spared. Those still alive carried the corpses of their fellow thralls into the wall.
It was 1705h when the last employee disappeared forever into the grey horror, and the wall expanded to its current size. Without warning, a large writhing mass of twisted limbs emerged from the wall. I gasped from horror. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was because the lighting in the hangar wasn’t good enough, but it definitely wasn’t human. Its silhouette was about seven feet tall and thin and stretched. It had too many legs and it didn’t seem to have a head. This thing lumbered over to the doors and began to strike them with a strength and ferocity one would only find in a starving polar bear. I could tell that the doors were taking strain, and they began to bend, but even then, they would not yield. After about half an hour of smashing the door, the creature stopped and slowly shambled toward the stairs. My heart froze. It was coming here! Or was it here already?
My eyes swiveled back to the main monitor and I was surprised to see Donald still alive. He was scratched and bleeding badly as he shakily pushed himself from the floor. He then looked up at the ammunitions cupboard and began to search through his keys. I saw him curse. He couldn’t find the key with his trembling, bloodied fingers. In the next instant his eyes bulged and he heaved as if vomiting. His body doubled over and long grey tendrils oozed from his mouth and wriggled furiously. He grabbed his throat and fell forward onto the floor. Frozen in horror I watched as his body squirmed and he wriggled as if his intestines were filled with snakes. I continued to watch absolutely transfixed as three long grey tendrils emerged again from between Donald’s lips. Slowly they wriggled free of his mouth. They were about half a foot long, dull grey and thin like spaghetti.
I watched as they slithered toward my unconscious form on the monitor. I bit my lip and stood up. Slowly my brain put two and two together. Bile rose in my throat. I yelled at myself to wake up and see the worms. Just then my stomach dropped and I could feel an itchiness in my belly. I could feel the wriggling itch of a thousand grey eels in my gut. Or was I imagining it?
My stomach writhed and I was about to puke when I saw myself awake and stretch in my chair. The worms somehow realized I was awake and they moved out of view towards the –before I could watch the screen any longer, I heard a hiss and something slimy and long wrapped itself around my throat so tight I couldn’t breathe. I gasped with surprise and strained my neck to look at the monitor that showed the room in real time. I saw from the camera behind my head that something thin and grey had wrapped itself around my throat. I saw two more of those things coming at me from behind as well. They were about to come wriggling up my chair when I grimaced with anger and grabbed my gun from its holster. The thing around my neck was hissing and making awful clicking and guttural noises. Its small worm head had a mouth that bit and it latched onto my neck to suck my blood. I pulled at the leach and pressed my gun up against it. I pulled the trigger. With an earsplitting bang and a sound like a water balloon popping the leach was reduced to sticky goo. I pulled the remnants of the leach off my neck and spun around just in time to shoot and kill the others. I grinned with a mad-joy and yelled with relief. Immediately, a wave of nausea and exhaustion hit me and I fell back onto my chair. “What the hell was that? What the hell do I do now?” I sat still for a moment and tried not to lose my mind completely. I swear I could hear Woody the woodpecker laughing somewhere in the distance. I needed to keep it together. I took a long deep breath and tried to think of a way out.
Summarizing the details of my predicament, I realized I was trapped alone inside the Facility with an otherworldly force. Also, even if I found a way out, I’d potentially be letting an evil into the world that could destroy all life. At once an old thought returned to me, one I’d often experienced as a cop. “If I need to sacrifice myself to save others, I will do so without complaint.” A wry smile spread over my face. “Once a cop, always a cop.” My smile vanished as a I continued to think. “But my God, if this thing gets out. If it gets into the minds of other people. If it gets larger and larger. Could it swallow the world? The solar system? What other monstrosities would it unleash?” I was talking aloud now; the sound of my voice gave a new reality to my situation that made me shudder. I turned back to the monitor. It seems I was all caught up with what had happened. I stared blankly into the screen while I watched my past-self continue to wake and wince from pain. I switched the monitor off and saw my reflection in the blackness of the screen. I was pale and my eyes were wide and unblinking. “What do I do now?” I turned in my chair to look at Donald’s body. Were all those worms gone? Could some still be hiding? And what should be done with his body? Probably best to have it burned. “Poor Donald, he didn’t deserve this”, I muttered softly as I examined his corpse, making sure there were no unexplained twitches beneath his skin. My eyes moved from his body up to the ammunition’s cupboard just above. “Wait, why was he trying to get into the cupboard earlier? We don’t have much…”, my eyes grew large with realization. “Holy crap, he was trying to get the bomb! Me and Donald were gonna use a left-over bomb from the excavation site to blow some random shit up!”
I sighed sadly and heavily. We never got around to it. I stood up quickly and walked up to the cupboard. I pulled out my keys and quickly found the key I’d need. I opened the cupboard with little effort and found the ten kilos of plastic explosive inside. It had already been set up with a sixty second timer and a remote detonator by a colleague. I sat at the table with the explosive, a vague plan forming in my broken mind. “Maybe if I somehow get this wall-thing to eat this bomb then...”
Before I could formulate my thoughts fully, the lights flickered, and the entire Facility was plunged into darkness unceremoniously. My nerves were burning with fear. What had happened? Had that thing knocked the power out somehow? The next few seconds that past were some of the longest I’d ever experienced. However, dim green light bloomed to life and the reserve power kicked in. Then I heard slow, shuffling footsteps in the corridor just outside the office. I froze once again, my insides turning to mush. My mind raced. Had I remembered to lock the door? My stomach leapt into my feet as I heard the shuffling get louder and louder. I heard hoarse, wheezing breaths, as if the thing struggled to breathe. I jumped from fright but remained absolutely silent as whatever the thing was banged on the door with a deafening blow.
BANG! The door shook and bent slightly.
BANG! Silence for a moment.
BANG! BANG! Again silence. My heart was hammering in my ears and I sat deathly still. I could hear that thing breathing louder. After a few moments I heard it shuffle away. My entire body was shaking as relief washed over me. Whatever the thing was, it had walked away and I could no longer hear it. I turned to look at the monitors. Dare I turn them on and check what it was? After a few seconds of consideration, holding my breath, I turned to the monitors and switched them on. I waited in nervous anticipation as the screens flickered to life showing me that all the corridors between me and the wall were currently empty. I didn’t bother checking the corridor I suspected the shambling thing was in. I didn’t want to see it unless I needed to. I’d had just about all the stress and terror I could take and by this stage I felt weirdly calm. It must be shock. A thin sigh escaped me as I stood. The fear in my blood began to feed a furnace of anger in my heart. I thought about all those who I had lost. I felt my expression turn to granite, “It’s time to kill this thing.”
I opened the door slowly, my fully loaded gun in my good hand. Spare ammo along with the explosive and a shotgun was stashed in my backpack, and the remote detonator was tied to my belt. I held a heavy-duty flashlight in my shaky right hand. I moved cautiously through the dark green corridors. I’d never thought of how creepy this place could be until this moment. Gooseflesh crept up my arms and neck as I continued. All I could hear were my soft footfalls and shallow anxious breaths. I cleared the corridors one by one until I made it to the stairs that would lead me to the thing that looks like a wall. I walked up the stairs slowly, my ears honing in on any sound. That’s when I heard it. I heard the soft sound of crying.
Someone was crying. I stopped dead in my tracks. My entire body shook from the adrenaline surging through me. I took one step. Then another. Slowly, I climbed. Once my head could peek over the top, I froze. Jonesy was squatting on his knees, naked. He was between the wall and me, with his back facing me. The terrifying thing loomed enormous before us. It was now framed intricately with the skeletons of hundreds of people, all twisted and screaming in agony. Writhing, tortured souls fused together. Then came the sound of crying and moaning from the wall. I could hear them all. They were all screaming. Screaming for me to help them. To join them. I felt that pressure squeeze against my skull tighter and tighter. I shook my head in defiance. “No! You bastard! NO! I will not join you! You’re not Jonesy!” All at once the moans and wails stopped. I suddenly found myself at the top of the stairs without knowing when I’d finished climbing them. “But we are Jonesy” came a voice that was not human. It was a voice made from all those it had swallowed up. It was as though something had made a distorted copy of the voices of all those people and then just used them all at once to speak. It didn’t understand the concept of individuality. All of a sudden, the wall rippled and grey tendrils squirmed from the flesh of the wall, curling around Jonesy as they teased his face and slowly pulled him in. As he disappeared there was a horrendous sucking, squelching noise. “We are Jonesy. We are all. We can be all. We will be all. All and all and more than all.” The voice was chanting this over and over. Louder and louder.
A deafening blast came from the wall and a slithering, writhing mass of tangled human limbs emerged. It had four legs and several arms. It looked like the bodies of eight or more people shuffled and glued into an otherworldly horror. Its multiple mouths screamed a high pitch squeal that was more horrifying than the screams of the damned, and its sharp pointed teeth gnashed and chomped. I only had a second to dodge this monster. I leapt to the side and fired multiple shots at the thing’s center of mass. Its horrifying body of fused torsos wriggled and bled black ichor. It screamed with pain and jumped at me, grabbing my leg. It tossed me into the air and I almost lost my gun as I slammed into the floor a few feet away. Before I could catch my breath, it was upon me again. From the ground I fired several shots at it. This made it jump away and scuttle down the stairs. With it momentarily out of sight, I quickly got to my feet and kept my eyes on the stairs.
After a second, I decided to kneel and take off my backpack as fast as I could. I pulled out the bomb and started the timer. I also decided to get the shotgun out and get it loaded. I needed to do this now or never. As the final shell clicked into place I heard a roar coming from the stairs. The thing was back. Before I could react, it leapt at me and knocked me to the ground. The bomb flew from my grasp. It bared down on me, grabbing at my throat ready to tear me apart. My reflexes saved me though and I managed to use my shotgun to hold the thing at bay, but it was too strong. Desperate, I kicked it hard in the chest and it let go. I used this moment to grab the bomb that lay behind me; only 37 seconds to go! Terrified and crazed, sweat pouring down my face, my mind in pieces, I rammed the bomb into the creature’s mouth and kicked it back again as hard as I could. I heard it yelp like a wounded dog and it lost its footing. It fell sideways and in that second, I took my shotgun and fired at it in the chest. The force of the close-range blast sent me flying. At the same time the creature was hurled back into the wall where it was enveloped quickly.
My head was fuzzy. I was dizzy and the wind had been knocked out of me. Was the bomb going to work? I felt something warm and wet drip into my ear and touched the side of my head. My fingertips came away soaked in blood. My head was spinning. With a foggy mind I grabbed my bag, collecting my weapons and flashlight. As I stood up I heard a low rumbling sound. The ground beneath my feet shook and for a moment I was confused. Then I looked up at the wall. Its surface was roiling and boiling like I’d never seen before. It was shaking and growing. I turned to run when suddenly there was a massive blast from inside it, and the entire wall exploded into hundreds of small grey chunks. These chunks rained down all around the hangar, smashing several aircraft. The blast knocked me off my feet and this time I definitely passed out because when I awoke I could see daylight through the tiny cracks in the blast door. Where the wall had once been now stood a small blackened crater. I turned around to inspect the wall pieces and found that they – my eyes grew wide and my mouth opened. They were melting. As I approached a fragment of wall, a horrible twisted hand shot out at me. I yelled and jumped away. It was still alive! I watched in dumbfounded horror as the pieces continued to melt and began to merge, just like that scene from Terminator 2.
It was rebuilding itself. Then I heard a groan. My blood became ice. I turned slowly in terror to find the shambling, wheezing monstrosity behind me. Like the creature I'd shot, this one seemed made from bits and pieces of human limbs knitted together randomly. This one had legs which came out its mouth, its head positioned within its torso where the bellybutton should be, and it wheezed in pain. I almost puked from fright but my legs were already carrying me away. I sprinted down the corridors, ignoring all the pain and fear and exhaustion and anger and frustration I had inside me. Without thinking, I leapt into the first janitor's closet I found and locked the door with a dull clunking sound. After catching my breath, I found this notepad and pencil, and have been writing this report in the sterile glow of my flashlight. Hopefully, I have left some useful information for anyone who may find this.
Now I lie in wait for that thing. Now I lie in wait for that grey ooze. What is that thing? Is it truly indestructible? If it can survive a bomb like that, what hope do we have? It’s no wall at all. It’s a membrane. An interface. Somewhere very different is pressing up against us. It has torn a small hole, and was now prying it open further. I should blow up this whole damn place! I should burn it! But would it matter? Or would it just be buried, to be rediscovered? I think even if I survive this, nothing can help us. So here I wait, hoping to be saved, but even as I write this I can hear that thing walking past the door. With a soft click I turn off my flashlight. I try not to breathe. I can hear the snuffling, it’s right outside! I can smell its ugly breath.
Oh God! I hear the jingling of keys. The door is unlocking! How? How?
Oh God! The doorknob is turning...

