November 2017

Disintegrating Nostalgia: An Obituary for the United Kingdom

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Tough to let a loved one go, tougher is the acceptance of never knowing what you had. A task to be sure, beloved dies and a mourning begins. Yet how does one begin to mourn the death of a country? Especially one that is supposedly still alive, a frail corpse of a nation selling itself to whichever liberal fad will pay for its supports. To watch the slow internal destruction of your home from within. Having to assimilate one’s views amongst progressives and liberals resulting in incessant intellectual nausea. A bidding farewell to the final remnants of a life lived yet still in movement. A final attempt at dragging my nostalgic British memories from their forbidden tomb and having them bear all for need of a comparison. I give my sincerest apologies to my memories, for they will have to meet their future.

The Fighting TemeraireJ. M. W. Turner, 1838

The dirty tugboat of liberal democracy. – Sorry Turner.

 

/NOSTALGIA/

The United Kingdom has been my home for my entire life, admittedly my social habitat was a quiet, safe and traditional corner, yet as I recall, there was no ‘violence of the outside’, for Britain was a first world country at one point in time. So we were safe, healthy, financially stable and educated to our means, if not more.

Tradition was inherent from the beginning, I attended a Christian school, which, even for the time was overtly-traditional. Of course at a young age one cares not for rigour, routine, authority, hymns, dances and prayers, they seemed dull and tacked on for need of archaic use. I knew not that these roles and traditional responsibilities instilled in me a respect for – what might be – our countries last hope: tradition, heritage, conservatism and hierarchy. It as for manner of speaking an idyllic safe haven, yet this, for me and many was the world and was the world as it should be.

My childhood continued relatively uneventfully on a social level, there was little in the way of disturbance socially it seemed. And so I took part in traditional games, activities and adventures; the likes of which seemed eternal. ‘Surely the knowledge of how to build a fire will never ‘burn out’?’ I thought to myself. The West forgets. None of these were seen as dangerous, they only became so when the ignorant partook. And you don’t stay ignorant long in a hierarchy, when dignity’s on the line you learn and grow self-respect as well as respect for the learned.

There was little mollycoddling to be had except for pure experienced necessity (“Trust me, I know best.”). When children and adults are not wrapped in cotton wool, or at least learn to moult a few layers of narcissistic thread, they learn to deal with criticism, hate, pain and repsonsibility quickly and efficiently. If one got innocently hurt it was due to fault of self and not of teacher. You got burnt because you were ignorant to experience. Respect arises quickly when one understood that all they rely on comes from the old and matured, people are smarter than you, throw your selfishness to the floor and learn how to fix a tap.

Yet as can be expected later schooling was rife with typical forms of rebellion. These modern types of rebellion – collective in nature – burnt out quickly either due to hormonal stabilization, or were curbed and dismantled by the few remaining authoritative teachers. On reflection it is these teachers I have grown to respect the most, their authoritative manner arising from nothing more than interjection during teaching, of a subject that was of clear passion to them. A good teacher helps you understand the exam/test, a great teacher lets you understand the subject entirely, knowing the results will follow.

There was – at a very young age – no discussion of sex, gender, race or politics, for why would a child care of any of these things except without external pressure. To earnestly bring these issues up with a child would (and still should) be ridiculed as nothing but a transparent attempt at forcing an agenda. Or: If one wishes to believe there are more than two genders let them come to their insane conclusions on their own, let children have fun whilst they can. Politics was removed from daily life, at least where it need be, discussion of voting intention was shunned – even though voting within the United Kingdom is ultimately pointless: You’re only choice is to vote for democracy. And with politics caged to the papers and late night TV a child’s involvement was close to nil. Luckily for me the ever growing mutational-hedonism that is mass entertainment was only in its infancy and so yes, video games were played, films watched, but not in such abundance as to rewire brain functions. Consumer tech was at its utilitarian peak, we needed no more and could easily cope with less – as the immediate history was still allowed – as such, tech was addition not reliance.

Supermarkets were yet to evolve into their current perpetual-entertainment-sale systems they are now, larger produce sections, ready meals in their infancy and multiple fast foods in the stages of critique and decline due to new health information. Needless to say I know of only a handful acquaintances who grew up on ready meals. Families, school and communities all acted as support systems teaching etiquette, decency and manners as they grew. Worry not in a place where familiar strangers all say “Good morning!”, to walk without care in a dimly lit street, quiet and still.