Unless you have a kink for human exploitation or like being used then Aiesec is a prime example of capitalism at its worst. I was a member for a little bit but decided to leave because of how strange it was.
It is pretty much a cult and an MLM despite what people in the club say it is. They get defensive when someone calls them a cult and will brainwash you into their indoctrination through their hustle mindset. People dance to role calls, chant, have their lingo, and have a social structure extremely reminiscent of a corporation. Even at the national level, other Aiesec clubs in Canada have to compete with each other just to appease their “gods”. Unless you work for Aiesec at a national level or above, the members revere you as some form of god. It is unnerving and creepy at the level of indoctrination some of these people have for them.
There are these conferences that members go and pay but it’s stupidly expensive for a few days about how “you can develop your leadership” that you can learn from other MLM/ business events. They are supposed to feel like professional conferences but they are fraternities disguised as business events.
The worst thing is that you don’t get paid for the work you do. Once when you complete your “sales” the organization and club profit off of you and you’re supposed to see the “reinvestments” return in making the membership experience better. Of course, there is a distinction between volunteering and volunteering to make an organization profit off of you, but I cannot comprehend how SU hasn’t cracked down on this club. I certainly feel bad for the members who have to put up with the work of not being compensated even if they promote voluntourism for one and selling internships to people for another.
I have nothing against the Aiesec people at Ucalgary. I just can't empathize with the sheer amount of exploitation they have to uphold. If you want to gain volunteer experience then this one is not for for you.

 
link to prev. chapters 21-24
Chapter 25 - A Job to Do
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“Wait for the show.”
- John McCain
“It’s gonna be wild.”
- President Donald Trump
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A commotion arose as they approached Goodwealth’s office. The protester-insurrectionist-tourist groups were getting closer. Around the corners, their disgruntled chorus of rumbling voices echoed off the polished stone of the capitol building.
“Better hurry,” Frank said.
“You sure you want to read this thing?” Goodwealth asked. “Sounds like we don’t have much time.”
“I should at least take a look at it,” Howie said. “Right?”
“If you insist,” Goodwealth said. “Ah, here’s my office.”
The sign above the door said ‘majority leader’.
“Wait, this is your office?” Howie asked. “You’re a senator, too?”
“Me? Oh yes. So many roles I can barely keep track.”
“You’re just a nighttime proxy for a shadowcaster,” Frank said. “He’s filling in for tonight.”
When they got past the office’s antechamber, they saw one of the guest-protester-rioter-insurrectionists was already in there with his feet up on the desk. They shooed him out and Frank opened drawers searching for his whip.
“Still, how do you do everything?” Howie asked. “You have so many jobs.”
“Oh, I just go where I’m needed,” Goodwealth said. “Just trying to help.”
“How can you be an expert in so many things?” Howie asked.
Frank rolled his eyes.
“Well, really, it’s all one thing,” Goodwealth explained. “Leadership is like players on baseball team. If you know who to hire and who to fire, it’s like doing pretty much any job.”
“What position on a baseball team hires and fires?”
“The owner, of course,” Goodwealth said.
“Are they technically a player, though?” Howie asked.
“Oh, the most important player,” Goodwealth said. “That’s business. That’s capitalism.”
“Do you know how you’re voting?” Frank asked.
“Yes. I mean, I’m voting yes,” Warren Goodwealth said.
“Correct,” Frank said. “If you don’t get it right, then Charlie -”
“Right, right. Let’s not upset my brother,” Goodwealth said. “No need to get him involved. You know you don’t need a literal whip to whip votes.”
“But it makes it so much more fun,” Frank said. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled a box from a cabinet. He opened it up and removed the whip. “Vintage,” Frank said, “from Strom’s great-grandad.” He unfurled the whip and took a bow. “Ta ta,” he said.
As he left, they could hear him yell down the hallway “okay who’s a ‘no’?”
An aide walked through the door after him. They struggled through the door pushing a hand trolley with giant stacks of paper.
“What’s that?” Howie asked.
“The bill,” the Aide said. “Someone said you wanted to read it? This is volume one. Volume two is still printing but it should be finished by the time you’re done.”
“Thank you,” Goodwealth said. “Well, you wanted to read it, here it is.”
“How is anyone expected to read this?” Howie asked.
Goodwealth shrugged.
“They’re not,” he said. “But some of crazy ones try. What made you want to read it?”
“I was trying to learn some details,” Howie said.
“Oh, you don’t need to learn details,” Goodwealth said.
“But surely someone is familiar with the details,” Howie insisted. “If not Senators, then who?”
He had never said ‘surely’ in conversation but he wanted to disagree while being polite.
“Most of the people who know details get paid enough to sign an NDA,” Frank said. “None of us benefit when voters know too much. Like, take this aide, here - what’s your name?”
“Jonathan.”
“Are you looking for a job in the private sector, after your little stint here?” Goodwealth asked.
“Sure!” Jonathan said.
“Are you familiar with political arbitrage?” Goodwealth asked.
“Oh sure,” Jonathan said. “That’s what Milton Summers taught us. You arbitrage the difference between the simplicity of slogans and the complexity of the courtroom - between voters and donors.”
“Arbitrage?” Howie asked.
“An opportunity to make money,” Goodwealth said.
“So we make money from voters not knowing things?”
Goodwealth and Jonathan glanced at each other and laughed.
“Well, it’s not exactly a conspiracy,” Goodwealth said, “but we try to keep the details behind a paywall.”
“I really admire your work with the Founding Fathers Foundation,” Jonathan told Goodwealth.
“Oh, that foundation helps me keep the arbitrage as wide as possible,” Goodwealth said.
“But it’s a nonprofit,” Howie said. “You make money from donations?”
“Jonathan, you seem like a bright kid - you wanna take this?” Goodwealth asked.
“It’s the Paradox of Capitalism,” Jonathan said.
“Nonprofits defend capitalism,” Goodwealth said. “But if we declared how much profit they made for us, we might have to pay taxes on it.”
“Which,” Jonathan covered his mouth and looked around as if he was about to tell a secret, “kind of defeats the whole point.”
Goodwealth chuckled again.
“You’ve got a great future, Jonathan,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Goodwealth,” he said. “I’ll go get the rest.”
“So, now that you’ve seen it,” Goodwealth said, “you want to head to the vote?”
Howie took a look at the title page. It was long but one part said ‘..to value the dollar based on certain quantities of freshwater and other purposes..’. He also saw something about a ‘rule against perpetuities’.
“I don’t want to disappoint the Management Party,” Howie said, “but I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do to vote for this giant bill without actually reading it.”
Goodwealth put his arm around Howie.
“Look, it gets easier,” he said. “But you have to realize this is a job, like any other. And it has bosses, like any other.”
“Right. The people,” Howie said.
“No, son, I mean the donors,” Goodwealth said. “You’re a kind of middleman. You rule the people but you work for the donors. Once you realize that, it’s much easier. To the donors, you sell legislation, access, power, wealth. But to the voters, you’re selling a feeling. It’s the feeling of America, Howie, and you’ve got to make it feel good. Now, let’s go vote the way we were told.”
Chapter 26 - The Vote
.
“If this election were overturned by mere allegations from the losing side, our democracy would enter a death spiral. We’d never see the whole nation accept an election again. Every four years would be a scramble for power at any cost.”
- Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, 1/6/21
“We are all domestic terrorists.”
- banner at Conservative Political Action Conference, Dallas, August 2022
.
Just a short distance from the Majority Leader’s office was the Senate chamber. Aides opened the vast oak doors as Howie and Goodwealth approached.
Inside, they walked on squishy blue carpet. Everything was masterfully dusted. The polished wood reflected a stately vision of the world.
“Here’s where you sit,” Goodwealth said. “After you vote, then I’ll vote on behalf of all the shadowcasters and we’ll get this thing over the top.”
As Howie sat at Strom’s old desk, he ran his hands along the edges and felt carvings underneath. He took a look but wished he didn’t because the things carved under the desk were so offensive.
In the corner of the room there was yelling as Frank violently whipped Senators. Goodwealth approached and tried gentle persuasion, laying his hand on a senator’s back.
Amid the tumult and threat of the protester-rioter-insurrectionists, and with Goodwealth being so friendly, Howie decided that he would vote yes on the omnibus bill. He did want stability. He believed in Management. He believed that widespread suffering in the short term would be made right by the invisible hand until everything worked out for everyone in the long term. He believed that the Free Marketⓒ would eventually lead to ProgressTM and the Best of All Possible Worldsⓡ.
The Senators in the corner begged for their punishment to stop. They promised to vote yes. Frank held back his whip and shook their hands. Goodwealth thanked them and began walking toward the dais at the front of the room. He would be the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, which meant that he would stand at the podium and control the evening’s proceedings.
His gavel lay ready on the podium. He banged it once. That was always his favorite part.
“The Senate will come to order,” he said. “The Chaplain, Ms. Jhumpa LeGunn, will lead the senate in prayer.”
Jhumpa stood at the top of the center aisle holding a candle. The lights came down until the flame was the only light in the room. Like the pillars, her old-school, analog light was a throwback to time long past.
She bowed her head and lowered her eyes while she walked to the front of the chamber down the aisle that divided the two parties. Since the release of her bible, she had been approved as a chaplain to emcee religious ceremonies. Only the most devout Resurrectionists voted against her appointment. Most Senators were able to support her primary article of faith: the supreme virtue of success.
She stood in front of the dais and lifted her head. As she spoke her voice rang through the hall. She kept it brief.
“Heavenly Father,” she began, “please continue to bestow upon us your great bounty and instruct us in the virtue of selfishness that we may be guided by your invisible hand to help others by helping ourselves.”
The ‘amen’ resounded throughout the chamber.
The lights came back up and everyone turned to the flag while Goodwealth led the pledge of allegiance. A contingent of lawmakers made a point of yelling out ‘under GOD’ during the relevant portion.
“..indivisible, with liberty and justice for all,” everyone murmured.
“The Senate will now consider the SOFA Act,” Goodwealth said, “the Settled Once and For All Act, wherein citizens of the United States will sit back and let management run things.”
Lawmakers cheered. It was a staple of the genre for a law’s acronym to also state its purpose. It was as close as politics got to poetry.
The workers of the Senate began performing the ceremony.
“Senator, do I have any additional time left?”
“There’s no additional time,” said Goodwealth.
“I ask for the yeas and nays.”
“Is there a sufficient second?”
“Here.”
“There is,” Goodwealth affirmed. “I will call the roll.”
But there was a hush in the chamber. The proceedings were delayed as everyone noticed the Prince arrive in the Senate gallery, looking down on the lawmakers from above. He was a heavy investor in the personal equity of America’s workers and its value depended on the outcome of the vote.
Goodwealth cleared his throat and began reciting names.
“Mr. Asness?”
“Yea.”
There was a vague noise of a crowd through the walls.
“Mr. Bohner?”
“Yea.”
There were more delays between the names. The vote took forever. Even at this late hour, with so many attempts to pass the bill, there was wrangling and cajoling and whipping on the Senate floor. The truth was, the Senators failed to agree because their donors failed to agree. Too many radicals had become rich and too many rich had become radicals. America’s wealthy had fractured into factions and each had its own facts.
Meanwhile, the swelling of the noise outside the chamber grew louder. Goodwealth raised his voice. Just a few more moments and he would be able to record the vote for all the Punxsutawney senators and put the SOFA Act over the top.
“Mr. Cockburn?” He asked.
But the protesters were too loud. He had to repeat it.
"MR. COCKBURN?"
“Yea.”
“MR. DORK?”
Howie stepped onto the floor in front of the Senate clerk. He looked up toward Goodwealth, who winked at him.
But before Howie could vote, an ominous mix of silence and shouting overtook the chamber.
“Hold it! Hold it!” Security said. “Stay down!”
Through the walls, those in the chamber listened intently to the muffled anger of the mob. Security shouted commands. Senators murmured questions and reassurances.
Suddenly the doors were thrown open and protesters burst into the Senate chamber. There was the crack and pop of shots fired near the door.
“We have to get out!” The Master at Arms called. “This way!”
“No! Finish the vote!” Frank yelled.
Several protesters were shot near the door and several backed off but those behind them in the hallway shouted, incensed by the crack of the guns. The mob moved forward, climbing over its own fallen. One guy carried zip ties. Another had horns on his head. They were ex-soldiers and ex-airmen weighed down by bad memories and bad debt. They had grown up being taught a kind of deal and they felt the terms had been broken.
Howie followed security as they escaped. It was a mass of bodies and pushing and confusion and he tried to keep up and keep his feet beneath him as they rushed down a staircase to an undisclosed location.
Chapter 26 - Another Escape
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“Notably, delays in raising the debt limit have occurred in 10 of the last 11 fiscal years.”
- Government Accountability Office Financial Audit, November, 2021
“We have lowered our long-term sovereign credit rating on the United States of America..”
- S+P Global, 8/5/2011
.
Some called them protesters, some called them rioters, and some called them rude guests, but one thing was sure: after they had entered the chamber, the Senators were not able to complete the vote on the omnibus bill to fund the government and establish the Personal Equity Program.
The interlopers chanted as they roamed.
“Sold us out!”
“Stop the steal!”
“Eat the rich!”
“Hang Goodwealth!”
Shots were fired. Reporters and lawmakers hid in whatever nooks and crannies they could find.
Amid the chaos, one of the able-bodied senators who voted Punxsatawney stood still in the middle of the chamber, like a deer, and hoped no one would notice him. He was quickly tackled and zip-tied.
Things were going poorly outside the chamber, too. All over the world, global elites had been waiting for the outcome of the vote with trepidation. Investors everywhere knew it was a decisive moment for AmericaTM.
When they saw that the vote didn’t go through, they sold everything they had that was American. They sold treasury bonds and interest rates spiked. They sold stocks and the Fortune 500 fell. They sold dollars themselves, exchanging the currency for whatever other currencies they could; exchange rates plummeted.
Nobody honestly expected the United States to finally default. They had come close so many times, and always came back from the brink. The congressional deadlocks that had been so dramatic had become as prosaic as moon landings in the 1970s, or criminal executions.
But now it was happening. The Senators could not get back into the chamber. It was too late. The interest payments that guaranteed the value of trillions of dollars of American bonds were suspended. Nobody knew what anything was worth. It was panic.
Goodwealth stared at his phone and absentmindedly nodded when security asked if they should bring Howie.
“Oh god,” he said into his phone screen.
“What?” Howie asked, as they were ushered through the hallways.
Goodwealth looked up from his phone like he was waking up from a bad dream.
“The dollar is diving,” he said. “Nobody knows what it’s worth if it can’t buy weapons or oil.”
“What about water?” Howie said. “Wasn’t that supposed to back the value of the dollar?”
“Only if we used the Great Lakes as collateral,” Goodwealth said, “which would mean declaring war on Canada. It was all in the omnibus bill.”
Dollar-denominated oil prices were spiking. When the vote failed, Prince Embièss Embeezee followed through on his threat to apportion oil production in such a way that some would be salable in Chinese Yuan, for the time being, given the uncertainty surrounding the value of the dollar.
It didn’t just affect wealthy people. Regular people on the street were affected, too. ATM withdrawals got restricted. Inflation spiked in a panic. The money in people’s pockets was becoming worthless.
But if they owned anything else besides money, they were extremely wealthy. Hyperinflation turned property owners into millionaires. Prices rose minute by minute, hour by hour.
The chaos spread. The Texas legislature voted to secede from the union. Eastern Oregon joined Greater Idaho. There was an invasion on the border. State Legislatures all over the country triggered a constitutional convention and pledged to meet the following Monday to reconsider the Union. All these things had been set in motion by the official default.
Americans had thought they were safe. They thought they lived in the world’s richest country, but really they just lived in the country with the world’s richest people. Those who hadn’t already done so were on the way to their jets to get the hell out.
But for now, Howie and the other lawmakers just tried to survive. They followed security through the corridors and dodged angry voices.
Some of the security couldn’t be trusted. Goodwealth wouldn’t follow the regular secret service. He followed his personal security instead.
“Where are we going?” Howie asked.
“Underground train system,” Goodwealth said. “And then we’ll have to find the Prince.”
The painted walls turned to blank concrete and they finally arrived at a small underground train meant to shuttle Senators and staff between capitol hill office buildings. Lots of Senators were already packed in.
They argued.
“Let us on!” One senator yelled.
“The train would be bigger if you voted for my public transit bill!”
“Well maybe I would have voted for it if you used my state’s fossil fuels!”
“It’s underground, moron.”
“Yeah, where the exhaust don’t cause a greenhouse effect. So what’s your point?”
They would have kept arguing but more protester-rioter-tourists hunted them down. One guy wore confederate flag pajamas. Another guy had a fake viking helmet with horns. Others just wore tattered clothes and looked like zombies. They stumbled forward, covered in untreated sores caused by intravenous drugs.
Protesters protested. Marauders marauded. The tunnel was partially blocked.
“What do we do?” Howie asked.
Security and capitol police bought them some time by fighting the capitol trespassers. Another gunshot rang out and the trespassers stepped back.
“This way!” Security yelled.
They went through a narrow concrete hallway, busted open a metal fireproof door, and got to an underground parking garage where a large black SUV waited.
“Thanks, boys,” Goodwealth said.
He got into the backseat and moved over to make room for Howie.
They sped off.
Chapter 27 - The Final Flight
.
‘America was paralyzed by terror, and for forty-eight hours, virtually no one could fly. No one, that is, except the Saudis.’
- Craig Unger, ‘House of Bush, House of Saud', 2004
‘The odyssey of the small LearJet 35 is part of a larger controversy over the hasty exodus from the United States in the days immediately after 9/11 of members of the Saudi royal family and relatives of Osama bin Laden.’