One could argue I grew up in a rarity, somewhere so idyllic it seems almost an impossibility. If one was to argue this I’d be open to listening yet let me tell you, these places exist and some still do in a decayed stasis. Make no mistake I visited larger cities and found little appeal in them. Unless your life is centred on career, the cutting edge or the political fringe, bother not with the hot Western city corpses. Travel, suffocation and noise is all that awaits within. Each to their own, but let me lay where the sun still seems real.

///DISINTEGRATION///

There’s no doubt in the fact that I have become a curmudgeon. Yet those gripes that bitter old men hold onto earnestly have come true: ignorance and lack of respect within youth, apathy towards tradition and history, and an utmost reliance on others; freedom from responsibility seems to be the liberal youth’s objective, one has to ask, freedom from what responsibility?

It of course comes as no surprise that those without responsibility, aim or goal are lost and lacking, and as such, head for the quickest and easiest escape: Entertainment: Gaming, social media, insta-hedonism on tap. Ultimately escaping real life by not entering it at all; a replacement of all human notions with virtual escapes. Becoming reclusive and anti-social, pushing their waking hours into a virtual skill as a means to impress virtual friends; learning nothing of substance or worth, actively anti-betterment. Their education systems exacerbating the situation via liberal sodomy.

Liberal education systems favour practically everything over practicality and tradition. Studies of the religion inherent in the culture are replaced with study of the foreigner’s beliefs as a means for easier assimilation. The removal of the historic and spiritual context for fear of minor(ity) offence leaves only a flimsy blueprint of morality, which can be bent on a whim to fit whatever fad social science idea takes the reins that month. Without direct connection and correlation to the past, how can one expect to foster respect for those who helped in its creation? All that comes from ignorance of the past is acceptance of the future, however dismal it might (will) be. The post-modern narrative of stripping and deconstructing structures of their historical, traditional, religious and natural roots and supports has – much like that of a secular state – allowed only that which is most persuasive, coercive or persistent to infect it.

And so these days of old die at the hands of their cowardly sons and daughters. The destruction of spontaneity via implementation of ‘political correctness’ and ‘health & safety’, a tactfully elusive duality allowing for the beginnings of acceptance. Both ‘political correctness’ and ‘health & safety’ teach those in positions of bureaucratic power to enforce rules and regulations which teach people to not just distrust, but actively hand over their most common sense intuitions and senses to the state. The beginnings of a mollycoddle state wherein experience, even first hand, need not matter for there is, within liberal democracy, literally an answer for your most basic of concerns. They say that ‘Fascism’s good because at least you’re told what to think.’, well liberal democracy doesn’t even allow you to think. As if when the millennium hit a wave of pathetic contemptible air washed over the UK and we breathed deep, we entered into the final stages of apathy.

Alas the masses could no longer look after themselves, the relics of independence and responsibility are happily handed over to either state or corporation: Entertainment, state-subsidy, welfare, loans, credit, media-knowledge-handouts, qualified-teachers, peer-reviewed journals etc. one will (hopefully) notice a pattern here: The UK’s people no longer and for a while have not relied on their knowledge, their experience, their sense, but rely solely on that which they allow themselves to be told by others, who likewise do the same and so the burden of proof and responsibility moves perpetually, eventually to be lost. Genetics, IQ, tradition, family, heritage, ritual and beauty are thrown aside for a few transparent, yet hedonistic scraps handed out by the highest bidder.

The stereotypically teenage attempts of rebellion are first in line for the great subsumption and a clear example of the practice. In their futile attempts at rebellion the hormone loaded teenagers throw themselves at the most personally alluring collective: stoner, nerd, punk, worker etc. Falling for the lie, that these collectives offer any form of alteration to the liberal democracy hell-scape before them. All that’s changed is minor consumption choices and the addition of increasing layers of ignorance. Rebellion within post-modern liberal democracy is at best a forced capitalistic subsumption into that ideology itself. Rebellion within a liberal democracy such as the UK means you strengthen your enemy.