- Jean Heller, St. Petersburg Times, 6/9/04
.
As they drove and swerved and sped, Goodwealth reached into his center console and handed Howie a bottle of water.
“Sorry your first time at the capitol had to be so raucous,” he said in his perpetually genial manner, “but the American voter remains spirited! The tree of liberty is pruned by blood. Is that how it goes? We need a specialist, someone who knows quotes.”
“Are we going to your plane?” Howie asked.
“Me? No!” Goodwealth said. “I ruined the black leather of our guy at the FAA. He’s trying to reassert himself by grounding my plane. No no, the only one authorized to fly right now is Prince Embièss Embeezee. I’m sure he’s also on his way.”
They tried to rush to the airport as best as they could but the roads around the capitol were strewn with debris, protesters, and police. A street would seem clear until a mob came around a corner. Howie watched out the window but he also watched live news on a screen built into the back seat.
The driver worked through traffic. The sun had set. Dusk had settled. Outside the window, anarchy reigned. Dancing, orange-lit faces floated over barrels of fire. Some people danced, some people walked, and some people on the verge of overdosing did their best just to stand. Drugs were sold on the sidewalk and sex was sold off of it. The paranoid dreams and furious frustrations of the populace were woven into a gordian knot of implacable revolution.
Some of the protesters knelt down and tried to repair a rolling gallows that had lost its wheel on a cracked sidewalk which wasn't maintained due to budget cuts. The gallows leaned but the noose pulled straight down.
Further along, a militia member helped another militia member fasten body armor around his vast girth.
There were pops and sudden loud thuds against the car. They were being shot!
“Don’t worry, we’re bulletproof,” Goodwealth explained to Howie. “Feel free to run a few over,” he told his driver. The SUV bumped uncertainly over flesh. “We fixed that law last week,” Goodwealth said.
The driver eventually got them to the outskirts of the protest and past a police checkpoint on the road to the airport.
“Martial law,” the cop at the checkpoint said. “Liberals, am I right?” He shook his head.
They got on the highway and drove past the sign that marked the turnoff for departing flights.
“Where are we going?” Howie asked.
But Goodwealth was silent. His thumbs kept dancing over his phone. Its glow lit his furrowed face.
“I just need a moment,” Goodwealth said. “Lot of price changes, right now. Obviously my positions at the Fed, Treasury, and my own fund enable me to see large parts of the financial market but surprises do happen.”
All over the world, desperate sellers would take almost any price for their American assets. They wanted Yuan, oil, copper, Euro, nickel, gold - anything more real than a dollar. The intertwined legal layers of references and counter-references - assets, equity, and obligations - fell apart when the ability of the American treasury to make timely payments was yanked out from the bottom of the global financial pyramid.
It would be a hell of a thing to reset the world’s accountants.
They reached a service road that surrounded the airport, just outside a razor-wire fence. Through another security checkpoint, there was a large plane parked on the runway. It was decorated with a sports logo.
“Football teams can fly?” Howie asked.
“No, that’s the Prince’s plane,” Goodwealth said.
They waited at the end of a line of SUV’s to get through another checkpoint. Finally, it was their turn.
“Password?” The security guard asked.
“One is ok, two is no way,” Goodwealth said.
The guard waved them through.
One or two of what? Howie wondered.
The Prince’s large personal airliner was surrounded on the tarmac by premium luxury vehicles whose gleaming surfaces reflected the tall floodlights of the airfield. Drivers assisted their wealthy clients with luggage. Two staircases ascended up to the plane: the one in the front was nearly all women and the one in the back had men in suits who bumped elbows with each other as they jostled to get inside.
Goodwealth and Howie parked and got in line for the back staircase. They greeted the other passengers who were also relieved to have made it onto what was basically an evacuation plane.
Frank Rove was ahead of them.
“I guess you didn’t end up having to read the bill, eh?”
“It would have been impossible,” Howie said. “I barely got past the title.”
Frank laughed.
“Told ya it didn’t matter,” he said.
Behind them, someone got in an argument at the fence. Their SUV was asked to pull over for a search. The guard asked the driver to set the vehicle’s transmission in park. Instead of searching the vehicle they merely shot at it. The engine revved as the dead driver’s foot pressed against the gas. A guard leaned through the window and turned the key.
“Last plane out of Saigon,” Goodwealth said.
“Or Kabul,” Frank said.
He made a show of checking the plane’s wheel. The man laughed. Howie didn’t know why.
“Howie!”
It was Jhumpa, calling to Howie from the front staircase. They waved to each other before she entered the plane.
Howie felt the warm glow of her approval as he followed Goodwealth inside. They were the last ones in. Behind them, security tried to shut the door.
“We’re full!”
“No! No! We’re here! One is okay, two is no way!”
“Sorry, we’re full,” the guard said.
Some arms tried to reach through as they kept trying to shut the door. So the security guard flung it back open and shot his weapon outside. The remaining businessmen fled down the staircase.
The men sat down as the plane rumbled down the runway before smoothly lifting into the air.
They reached cruising altitude and kept accelerating, faster and faster, until plane passed the sound barrier. Dogs on the ground below barked for hours as America’s Mississippi basin was pummeled by the Prince’s sonic boom.
When the fasten seatbelt sign turned off, everyone got up at once. One of the Prince’s assistants yelled at the men in suits.
“Alright, its not a long flight so we must hurry!”
Everyone lined up and followed the man. He was the assistant to the prince’s Groom of the Stool.
“Where are we flying to?” Howie asked.
“Las Vegas,” Goodwealth said. “We still have the convention. The Prince has a lot invested in the Management Party and he’ll want to see it through.”
Howie didn’t know they would end up in Vegas! He’d never been. He hoped it lived up to the hype.
As they followed the Groom’s assistant further into the plane, Howie noticed the wall fixtures and sconces gradually becoming fancier and fancier. Howie knew they were fancy because they were unrecognizable and pleasing. This wasn’t sophisticated airline plastic like the front of the plane. The carpet eventually became an oak floor and then eventually stone.
The line stopped and Howie heard the sound of velcro and saw Warren Goodwealth putting on kneepads.
Chapter 28 - The Pump of Fidelity
.
‘People who say that in 1980 the Arabs will own the world are wrong.’
- Walter Wriston, CEO of Citibank, 1974
‘Prince Muhammad will have the pleasure of an American president bending the knee.’
- The Economist, 6/16/2022
.
"Why are you putting on kneepads?" Howie asked.
The group of powerful men looked at each other uncertainly.
“The marble floor in the ensuite throne room is very unforgiving on the knees,” Warren Goodwealth told him. “But you’re still young. You’ll probably be alright.”
“I have to get on my knees?” Howie asked.
“Of course.”
“It’s how we do the pump of fidelity,” another said.
“What’s the pump of fidelity?” Howie asked.
“It’s like an obeisance.”
“A supplication.”
“An intimate fist bump.”
“But instead of your fist, you use your mouth.”
“Like a sex thing?” Howie asked.
“No, no, no - it’s just a little touching between bros.”
“But it’s not gay.”
“Gay is haram.”
“It’s just something the Prince likes.”
“It sounds weird,” Howie said. “Why does he like it?”
They all looked at each other as if it was obvious.
“Because we don’t.”
“Do I have to do it?” Howie asked.
“You don’t have to,” Goodwealth said. “Nobody’s making you do anything, but I highly recommend it. I’ve done it many times, hence the kneepads. You see, it’s all part of the circuit, Howie. We pay the Prince for oil and he circulates all those dollars back to America. In return, we pay the pump.”
“Just a single stroke,” someone said.
“Like a golf stroke?” Howie asked. He knew golf was popular among rich people. He was nervous about learning how to play it.
“No, no, this is different.”
“Just one pump, up and down.”
“Une pipe singulaire.”
“The littlest blowjob.”
“But it’s not a sex thing?” Howie asked.
“Ugh! No!”
“You do it on his toe.”
“We demonstrate fidelity by sucking on his toes.”
“The toebeisance.”
“A toejob.”
“His toe? He’s into toes?” Howie asked.
“It’s a cultural thing, because of the robes and sandals.”
“Acclimation to floor-length clothing has turned the feet into an erogenous zone.”
“An obsession.”
“He likes his toe sucked.”
“But all powerful people have, like, a performative thing, a way to demonstrate loyalty. Your father did it too, in his own way.”
“But with state and local. Small ball.”
They moved forward in line.
“It’s not difficult,” Goodwealth said. “All the prince wants is one pump, to show fidelity. Just one suck on his big toe: down, then up.”
“Don’t cycle twice. One pump is about power, but two makes its sexual.”
“It’s a religious nuance.”
“One is ok, two is no way.”
They moved further up in line and turned a corner.
More businessmen waited in an anteroom. Some of them appeared to be preparing for an athletic competition. They stretched and bounced and touched their own toes. They took rapid, shallow breaths. One jumped up and down as if preparing for a great effort. Another loosened his jaw.
An usher dressed in robes appeared in the antechamber where the businessmen prepared. They followed him silently into a dark room. He led the way with a candle around the outer edge of the room. It was very large. It took up the entire width of the plane’s fuselage and what might have been thirty or forty rows of its length. This was Prince Embièss Embeezee’s ensuite throne room.
Translucent overhead panels gradually brightened with a calming pale light and revealed a central throne elevated on a marble plinth. In spite of the weak light, the polished gold of the chair shone brightly. Its surface reflected the ring of men arrayed neatly around it.
The line was cut as another door opened. From it, the Prince entered. His light robes were sustained gently behind him on the air. Another attendant led him, this one more formal than the first. He wore understated robes with shimmering thread. He held the Prince’s hand while the monarch climbed up onto the throne. He lazily scrolled his electronic tablet and seemed to not pay attention to the proceedings.
From the center, the formal assistant turned to speak to everyone in the room. He had a beard that nearly touched the floor and a hat that nearly touched the ceiling. This was the Groom of the Stool.
The first usher stepped towards the middle of the room and blew out his candle.
“Hark! Silence! Hear ye the Royal Groom of the Stool!”
The Groom spoke from his spot next to the throne. His voice was nasally.
“Yea, we shall get down to business,” the Groom said. “Ye shall bestow a single stroke upon the Prince, in the ceremony of the Pump of Fidelity. The line is long. There are many, many, many westerners from free democratic countries, who take pride in their institutions, who denigrate the monarchy behind our back, and yet who desire the wealth which the prince has the power to bestow. Given that there are so many sniveling fools from the western democracies-”
“Don’t forget china!”
“-and China..”
“Woo! And Europe!”
“Yes, Europe. I kind of already said that but yeah, you’re all great. All over the world, you’re all great. The Prince appreciates your journey or whatever-”
“Thank you master,” one said.
“Thank you,” another said.
The Prince ignored them and scrolled his tablet while he slouched in his throne. His leg was hanging over the side of the chair.
“Sure. Calm down. Relax,” the Groom said. “For any newcomers, I’ll clarify that we must limit you to one stroke, so make it good. Plus, I think we can agree, for religious reasons but also as a bunch of straight dudes, that more than one pump is gay. Also, lately I’ve seen newcomers allegedly try to ‘learn by watching’. Ancient custom holds that watching is also gay. We require all to participate. And a reminder: it’s one and done. We’re not trying to be here all day. The line is very long. None of you are impressive when you keep going. You just show that you can’t follow direction. Okay?”
The room nodded and murmured its approval.
“My bad,” admitted one overachiever.
Frank Rove felt singled out. He had previously suggested watching.
“And this part is vital,” the Groom of the Stool continued. “No teeth! No teeth on the toe. If this is your first time, be careful! Toe-sucking videos make it look easy. Be not tricked! What is small to the untrained eye can be large in the untrained mouth.”
“He’s right, guys.”
“We take it for granted.”
“As usual, the movies make it look easy.”
“Silence!” The Groom clapped. “Let us begin!”
A musician sat unobtrusively in the corner and played a violin with a single string. The music was plaintive and ancient.
The first supplicant, an Ivy League MBA who had practiced the pump as a fraternity pledge, gently rolled up the bottom of the Prince’s robe, performed a deliberate, thorough pump, and moved on.
“Practice sucking your thumb,” Goodwealth whispered to Howie. “And kinda make a taco with your tongue.”
Howie could see the men ahead of him sucking their thumb, in preparation, lips wrapped around their teeth in a pantomime of surprise.
“Ehz hwat wight?” Someone asked, fumbling through their words while their thumb was in their mouth.
The line moved quickly. The Groom of the Stool kept it breezy. He was an excellent master of ceremonies. Each supplicant quickly knelt before the Prince and carefully performed their task. The prince was so accustomed to westerners fellating his toe that while receiving his separate pumps, he scrolled his electronic tablet. Everyone assumed he was taking notes on their performance; they wanted to believe that their hard work and sacrifice meant something. But he was staring at photos of his harem and plotting against dissidents.
Having arrived last, Howie and Goodwealth were nearly at the end of the line. It would be Howie’s turn, soon. Goodwealth was ahead of him.
The old billionaire knelt, took a deep breath, and leaned down toward the Prince’s foot. He was skillful. Finally, someone got the Monarch’s attention. He looked up from his tablet as Goodwealth gave a slow, sensuous, premeditated pump on that big toe. The Prince began trembling, showing Goodwealth more enthusiasm than he had for any of the others. He cried out and Goodwealth gagged as his entire foot went into the supplicant’s mouth. After swishing it around for a moment, the Prince was still.
Goodwealth stood up, caught his breath, and wiped his mouth.
“I did it!” He said.
The Groom of the Stool stepped forward.
“If you deliver, we deliver,” he said.
He slapped Goodwealth across the mouth and handed him a blank check.
All around, the most powerful men in the world began clapping. Some cheered.
They were all there to deliver for each other. They were comrades.
“The prince will now need time to recharge!” The Groom of the Stool said.
The prince had relaxed fully and dozed off. In his full relaxation, he dropped his tablet to the ground and began to go to the bathroom where he sat. He had never been potty trained because that would have required telling him ‘no’. Anyone who told the Prince ‘no’ tended to get dismembered.
And so, the Groom of the Stool led several attendants to change the Prince’s diaper. They performed with crisp efficiency, as if they had done it a thousand times. They wrapped him in a fresh diaper to prepare him for public display in Las Vegas.
Howie turned to the wealthy men next to him, after everyone had cheered.
“Looks like I got lucky,” Howie said. He had been next in line.
The room stopped. The murmurs of celebration, congratulation, and affirmation ceased. The silence in the room was abrasive and cold. The musician with his single string stopped playing. The only sound was the distant low whir of the plane’s engine.
“Lucky?” The Groom of the Stool looked up from tamping the Prince’s thigh to confront Howie. “Lucky? Want you not the privilege of paying the pump?”
“Oh, no! That’s not what I meant,” Howie said. “It’s just that, since we’re landing, and he just finished, you know, I mean I’d prefer not to, is all. It’s just not my thing.”
The Groom of the Stool would have none of it.
“Prefer? Westerner, you are on the Prince’s plane escaping your own capitol. Prefer? He is in charge now, not just for you but for everyone!”
“I’m sorry, I just -”
“Suck!” The Groom shrieked. “Suuuck!”
The western businessmen joined in the Groom of the Stool’s hysteria.
“Suck! Suck! Suck!” They chanted.
They showed their devotion to the Prince by using Howie as their whipping boy.
“Get down on your knees!” The Groom of the Stool shrieked frantically.
The Prince woke up from dozing as Howie was roughly forced down to the floor. Goodwealth was right - the marble flooring was very tough on the knees.
“This one has not performed the pump!” The Groom said.
Prince Embièss Embezee used one hand to beckon for his tablet while the other gestured toward Howie and then down to his foot.
“You will perform the pump!” the Groom of the Stool said.
“Just do it, Howie,” Goodwealth said, as he moved his mouth and tried to clear the grit. “It’s not so bad.”
But just as the fresh diaper was about to be unstrapped, the airplane shook. The ding of a fasten seatbelt sign came on. It was long-standing policy not to allow a toejob when the light was on, for fear of unpleasant teeth.
“This is your captain speaking,” the pilot said. “An unknown aircraft just buzzed past us. We’re experiencing rough air. Just gonna turn on the fasten seat belt sign.”
“Past us?” The Prince asked. “Is there a faster plane? Who has a faster plane than me?”
Frank saw his opportunity to get out of the throne room and avoid any further toe-sucking.
“My liege, I’m at your service,” Frank Rove said. “Allow me to remove this impertinent one.”
The Prince waved his hand for them to leave. He had a new concern on his mind.
Frank was relieved. He had carefully positioned himself last in line, just behind Howie.
 
link to following ch's 29-32
 

 
prev ch. 7-9
 

Chapter 10 - The Party

.
“We cannot let the terrorists achieve the objective of frightening our nation to the point where we don’t conduct business, where people don’t shop.”

• President George Bush, 10/12/2001

 
“The shooter is still at large, so let's pray for justice to prevail and then let’s move on and let’s celebrate - celebrate the independence of this nation.”

• Illinois State Senator Darren Bailey, 7/4/2022, after a nearby mass-shooting[1]

.
 
It was the first time Clayton had ever actually seen them kill somebody and he hadn’t expected to be this unaffected. He didn’t even drop his bag of booze. He had vaguely guessed that killings happened down at the barn but until now he didn’t really know. He wanted to be ‘cool’ with the cops. That meant giving the them a certain amount of space. It meant letting them think that the barn was theirs. He didn’t want to intrude, legally or socially, on whatever they might be doing. He had always told himself that any gunfire he heard was target practice. Even at night. Even when it was less than one clip.
Bottom line: if they were dispensing justice on his family’s property, even outside the ‘legal’ channels, he was proud to be a part of it. Like many young men from wealthy backgrounds with contempt both for work and idleness, Clayton gravitated towards politics. While his privileged peers rendezvoused, compared notes on their previous rendezvous, and planned their next rendezvous, Clayton war-gamed scenarios for how to take over the government so he could protect it from liberals.
Cultivating his own private militia was a natural step in the process. His political idol, Don Midas, had the Midas Militia. Why not Clayton’s Cowboys, or the Fairmont Five Hundred, or something like that? Bigger things had started with less people.
“Sorry,” the old cop said, “didn’t realize you were coming down this early, Clay.” “No, no - It’s no problem. I guess you guys are getting further along. Nobody can say you’re all talk.” “Yep. Finding terrorists, rooting them out. Did a little work for Dick Hathcock tonight.” “Oh, he’s staying up at the big house, for my grandfather’s thing tomorrow,” Clay said. “I guess you guys were involved with that thing with Elian Rodriguez, huh? At that porn star’s place?” “Yep.” There was an uncertain beat between them where the old cops worried that everything was at stake. “So you guys done killing for the night, or what?” Clayton asked, nodding towards Howie and the remaining revolutionaries. The old cop grinned and looked back at the captured leftists as if to double check who Clayton was talking about. “Kill?” He repeated. “I mean, kinda takes the sport out of it if they know what’s gonna happen.” “Maybe we could save them for later,” Clayton said. “For when Chet comes down. I’m gonna drop off this booze and go get him. You guys call everybody you know, ok? Oath Boys are gonna have a nice party tonight.” The older cop laughed. “Hell yea, brother,” he said.
Clayton followed behind the older officer looked down at the fallen body and recognized the corpse, a new guy who had just joined the militia and was maybe gonna become official. Clayton donated the money to hire him, get him his uniform and everything. He thought it was weird that a new cop would get killed by another cop. But part of being a good civilian meant knowing that he just shouldn’t ask. Maybe it would be even better to play it down with a joke. “Shit, I was going to ask somebody up there to help me bring the booze down - glad I didn’t!” He said. They both laughed. “The guy I was gonna ask is fuckin’ annoying, anyway,” Clayton continued. “Family hired him as the manager, up my ass all the time.” The old cop turned around to look Clayton directly in the eye. “You want to add him to the a pile?” He offered. Clayton’s breath emptied. He felt the sting of fear in his throat. The bottles clanged. Now, he almost dropped them. But the old cop’s empty expression flashed into a grin. He was only joking. Clayton gave a nervous laugh. They walked inside.
Local cops, some of them belonging to the Oath Boys, began arriving and bringing friendly citizens with them. Rumors spread about piles of cocaine and country singer Chet Sage and pretty soon there were more than a hundred people in the barn and more arriving. Headlights swept over the field as trucks, jeeps, and ATVs found parking. Small circles of people stood out in the field smoking. Coolers in the backs of trucks were opened and beers were handed out. One truck idled while it’s headlights lit up the party and country music blared from its speakers. Everyone was either already a member of the Oath Boys or was cool with them. And who didn’t want to be part of a fun-loving vigilante militia of self-identified ‘upstanding miscreants’? Whether they were center-right, far-right, alt-right, libertarian, anarcho-capitalist, christo-fascist, white nationalist, neocon, paleocon, paleo-libertarian, rad-trade, dissident right, reformicon,^link or just plain pissed off, tonight everyone set politics aside because it was just about having a good time.
As more and more people arrived, Clayton worried the party would get away from him. He didn’t want to get any guff from the fancy people up the hill who had arrived to celebrate his great-grandfather’s centenary in the Senate, but he was in a ‘fuck it’ mood since he had seen the dead body. Someone had brought tiki torches[3] and handed them out from the back of their truck. He grabbed himself a tiki torch and bitched about the government along with everybody else. He was excited to hang out with real Americans. His peers from prep school might hang out with poor people who were, like, drug dealers or whatever, but Clayton was never down with that. He was cool with these people. He was glad they were using his barn. Bigger movements in history had started in smaller places.
Inside the barn, the young enthusiastic officer was stuck with the lefties. He was drinking and keeping them quiet and out of sight in a stall. They were going to be brought out later, as a surprise. Someone had taken a trailer and set up a little stage inside the barn.
The old cop peeked his head over the stall to tell the young one they would have a remembrance ceremony for the one they had just killed. “But he died a traitor, right?” “Nah, nah - he died in the line of duty! Hell, I’ll probably speak at his funeral.” The old cop opened the stall door and leaned close to the young one and gave him a pearl of wisdom. “Look, those people out there? They can’t know, really, what it takes to keep ‘em safe.” He poked the young one in the chest to make a point. “You and I know there ain’t no heroes, but they need heroes. So that might as well be us, right?” It was a twist on some speech he heard about sheep and sheepdogs[4]. He’d kept the lesson with him throughout his career. “We still got the hoods? Put ‘em back on. It’ll be more dramatic.” “Alright.” The older officer stood, sipped his alcohol, and contemplated. No, they couldn’t know what kept them safe. Couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle the darkness. The worst of the world had to be kept secret from civilians, so they could keep their innocence. Otherwise, what was his job for?
 
 

Chapter 11 - Far Right Stag Fire

 
.
“Take all the rope in Texas, find a tall oak tree, Round up all them bad boys, hang them high in the street”

• Toby Keith, country singer, 2003

“Perhaps the best way to pull us back from the brink is a good public lynching."