There’s no more authoritarians any more, not in any meaningful pre-post-modern sense. I talk here not of some bully, tyrant intent on sadism. I speak of a clear, concise and experienced leader, who in hindsight had your best interests at heart. Leadership is now subsumed into an inherently egalitarian culture. Stuck in a post-modern equality hell wherein everyone must be your friend: your teacher and your boss are no longer superiors, but equals, so the position crumbles. Taking charge, ordering, demanding, delegating are abuses of systematic oppressive power now. The masses cannot even take responsibility for their own being. Belligerent children are failing classes due to discipline restrictions and so the parents unload their responsibility onto the teacher. You see, within liberal democracy it is literally the employer’s fault if you’re lazy, the Dr is at fault for your illness, others are at fault for the narcissistic desires of the individual. A society lacking hierarchy and discipline ends only in the destruction of its own culture; if you cannot keep your society in line a stranger or a foreigner are more than happy to come along and show you how it’s done.

Utility is replaced by narcissism. At every step one’s identity comes first and is a blessing for their mere existence. Within contemporary liberal democracy identity precedes essence. The masses can neither change a tire nor cook a meal, build a home or grow food, yet they can most definitely name more than two genders, they can bow to the whims of each and every minority as a means of virtue signalling, they’ll assist in opening the floodgates to strangers and blame you for the consequences. They cannot look after their most basic needs, but they can and will list ways in which that which has held them up: the state, tradition, capitalism, professionals and western history owes them a living whilst simultaneously giving up its own. Or, in short: Are you a victim of ideology, of class, of imbalance? Or are you you just too lazy, will-less and self-centred to understand alternatives to your hedonistic liberal social justice.

I bid farewell to a country I for a while, unknowingly, adored. Let it be known hence forth that the UK as it stands is not the United Kingdom. It is a liberal simulacra without control of thought for alteration.

Rest in peace United Kingdom, you had a good innings.


Meta-Nomad Twitter

 

Bugmen: What are they?

What is a Bugman?

Aesthetically they’re much like their name, bug-eyed, jittery and insect-like, their very demeanour often makes one’s skin crawl. You’re more than likely surrounded by hoards of these bovine-esque people in day-to-day life. Culturally of course they’re near impossible to pin down for they cut all cultural roots at the base in fear of representation with the past. Politically many say bugmen are ‘left-leaning’ yet I’d argue the case that any affiliation with politics is entirely with the curve of the populous and thus the Bugmen – at present – inject themselves routinely with viral strains of progressivism, neoliberalism and (especially) democracy. Projected from this ambivalent attitude towards history and politics comes anti-empathetical extroversions with regard to tradition, myth, folklore, spirituality and interest, all of which, when positioned in relation to a bugman are used only alongside heavy doses of postmodernist irony. The simple matter of fact is they have zero respect or tolerance for anything antiquated or traditional, the most minor of historic morsels that doesn’t actively sell itself to them or project their personal vision of infantile-tech-utopia is cast aside. Philosophically the bugman is relatively confused, often mistaking logic, reason and rationale with one another, and replacing the idea of basic causality with their own drawn-out narcissistic assessment attempts: “Look at me, I’ve got it all figured out.” the bugman says internally.

Before you sits the social nervous system of the bugman true, a sordid mixture of fad-reverence and capitalist-lite binging. On closer inspection of the day to day life of a bugman one finds at its core the implementation of social erosion, everything that is taken from its origin is likewise bastardized into a regressive, virtual, stir-crazy version of its former self: eSports, Fantasy Football, Copy ‘n Paste Vidya (à la Bethesda/Ubisoft), New Atheism, Beards-as-personality, etc. each of these characteristics is of course filtered through the latest piece of cutting-edge high-brand technology the bugman can afford. One may have noticed already that bugmen’s ‘personalities’ are nothing more than the accumulation and composition of various popular brand names, technologies, TV shows, bands etc. The bugman is entirely defined by that which they consume. Thus the bugmen easily assimilate into their own groups, for their archetypes and traits are based off material possessions, as such grouping is quick, painless and has the added benefit of instantaneous conversation: “Sweet mechanical keyboard dude!”

There is of course a difference between a regular consumer and a bugman, there has to be, for everyone consumes. Whereas a consumer will buy a basket of groceries which they plan on eating, the bugman will purchase retro foods, meme-drinks and ironic status-tokens as a means to display the fact that they are indeed ‘in-on-it’. A consumer will buy the box-set of their favourite TV show because they genuinely enjoyed the viewing, perhaps they’ll watch 3-4 episodes a week around other commitments, a bugman on the other hand subscribes to multiple streaming services and binges series after series in the ever expanding quest for acceptance, when asked how they found Stranger Things, Rick & Morty, Bojack Horseman, Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones etc. the bugman does not offer insight into their personal opinion, only regurgitates a titbit or quote from the series as a means to display their virtue of consumption. “I too have seen the thing you have!” A network of insects whose lives are routinely controlled by ratings: theirs and others. They must advance their rating by subsuming the other which is rated highly. ‘Everyone liked this, so if I like this, everyone will like me!”