• David Dietrich, Chairman of the Hampton, VA electoral board, 2022

.
Chet Sage’s helicopter landed after his concert. Clayton showed him his suite up at the big house and then proudly escorted Chet down to the party at the barn. As they were going down the hill, they could see headlights sweeping over the valley as new cars arrived. The flat stepping stones of the path near the big house dwindled into dirt as the estate gave way to the land where the barn stood. All of the Oath Boys were excited when Chet arrived. He was an icon.
“You want a beer?” “Always!” “Chet Sage wants me to get him a beer!” “Hey man, we’ve got a surprise for you, inspired by your new song.” Chet Sage had be working out a new song on his live tour called ‘Hang em High’ that hadn’t been released yet as a single but had been bootlegged and uploaded by fans. Before he went to greet Chet up at the Big House, Clayton had made sure to ask for decorative nooses hanging above the makeshift stage. The party guests didn’t think much of it, as nooses and gallows had come back into vogue as motifs for political gatherings. Mostly, they were signals to the guests that it was their kind of party. “Hey, would you maybe be ready to play us a song?” Clayton asked. Chet Sage took a shot of tequila. “I am now,” the singer said. “I’ll introduce you,” Clayton said.
He nervously mounted a makeshift stage that was basically just a trailer that had been backed into the barn and parked below the nooses. Though Clayton had helped his grandfather in speeches to donors, he had never greeted this many people before, or encountered an audience of this socioeconomic strata. He wasn’t sure how to do it. In spite of feeling grandiose, he knew ‘hark’ would be too formal and ‘whats up guys’ wouldn’t be formal enough. So he settled on ‘greetings’. He pushed the bounds of his own familiarity by adding ‘brothers’. He spread his arms wide.
“Greetings, brothers!” He said. “Greetings!” “Cheers!” They yelled. The ones with tiki torches joyously hoisted them aloft, while the recent arrivals with unlit torches received the shared flame. “First of all, I want to thank Sergeant Langley for brining the Oath Boys here tonight,” Clayton said. Everyone cheered, which settled Clayton down. Despite his vague sense of racial superiority, public speaking always made him nervous. “And secondly, I want to thank my Delta Iota Kappa brothers for bringing Chet Sage!” Everyone cheered even louder. A group of fraternity members chanted ‘dik, dik, dik’ in unison. “We brought some booze down from the big house, and we’ve got a bunch of beers here tonight-” “And coke!” Sergeant Langley yelled. “Hell yea! Y’all please enjoy it. Thanks again for coming. And now everybody, here’s Chet Sage!”
The country singer stepped up onto the stage and waved. Clayton was proud of himself for using the conjunction y’all. It did not feel natural but he thought he pulled it off. He hoped his flannel wasn’t too over-the-top. He’d sent out for it that morning, in anticipation of meeting the famous country singer.
Sergeant Langley elbowed his way to the microphone after Clayton. “Raise ‘em high, boys!” Langley said. “Let’s toast to Clayton, here, for offering us this space. And let’s toast to the supreme race! The race that has kept burning the flame of civilization - a lotta people don’t like me to say it, but fuck ‘em - the white race!” Everyone cheered. Clayton was startled at their frank and open racism. His class of people generally lowered the volume, if the subject was even broached at all. “And proud of it!” Langley said. “I’ll say it!” Members of the audience murmured. “Gad-dam.” Clayton got back on the microphone while Chet was still tuning his guitar. “And please be sure to vote for Senator Strom Fairmont,” Clayton added. “Hell yeah,” Langley said. “Let’s send him back to the Senate for another hundred years!” Everyone cheered. “Now let’s everyone make sure their torches are lit. We got something serious about to happen.”
Clayton beamed as he beheld the undulating sea of torches in his barn. He wasn’t just proud as a white man - he felt free to say that, now - but he was also proud as an event organizer. Nobody in his family took him seriously as a hotelier but he knew it was his own hospitality that had brought these people together, brought them to his family’s estate. He’d given these people a place to drink, do drugs, and now even kill commies. He’d even made sure the barn had wifi. It was the first step to upgrading the barn and turning it into an iconic gathering space. All the halls on the estate would be revamped, remodeled, and renamed. The barn would be called Stag.
“Now, we got our honored guest this evening, Mr. Chet Sage!” Langley said. Everyone cheered. “Honored to meet you, brother.” He shook Chet’s hand. Chet waved. “But we got some other honored guests, as well. Or, they’re dishonorable, more accurately. Give it up for our proud new officer, Officer Lane. C’mon, bring ‘em out!”
 
Officer Lane took that as his signal to march out Howie and the other prisoners from their stall behind the stage. “Now, I dunno if y’all heard,” Sergeant Langley said, “but Elian Rodriguez is dead.” Everyone cheered. “The Oath Boys brought three lucky lefties because we were part of that operation that killed him!” Chet laughed and clapped. Everyone cheered. “And I got some great news, boys - according to the paperwork, these commies are already dead! Which means,” he paused for silence, “we can do whatever we want with ‘em!” The crowd roared. They took the visual cue from the nooses and gradually resolved into a chant of ‘hang them’. Hang ‘em! Hang ‘em! Hang ‘em! Hang ‘em! The barn rocked with the rhythm of their stomping. Bits of straw fluttered down from the loft. Langley calmed them all down. “Sounds good to me!”
The nooses were a little high and someone found stools - an apple crate, a stump, whatever worked - and Lane forced them all to step up to where the nooses could reach. He walked behind the victims and slipped the nooses over their heads and cinched them tight around their necks. Howie struggled to keep his balance. At the opposite end of the line from Howie, they started. “Now let’s see who we’ve got under the hood, eh?” Langley said. Chet Sage and Clayton clapped and cheered along with everyone else. He pulled off the first hood, on the furthest victim at the opposite end of the line from Howie. He was a bearded hipster dressed similarly to everyone else in the barn, but ironically. This made him hatable. Above his taped-up mouth were wide, fearful eyes and a man-bun.
“A violent left meets a violent end!” Langley said.
And he kicked out the wooden stool the leftist was standing on. Howie’s hood was still on, so he couldn’t see anything, but he heard the hollow pang as wooden stool fell, the sudden tense pull of the rope, and the breathless sound of struggle. For a brief moment after the young man dropped, the crowd watched silently. They laughed as they watched his feet wriggle desperately in mid-air, searching for the ground. Finally, he lost his energy and hung still. The crowd roared and clapped. Torches bounced in the air. Sergeant Langley moved on. There was an animal energy to the crowd, a tense anticipation of an orgy of violence.
“Let’s see who our next contestant is!” He unveiled the next leftist, a young woman. She was next to Howie. There was tape over her mouth and bits of hair stuck to her face where her cheeks had been soaked with tears. Langley pantomimed kicking out the box from under under her. Do it! Someone yelled. And they gradually resolved into a chant of ‘Kick it!’ Kick it! Kick it! So Langley kicked it out, and she dropped. The fall was too short and her neck did not break. She writhed in panic. Her legs wouldn’t stop moving. She stretched and pointed her toes to the ground but couldn’t quite find it and then she hung still except for a ghostlike sway.
Everyone cheered again. They thought tremendous justice was being done. All the anger and resentment they felt was quenched and they felt ecstatic. Officer Lane, the newer officer, made a mental note to tie their legs next time. It would be more ceremonial that way, more dignified. The wild legs looked ridiculous.
“And let’s see who our last winner is!” Sergeant Langley unveiled Howie’s hood. Now, the cheering was more subdued. Several Oath Brothers were quiet. Some retained their enthusiasm but the feeling in the room ebbed. The few who paid attention to the news withheld their bloodlust. They gradually pieced together where they had seen this new face. As the tension built before Langley kicked the box, one of them called out.
“Hey, ain’t that Howie Dork?”
Howie’s eyes adjusted to the light. In front of him were dozens of men, each with a tiki torch in one hand and a drink in the other. Lots of women, too, mostly in shades of natural or unnatural blonde.
“Yeah, that is Howie Dork!” Another member of the crowd confirmed.
Officer Langley wasn’t sure what to do. Attaching a name to the face made everyone hesitate over turning Howie into a corpse. But then he stumbled on a way that both Howie and the mood could be rescued.
“He’s saved!” Officer Langley said. “We found him!” Then he leaned toward Howie. “Sorry we took you by accident, bro,” Langley said.
The mob’s mind stumbled over the movement from condemnation to salvation but when Langley lifted the noose off of Howie and began clapping they took it as their cue to begin clapping, too. Howie was saved. They had a hand in it. It was great. Questions about how he got there in the first place were best left to libtards, snowflakes, and journalists. The fact was, in that moment, they were all heroes who had saved the famous victim of a kidnapping.
Langley took the tape off Howie’s mouth.
“Oh, thanks,” Howie said. He looked over to the bodies next to him. If he seemed casual, it was because he was in shock. It had been a long day since his delivery to CoCo tower.
“Yeah, here, let’s get them hands untied,” the younger officer said. “Howie was kidnapped by Elian Rodriguez, and now he’s safe here with us!” Langley said. He hadn’t heard of Howie but he could tell the crowd wouldn’t stand for this particular murder. He congratulated himself over the smooth pivot.
Howie rubbed his unbound wrists. “Am I under arrest?” He asked. “No, no - you’re not under arrest,” Langley said. And then he turned to the crowd and asked, “who in here is a cop?” About half the audience[5] cheered. “And is this guy under arrest?” Langley asked, shaking his head as a kind of hint. “No!” They yelled. “So be it,” Langley said. “You’re safe, Howie.” Clayton knew that the most leader-ish thing he could do right now was to be a smooth host. He bravely stepped into the awkward void. “Hey, I think it’s about time to get Chet Sage to sing a song!” He yelled. Chet was drunkenly tuning his guitar but the sound of his own name roused him to attention. “Hell yea!”
Clayton picked up one of the discarded stools so Chet could sit on it and everyone except the singer left the stage. Chet was alone up there for a moment and the audience was expectant and silent while he glanced up at the hanging bodies. “Quite the decoration,” he said. There was hearty laughter in the crowd. “I should get my roadies to take ‘em on tour with me,” he said, and the audience laughed even louder. “Okay, I’m gonna try a new one for y’all. Now y’all know I got in trouble recently.” Everyone knew about Chet’s problem with a recorded racial slur. They booed. “Yeah, well, free speech in America, right? Anyway, I know y’all will be able to handle this one without getting your panties in a twist. Now this one here is still a work in progress. Perhaps you’ve heard it. It’s called ‘hang ‘em high’.” They cheered. “And, uh, I think this here is the perfect place for it.” He played an arpeggio melody to lead into the verse. Howie was actually kind of excited to hear the song. He’d never been slow close to a famous person before. As the notes of the arpeggio resolved, Chet began to sing.
 
Daddy brought me to the attic
He showed me a noose
He said times had got drastic
They had broken the truce.
The bad guys are back out
And they’re causin’ the crime
So it’s time to go back to
What we did in old times:
 
When he got to the chorus, he strummed and let it rip:
 
Hang ‘em high!
Let liberals die
Let the commies fry.
Hang ‘em high!
 
And then he repeated himself, and added:
 
Let the flies
Go dance on their eyes.
Hang ‘em high.
 