Identity and consumption merge within the bugman. Hobbies become traits in the lives of bugmen. Treating their lives like as if they were an RPG minmaxer, attempting to reach peak efficiency when it comes to popularity, assimilation and acceptance. Spewing spools of popular quotes, band-names, aphorisms and social tics, the bugman is a walking media depository incapable of its own creation. Bugmen’s ‘own’ thoughts are merely misshapen combinations of that which they’ve taken in. Revelling in their ironic displays of lower case postmodern hyperbole and sardonic middle class humour. Sincerity an impossibility for worry of social suffocation, and daft humour avoided for fear of ostracisation. When a bugman sprouts anew, the previous form of personal agency commits seppuke out of respect for others. That jittery man whose bulbous eyes are darting to and fro, the one in line for the new iPhone, that’s a bugman, consumed by the idea of being first in a line of consumers, any possibility of escape is negated by the perpetual oppression and quasi-innovations of consumerism. Just as the man’s soul glimpses at the sight of a beloved memory, his perception picks up an advert, and so the memory fades into non-existence.

Solaris: Acceptance of Horizons

We want to extend the earth to the borders of the cosmos.”

Surrounded by sublime vegetation, trees and earth, a lake spans forth caressing the traditional architecture of a home. Rain comes heavy overshadowing the minor footsteps of humanity. There’s subtle references to a far off world called Solaris thrown into the picture, each suffocated by the remaining humanity within Tarkovsky’s writing and cinematography. There’s a sense that the question Kelvin poses, namely whether or not science can be moral or immoral needn’t matter here, for these grandiose questions are juxtaposed against the timeless tranquillity of the traditional countryside, a cliché that only someone with Tarkovsky’s skill could make original once more.

Image result for solaris 1972

We’re introduced to Berton, a pilot who previously witnessed a four-meter-tall child on Solaris, slimy, nude and creating a waves within the ocean, a horror which was dismissed by the masses as a hallucination, and in a typically Kafka-esque manner Berton’s life and story has become the subject of ridicule, yet needless to say, the man himself is wary to bring the nauseous memory to the surface once more, for fear of its induction into the plane of reality, or at least, whatever remains of reality for our horror-stricken Berton. The opening to Solaris acts as a grounding for a past, one that teases little and is sincere in its acceptance of animals. An element of contrast that thematically resides at the back of one’s memory throughout viewing, against the coming madness fades a memory of normality.

Image result for solaris 1972

Upon arrival to the station Kelvin is greeted by little hospitality, all that awaits him within the station hovering above the ocean is paranoia. Consistently placed circular windows look out onto Solaris’s surface, a surface entirely oceanic and irradiated. A pulsating behemoth of water emanating a desire to the lesser to prod its potential mysteries. Kelvin soon learns his only acquaintance upon the station, Gibarian, has committed suicide, reportedly he entered into a perpetual state of depression “since the disturbances began.”

Before long such ‘disturbances’ become apparent to Kelvin and the viewer, hallucinations appear which are collectively shared by those aboard the station. Materializations of a conception of memory, or the memory of a person are brought to life on Solaris. Kelvin’s deceased lover Hari has returned and as such he decides to fire her away in the knowledge that she is dead, yet Kelvin soon learns that the hallucinations will never fully leave, and they are to return time and time again, each time learning more and more from the matter of your memory. The infinitesimal corpses of your memories materializations pile up as the ocean continues to probe your mind for the most minute of details. Each hallucination only as much of that ‘memory’ or that ‘person’ as one’s mind can muster, as such, our crew are left with ghost like visions of their past loves and experiences.

Image result for solaris 1972

These abstract horrors cling to nothing but their provider for life, and so the lives of hallucinations are entirely burdened to their creator, as such they will do what they can to convince your of their reality. As the 20 years deceased relative you once knew attempts to convince you of their reality, piecing together fragments of your own mind, be reminded that you are not going insane, you’re merely being probed by a planetary ocean with a consciousness, one that’s far more advanced than your own, humanities’ hardware is outdated and so you shall only receive packets of information caught in an empirical feedback loop. Attend to your own madness, and be kind as to not step upon others’.

Of late and of the past there has always been the unspoken idea that space exploration will act as a form of physical transcendence for humanity, wherein upon our ascent into the cosmos our limitations shall leave us behind, an ignorance so pure as to imagine that merely some form of empirical travel could remove our horizon when in actuality we’re still within it. It is not ourselves that have changed, only our position relative to our birth.

Tarkovsky’s vision of Lem’s Solaris is unapologetically anti-2001. 2001: A Space Odyssey is mistaken in attending the idea that humans could outsmart technology, 2001 goes as far as to imply the reversal of Solaris wherein it is Hal whose memory is slave to its fragmentation as opposed to humanity. Solaris from its very beginnings fully integrates the natural flaw that is humanity into the perfected systems that either they’ve created, or exist elsewhere, outside or noumenally. 2001 at its core is a story of man’s mastery over space, to argue this point I put forth Ebert’s explanation of 2001’s ending:

 

By now, man is intelligent enough to realize that the monolith was planted by another intelligent race, and that is an awesome blow to man’s ego. So he sets out toward Jupiter because the monolith beams signals in that direction. And man takes along “Hal 9000,” a computer (or tool) so complex that it may, even surpass the human intelligence. The ultimate tool.

But Hal 9000, made by man in his own image and likeness, shares man’s ego and pride. What is finally necessary is the destruction of Hal – after he nearly destroys the mission – and that leaves one man, alone, at the outer edge of the Solar System to face the third monolith.

And here man undergoes a transformation as important as when he became a tool-user. He becomes a natural being again, having used his tools for hundreds of thousands of years to pull himself up by the bootstraps. Now he no longer needs them. He has transcended his own nature, as that original ape did, and now he is no longer a “man.”

Instead, having grown old and died, he is reborn as a child of the universe. As a solemn, wide-eyed infant who slowly looks over the stars and the Earth and then turns his eyes on the audience.

These last 20 seconds, as the child of man looks down on his ancestral parents, are the most important in the film. We in the audience are men, and here is the liberated, natural being, Kubrick believes we will someday become.” – Roger Ebert

 

Ultimately at the end of 2001 it is man who ‘succeeds’ or transcends, man achieves mastery over his literal creator somehow and in quite a sentimental way becomes a dough-eyed infant looking down upon Earth. The ending is a Kubrickian rarity, it is – debatably – positive. Humanity overcomes space, a superhuman AI and eventually overcomes their own limitations.

If we’re to return to Solaris however one realises from the very beginning that such a case was never going to be put forth. Where Kubrick has apes utilizing tools, Tarkovsky has man pondering his morals, Kubrick gives us Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra, the dawn of something great. Tarkovsky originally wanted nothing, but allowed us schizo electronic sounds as an opposition to unbridled hope. Where 2001 is forgiving, Solaris is vindictive and condemning. Tarkovsky understood that not matter how far we travel, nor in what vessel or whom with, we will always be dragging along with us the vicious memories of humanity.

In their cluttered and confused attempts at grasping the teasing’s of those superior to them humanity only claws back its own insecurities. If for one moment, man, you thought you were going to outsmart a concentrated planetary conscious you are mistaken, for it need only to remind you of a character in your own play to make you grovel and retreat. You might declare as Gibrarian did in a fit of madness “I am my own judge!” but be warned, for on your return to home you shall find no need for pleasantries, for you’ve entered into a labyrinth of horror wherein your worst fears are realised for eternity.

You arrive home to find all has been replaced by a perfect replica, each inch of the supposed matter attending to your reality instils a deep sense of the uncanny. Your dead wife runs to your side, your memory of her lost to time and so she too is lost to time, you’re left eternally with a cast without a script nor characterisation. You are left with only that which you created. An eternity without anything new. The slow death of mystery.

2017 Onwards: The Unwanted Burroughs Novel.

What in the, what in the hell hell is this? This, this gone to fuck cut up shit-time we’ve arrived in? Own up! Which fucking deity took an Stanley knife and sliced temporal existence wide open, we have shit flying all over the track and no one is even irked by it. There’s little surprise left in these black pages, not due to its non-existence, no, for surprise dies when the populous becomes complacent. Blackpills are forced into pre-schoolers sippy cups, junk food intravenously injected into OAP’s corneas, fat-rats, bored-zygote, cigar munch, artistic death drive, oedipal consumerism and more, always more…and the word on the street is, dogs are going bad.