People cheered, laughed, and clapped as he moved to the second verse. The crowd didn’t get to kill Howie but the song helped quench their bloodlust. They smiled and fantasized about the vast possibilities for continuing justice in America.
Chet was smiling, too. He knew he had a hit. Since budget cuts, the news media found that the cheapest way to fill vast blocks of the 24-hour cycle was to simply point the camera and let an anchor talk about what pissed them off[6]. They could fill even more time by inviting other people on to talk about what pissed them off. Ideally, those guests would piss each other off. Production-wise, it was much cheaper than investigative reporting, which would probably only end up pissing off the companies that paid for advertising.
Chet figured his song was ideally suited to the media moment. Liberals would be pissed off about it; conservatives would be pissed off about liberals being pissed off about it, and then all the ensuing drama would be free advertising for Chet. Hell, last year he was using a slur and this year he was hosting an awards show. He found the formula for success and he had to stick to it[7]. The audience was thrilled.
“Well, I’m glad you liked that one,” Chet said. “Now, we’re gonna go to a classic.”
Chet began singing one of his hits from an early album about the working class. It was the kind of song you could stomp along to, with a bayou beat. After a twiddle of melody, he settled into a firm rhythm:
“Some jobs take boots. Some jobs take shoes. And that’s just a bit ‘o the difference b’tween me and you,” he sang.
The Oath Boys and their brethren stomped their boots along to the beat. Their energy was amplified by their hatred of office culture; the song was about the way those fancy types wore shoes rather than boots. As they stomped, bits of hay and chaff wafted down from the rafters, through the citronella smoke of the tiki torches.
Chet finished and everyone cheered. But then he smelled something.
“What’s that?” Chet asked.
Someone began stomping on the hay.
“Fire!” They yelled.
There was pushing and shoving as everyone tried to exit the barn at once. A puddle of flame spilled across the floor as fast as water. The flames crawled up the rafters and the barn began burning in earnest.
Thanks to the big door, everyone made it outside. Those with burning clothes hit the ground and rolled. Some jumped in a nearby irrigation pond. Those untouched by flame turned to watch the sparks reach up toward the pale early dawn.
Through the conflagration, one could still see the hanging corpses. For a moment, they were robed in fire, before the blackened timbers buckled and the whole thing collapsed. A geyser of sparks shot upward and mixed with the stars.
On top of the rubble, through the smoke, was the stag weathervane. The fire would eventually be blamed on communists.
 
 

Chapter 12 - Gaslight Lodge

 
.
“..the most suspicious activity that takes place in the grove is the alleged logging of old-growth redwood trees. But common to all reports from the two-week-long gathering of the country’s rich and powerful old guard (members have included every Republican president since Coolidge) is an account of profuse outdoor urination. With gin fizzes being poured at seven a.m., so many enlarged prostates, and such majestic natural urinals, who’s surprised? We present to you a guide to the Bohemian Grove…”

• Julian Sancton, Vanity Fair, 4/1/09

.
 
While the barn still burned, Clayton led Howie, Chet, and a few select others up the hill toward the comfort and light of the lodge - the ‘big house’, as Clayton called it. Blinking yellow fireflies hovered above the dark green grass beneath the pale dawn. Gaslight flames flickered against the granite base of the building and gave the place its official name: Gaslight Lodge.
The birds began to trill and tweet.
A white throated sparrow held its two long notes distinctly above the din. Heeeee-ooooo, heeeee-ooooo.
They climbed the wide steps of polished granite to the wooden porch with a roof held up by naked tree trunks shorn of their bark.
 
The outside of the hotel looked like a giant rustic log cabin, but the inside was as fancy as any five-star hotel. Howie supposed the interior would be called 'rustic chic' but he was as uncertain about using in-vogue artistic terms as he was about using economic ones.
There was a vast chandelier in the lobby made of concentric iron rings stacked like a layer cake. They were suspended one below the other with black chains. A large gaslight had been suspended in the center. It illuminated antlers mounted on the iron that faced inward toward the flame.
“Here, I’ll take you to a room I know just opened up,” Clayton said.
It was Mr. LeBubb’s old room. He would still attend Strom Fairmont’s centenary celebration of one hundred years in the Senate, just as a corpse. So, his room had become available.
It was palatial. When Howie saw the giant bed, he was excited to sleep. Except for being knocked out, he hadn’t had any rest.
“Oh, thanks,” Howie said. “The bed looks very comfortable.”
“Oh, no. I can’t have you sleeping,” Clayton said. “We’ve got the fundraising breakfast in an hour. I mean, your dad’s funeral. Well, they’re kinda the same thing.”
“A funeral breakfast?”
“You know, it’s just so busy, we wanted to get everything done early. Plus, your father was scheduled to be here, anyway. Here, take this.”
“What is it?”
“Clayton handed Howie a pill and opened a nearby bottle of water to help him wash it down. Then he hesitated.
“I think that bottle cost a hundred dollars,” Clayton said. “We’ll comp it. Anyway, here you go. It’s an upper.”
Howie swallowed. He wanted to stay awake. He didn’t want to miss his father’s funeral. But Clayton was perturbed. He was re-checking his pill bottle.
“Oh, dang,” Clayton said.
“What?”
“Sorry, that one might send you sideways, too.”
"Wait, what's sideways?" Howie asked.
"Definitely up," Clayton said. "Maybe sideways. This is a bottle left over from a festival I went to. I had the same doctors who work on my grandpa put a slow-release coating on some acid. I call it PsychedeliContin[8]. But you just got straight speed, probably. Hopefully! Anyway, I'll get you some clothes."
"Thanks," Howie said.
“Just be careful and don’t put any more stress on yourself,” Clayton said.
“That’ll trigger it. Try to avoid getting beat up by any more lefties.”
“It was the—”
Howie wanted to tell him it had been the Oath Boys, but the door was already shut. He was finally alone. He looked out a big window, across the valley, over the river, and then up the opposite ridge. The molten glow of the coming sunrise had turned the ridge into a silhouette until the bright sunlight finally erupted over the top and into the valley. The winding river that carved the valley over the previous centuries had dwindled into a creek, but it still shimmered with gold. The smoke and haze lingered in the air, not just from the barn fire but also from the wildfires in the forests beyond. The smoke gave shape to the sunbeams through the serrated pine ridge.
Howie tried to get comfortable, but with nothing to unpack it was hard to feel like he had really arrived. Any home-y feeling in the room was crowded out by its careful perfection.
Something about the sunbeams through smoke and being in his father’s room made Howie suddenly feel emotional. With the sunbeams, maybe it was the way something invisible that was taken for granted had found shape, form, and fragility amid the smoke. But maybe it was just the stress of the night and the lack of sleep. Or maybe the pill Clayton had just given him.
The emotional ice that protected Howie melted as surely as the dwindling snows that fed the river. What was frozen had become a flood. It was the first moment he had to himself to realize the tumultuous events of the day.
He cried.
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Clayton had returned.
“Hey Howie!” He called through the closed door. “I got some fresh clothes for you! I’ll take you to the chapel, so you can have a private moment with the deceased before things get going.”
“Thank you!” Howie called. His voice cracked. It wasn’t his father with whom he wanted to spend time right now; it was his mother. His newfound fortune was all she had ever wanted for him. He wished she was there to enjoy it. Maybe if he’d had the fortune earlier, she would still be alive[9].
He wiped his eyes and opened the door. He smiled with effort as Clayton handed him his clothes.
“You alright? I’ve got to check on some other guests. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Howie nodded and Clayton left.
Howie set the clothes on the bed and showered because he wasn’t sure what else to do. His body began to feel a strange sensation of heat and excitement. He no longer felt sad. Actually, his mind felt enthusiastic. He felt refreshed as he got out of the shower.
He dried off and looked in the mirror. The swelling on his face wasn’t so bad but he had an obvious black eye. He put on the clothes and they fit perfectly. He left the room and flagged down a passing hotel worker.
“Hi!” Howie said. The worker was startled. In spite of his shower and fresh, clean clothes, the heir still looked terrible. “Do you know where the chapel is?” Howie asked. “My father’s funeral is that way.”
The worker was confused.
“Funeral? I think the chapel is hosting a breakfast for the Founding Father’s Foundation.”
“Apparently it’s all the one thing,” Howie said.
The worker nodded. It was no good arguing with someone who had exited the Presidential suite.
“Here, I’ll take you,” the worker said. “Are you alright?”
“Oh, I’ve just had a rough night.” Howie pointed at his face. “Cops. Can you believe it? I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“No. I can’t believe it,” the worker replied in a flat voice. They walked just ahead of Howie. He saw the Gaslight Lodge logo on the back of their vest.
Was it the actually cops? Howie was pretty sure it was the cops who gave him the black eye but it had been a long night.
The worker might have acknowledged Howie’s story but no one wanted to be caught speaking out against the police. In these uncertain times, those who sacrificed their own safety for the sake of someone else’s were to be applauded. That’s why the police were first in line for whatever remained of the budget. Safety was paramount. People were disappearing, after all.
Howie followed the worker back into the lobby, below the high ceilings and the sepulchral chandelier, and past the ubiquitous bulletin board of missing persons. Clayton was at the front desk.
“Hey!” Clayton said. “You look good! You cleaned up well.”
“Thanks,” Howie said.
“Here, I’ll take you the rest of the way. I got it,” he told the worker. They turned around and got back to their work, carefully avoiding the bulletin board. There were familiar faces.
Clayton led Howie outside along a concrete path towards another, smaller building constructed in the same log cabin style as the big lodge, but on a smaller scale. The grounds between the buildings looked beautiful. The slanting sunlight twinkled on the dewy morning grass of the well-manicured lawn, so it looked encrusted with diamonds. Tree trunks, carefully pruned over decades, stretched up toward the sky like Roman pillars.
Down a slope next to the path, Howie saw a fire pit surrounded by benches that had been carved out of enormous logs. Where one might normally sit on top of a log, these were large enough to have benches carved out of them in a sort of three-quarter circle.
“So many rings on those logs,” Howie said. “They must be so old.” “Oh, those are the redwoods,” Clayton said. “Yeah, thousands of years old. My grandfather’s timber company turned them into benches. The craftsmanship is our bohemian touch. Supposedly, even with the fires, there are still some redwoods left out there.”
Howie saw some movement in the woods beyond the fire pit. He looked closer and saw several men standing at the edge of the clearing who were urinating into the woods. One of them finished and turned around. It was Geo LaSalle, the private prison CEO who had been at the Best of All Possible Worlds symposium the night before.
“Hey Howard!” He waved. “Glad to see you’re okay!” He gave a thumbs up.
“Thanks!” Howie said. “You, too.” He gave a thumbs up back.
Geo was having a great weekend. He had just finished auctioning the rights to broadcast security footage from one of his prisons that he was converting into a school. After gun violence made everyone realize that schools had too many entrances and exits, Geo successfully pitched his prisons as the ideal solution[10]. He hoped Senator Fairmont would visit the new prison-cum-charter school later that day.
But for now, he was happy just for a simple piss in the woods.
“I’ll see you all at the fundraiser!” He said.
Howie and Clayton arrived at the smaller outbuilding. It was a chapel with a simple wooden cross and a stone portico with gaslights fastened to the columns. The most elaborate thing about the chapel was its wooden door. As Clayton opened it, Howie saw that it had been carved into a bas-relief of a bear pulling salmon from a river.
“Welcome to the Bruin Chapel,” Clayton said, ushering Howie through.
Where normally the chapel might be filled with chairs facing the front for a wedding ceremony, now it was empty, save for a long redwood table at the center. LeBubb's casket had been placed against a far wall. The dead man lay beneath the large windows that overlooked the valley and the smoky haze beyond. Luckily, he had fallen face-first into the snow. His back was burnt to a crisp but his front was relatively intact. With a healthy dose of makeup, he looked presentable enough for an open casket.
“That’s him,” Howie said, in a tone somewhere between a question and an answer.
“Yeah,” Clayton said. “I thought you might like a moment alone with him, before everybody gets here for the fundraiser. Er, funeral. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Howie said. “They’re the same thing.”
He was beginning to understand that for his father his peers, life was business and business was life, even when it was mixed with death.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to it,” Clayton said. “I’m going to make sure everything’s ready. Be back in a moment.”
Clayton closed the door and Howie was left alone with his father. The dead man lay as still and lifeless as the room around him. Howie wasn’t sure what to do. His mother’s death had been protracted but in the end her funeral was simple and unpretentious. He wasn’t sure about the etiquette around his father.
He saw a religious book from the Resurrectionists on the windowsill. The warm rush of the pill Clayton had given him earlier compelled him towards the book. Several pages were earmarked, but one stood out among the others for its use. Howie opened it and hoped that the highlighted passage would help him connect to the great man who was both closer and further away than ever.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” Howie began. “I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me besides still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the path of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow d-”
But then a nearby vacuum loudly turned on. Howie had thought he was alone.
“Of death.” Howie tried to finish but the vacuum drowned out his voice. The vacuuming was inappropriate but the man doing it was in a desperate hurry. He had spent the morning hosing down the barn because the fire department wouldn’t come because the previous bill was unpaid[11].
He hadn’t noticed Howie near the casket because he was distracted by his own trauma. While fighting the fire, he had accidentally washed away some mud and ash and seen some dead bodies. They didn’t look like they were from the fire. They looked older. He recognized bits of clothing because of the descriptions of missing persons posted in the lobby.
But he couldn’t say anything because he was technically an illegal immigrant. Money flew freely around the world but people were tightly controlled. Without the proper paperwork, he was discouraged from making a fuss[12].
So, he kept vacuuming. He didn't even realize Howie Dork was there.
As the man vacuumed and Howie contemplated his father, the heavy door opened, and the rest of the staff burst into the Bruin chapel. They moved with military precision. Clayton orchestrated them.
“Catering over there. Camera over there,” he pointed. “Turn that off!” He yelled to the man vacuuming. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dork. I know you were having a private moment.”
“Don’t worry,” Howie called back. “I hardly knew him.”
“Please,” Clayton gestured at the man vacuuming, “I don’t know why he’s not finished yet. We’ll have him deported immediately.”
“Please don’t,” Howie said. Having just finished his own journey through custody, he didn’t want to inflict it on anyone else.
“Very well, sir,” Clayton replied.
The world-class catering staff whirled throughout the room. They expertly tilted circular folding tables on their edges and precisely wheeled them into position. Tall stacks of chairs jiggled as they were moved. A platoon of workers unfolded a giant linen tablecloth above the long redwood table and fluttered it in the air. They pulled it taut and gently guided it down like parachute. Shiny metal coffee urns and polished metal chafing dishes were placed on the clean white linen. A fusillade of long lighters lit burning blue wax canisters in unison.
Howie stepped aside so they could place flowers near the casket. He felt the old familiar feeling of being secondary to the proceedings.
While the rest of his family had no choice about cremation, LeBubb’s face-down fall and the fire department’s rapid response enabled him to be placed in an open casket. This meant his foundation could use his corpse to raise money. Some donated their bodies to science, but LeBubb donated his to political fundraising. Though they were grief-stricken, his governmental affairs team was thrilled that death had finally given him the patience to pose for photo ops. To be seen with the casket was the main attraction.
And to earn even more money for the Foundation, LeBubb’s estate auctioned off the rights to host the funeral in the first place. Clayton had been the highest bidder. It was the only way he could resolve the scheduling conflicts that might arise if his rich and powerful guests had to choose between between competing networking events.
On one side was Strom Fairmont’s centenary in the Senate. On the other was Beezle LeBubb’s funeral.
Boldly, Clayton had combined the two.
So, Gaslight Lodge would honor one great man with a funeral while celebrating another’s refusal to die.
 
ch. 13 & 14
 

The whole town is excited to see the bloodletting. Everyone milling around, anxious, the crowd smells of unwashed rock farmers and patriotic fear. I keep my distance, hidden in the mountain’s shadow, so I do not become part of the spectacle.
The crowd parts for the Lineage and his mother. They move through the crowd as if diseased, and many look away. The dirty boy sleepwalks listlessly, stumbling his way towards the fountain. The mother, with a happy, distant smile plastered on her face, keeps her distance from the boy and chokes back tears.
Often, the drugs given to the chosen Lineage are also taken by the parents, so they can tolerate the blooding. This was frowned upon by people that were not designated Lineage by the Genome, but there wasn’t a mother among the Lineage genus that would claim to have not at least thought about taking the drugs on Blooding Day. Even the pious and untested accepted that parents taking the drug during lineage day.
Peak Genome casts its pall over the town square, casting shadows across the gathering. Most people were dressed in their sackcloth best, and an angry excitement buzzed around the town’s fountain, which is nothing more than a leaky, hand carved stone basin cut into the side of the mountain.
A thin, blue trickle of water creeps down from the peak and pools against the mountain in a natural spring. Established as the center of the town, houses and shops circled out around the clear area where the town collected its pure water and gathered to discuss matters of importance. Some ancient ancestors who considered themselves masons had made the rudimentary carving of a fountain, which was nothing more than a whole in the rock, and it had been that way ever since.
A single, thin path creeps behind the basin, worn by the feet of ancestors and eroded by the elements. I’m hiding in the shadows of this path. A path only the Genomologist is allowed to climb but I’ve managed to sneak my way into. I watch my fellow community members with an apprehension only love could summon.
A cadre of boys form a tight circle closest to the fountain. In the center of the buzzing, George the 19th stretches and warms up his swinging arm. George watches with a scavenger’s eyes as the sickly boy approaches the circle. The small child is malnourished and dirty, probably kept outside and on minimal rations. His fate was decided by the Genome before he was even born, so most family members fought fraternal attachments by treating the Lineage like livestock. He sways in front of the fountain, drugged and barely aware of his purpose on that day. Most Lineage are so young they often do not understand the ritual, which most consider a mercy.
Gamma says some words of sacrifice and bravery, but all I can hear is the small trickle of water and the Lineage’s drug labored breaths. When she finishes, she raises the bedrock, the founding rock of the town of Aphrodite, and hands the bloodstained cornerstone to a grinning George the 19th. She bows deep, gesturing for him to proceed.
Loving hands of the community guide the Lineage to the front of the fountain. He watches the water trickle down the black rock, his eyelids half closed and pupils dilated.
I recede into the shadows of the path. George said he’d make it quick, because I asked him to, but he proved to be false. Just like his ants and mice, he is not there to exterminate a pest, but for something more primal. He strides up to the boy, looks him once over, and strikes then small boy on the head. Dazed, the Lineage collapses against the fountain, his dirty blond hair turning crimson, the water in the hole running red. Confused, the boy looks up at his attacker, a question of what went wrong on his face. Then, instead of smashing his neck or head, like we are instructed to out of love, George the 19th pulverizes the boy’s face. Every smack is a crack like branches breaking. A muffled cry spills from the Lineage’s split lips once but is silenced by the bloody rock. The Lineage’s mother cries out, and the whole town turns to her, judgment on their faces. She buries her head in shame and grief.
When the body goes limp, George wheezes and laughs and dances atop the crumpled corpse. After he finishes his jig, George tossed the bloody rock to the Genomologist, and looks for me, proud and excited. I have already receded into the shadows of the mountain and left the barbaric practice behind.
I was born too smart to believe that this is love. When I was very young, the Genomologist took a special interest in me, wondering if I was a mutation because I knew things I shouldn’t. Like how water evaporated, only to come back down again in the form of rain. Or that we circle around the dull sun in the sky, but the broken moon is always stuck in one place. Or like how I knew there is a boy out there for me, who has come from a distant land looking for love as well. She always told me I was wrong, that the Genome had a plan for all of us, but there was trepidation in her voice that told me she was unsure.
But the things I knew were just common sense to me. I had a strong feeling that beating a boy to death with a rock was not something that helped the community. I knew that no matter what was in my heart, I could not stand being married to George the 19th for any amount of love, and a whole village shouldn’t ask me to just so they can be happy. With all this, it was only logical that there was something wrong with the town of Aphrodite and the truth was being withheld.
The night of George the 19th’s blooding was also Mary the 22nd’s Ritual. Only adult women who went through the ritual could attend the practice. It was held in the Genomologists quarters, while the men were busy preparing the Lineage’s body for sky burial.
The moon is especially dark tonight, barely visible. Many in my town believed it went away to rest on nights like these, to fix it’s broken jaw and return to its round forms. But I knew it was still there, behind the clouds, hiding from our shame. I can feel it peek through the clouds. I crawl on the Genomologist’s roof, and slowly dig a hole through the thatching to observe the séance below.
Candle light flickers on a circle of woman in hoods, hovering over a small girl with frightened eyes. Mary was younger than me, and like many children she could sense the wrongness in the voices and faces of those performing the ritual. But if an adult couldn’t stand up to the Genome, then what could a child say to stop generations of practice? The mouths beneath the hoods were either smirking in self-righteousness, or smiling mirthfully at some form of revenge. I watched Gammo give the frightened Mary an elixir brought from atop the mountain. Mary passes out as soon as the vessel leaves her lips. There is no chanting or real ritual I can see, only old maids muttering over a young beauty’s inert body. They undress her carefully from the waste down.
The hooded figures gather up a several wooden bowls of clean water, and a singular, stone knife. Gammo’s knife, the best stone knife in the village. Several attendants start muttering as they convene over Mary the 22nd’s waistline. The words they speak are harsh and technical, complex words from another time. Not anything mystical, and certainly nothing about love.
Sweat drips into my eyes as Gamma picks up her sharp stone, cleans it in one bowl, and leans over Mary. Two elders hold Mary’s limp legs open as Gamma guides the stone down and out of site. I try to look away, and stifle a scream when I see what piece of the young girl they are taking.
A piece that I need for love.
PART 3 DROPPING BEFORE THE NEW YEAR!