Maybe that’s how wars will be stopped? White folk only care about ‘doggos’ you know? The 3 a priori means for intuition for a white person are space, time and dogs. Anyways, where was I? Oh yea, me and Kev were sayin’ about how he’ll have to work until he’s dead, literally, in fact just last week I helped him shovel his grandmother into a woodchipper, she’s now fertilizer in his guestroom; ‘Warm ol’ Bitch Room’ we call it. Warm ol’ bitch had a cold heart, fed her dog ‘Charlie’ cat food for a laugh, I guess he was better fed than 2 thirds of the world, ol’ Charlie had the last laugh eatin’ tinned lamb and shittin’ where he wanted.

Over heard these two boring cunts talking the other day, one said to the other “How about this weather we’re having?” and the other replied “Oh boy, tell me about it.” 38 of us rode up, pulled out 36 magnums and 2 brownings, blasted their skin through the stratosphere. Anyways, if you were alive past the year 1970 and have been bored, it’s not because of means of activity, it’s because you’re a boring person; go eat some junk food and drink some beer for all I care. Just don’t bother me with your pansy pants tittle tattle crap talk.

But seriously? Where in the hell was I 30 minutes ago? I can’t for the fuck of me remember, probably because it doesn’t matter: Dear God, everything is catered for me now and this has made me, and everyone I know pretty much worthless in any practical sense, the only people I know who actually have a skill so speak, are those who use that skill as a means towards money, interest is dead and technology helped it to the grave. How is it up there in Heaven? I imagine all it is is a place wherein meaning exists, you get there and your purpose is given to you, however shit, however menial…you have a reason to exist, finally. By the way, what the fuck was going on in 2017 my man? You threw the boat out on that one, was it high as fuck turd-talk at the craps table with the apostles or what? Ah it doesn’t matter, it’ll pass…though it doesn’t seem to be, it’s like time is getting smeared forward, innovation-death.

Re-possess leg flesh. Then feed the solution to a rural English family.

There’s fruit on the table and the fruit are made of cigarettes and all kinds of bitter sticks, I gave some to the kids on Halloween, lil’ fuckers. Where-de-where was I? Right oh right, that’s right, there was this lovely kinda linear thang going on and loads of people fuckin’ hated it, but in actuality it was kind of alright, but around 2012 it just down right collapsed in front of us, the big idea couldn’t keep up with all our bullshit and just damn ducked out and exploded, and now we’re left with this absurdist stain of life, all dog-endy and ragged, just drooling all the over the place, spraying shit up the drapes, scrapin’ the tables, ruining everything good and pure. I mean really, this time is just this dead-eyed mongoloid with super strength fuckin’ us for kicks.

Taxed to high hell, malnourished from birth, pacified, anaesthetized, “Dead-eyed dicks! All o’ yas!” I can’t even bear to walk in the street nowadays, to see the idyllic die before my very eyes, these overweight sneering gut creatures exhaustingly spewing their dullard tones across the micro. What weapons do we even have now? Burroughs would bring the gun, the sword, the fuck off great knife with no fear or thought of offence, the man…the man would walk in the street weapon clad, extrapolating the knowledge that humans are and society is – at least in the West – dangerous, and people aren’t nice, at least not without reason.

Hell, at least Dr. Benway had a plan.

The plan, for me, once I either get a career or some cash is to become a doomer, a prepper whatever the name is these days, something’s coming and whether or not it’s traditional death, it’s definitely not nice, like a big black and white photograph of a corpse-pile splashing over existence, holy shit your bunker better be temporal-death tight. When those slick backed Joes come walkin’ up blahin their blahs you’d best gun ‘em down, we’ve tried talking and devising, now’s time to throw Leviathan to the pedestal and grip your hands to a weapon or tool, tight, build your future from bricks n sheet metal lads, for your cheap arse apartment with all those cool pillows your mama got you for non-existent Christmas wont help you now, cheap tactic little shits with your glitter claymores aimed up your own arses.

Try as hard as you like the master’s voice wont die, unless of course it transfers to your own box, which if it does be weary of which whip you buy, for you’ll need a bigger one within minutes.

Hey death-boy, where you going and where’s you dad? – I’ll be in taking over Death’s work for a while, he’s taking a vacation in the West, really going to town on it, kinda a big project for him…something more than just death, you know?