7LI


The Seven Lorem Ipsums of Goog

Copyright © ‘Reality’ Doug 2013

Creative Commons License
The Seven Lorem Ipsums of Goog by ‘Reality’ Doug is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Chapter 1

I Doug, who also am your red-pill brother, and companion in tribulation of masculine capitulation, write these things that ye may know the didactic revelation that cometh upon me as a lucid dream.

At once a grisly voice cried out in my mind, “Rise, and grab your smartphone, that ye may take notes and give an account of what ye shall see.” Being startled, I sat up quickly with a terrible adrenaline rush, and through the wall I saw emerge a glowing figure of a man wrapped in a robe, altogether in uniformly subdued white with scarce relief contrast in black, except the chain he dragged, that rattled on the air, was interlocking loops of colorful ghostly paper, most prominently green.

Me: “Wh__. Wh__.”

Ghost: “Who am I____?! I am the Ghost of Red-Pill Present!”

He motioned with a long, extended finger that I should gather my phone on the dresser, and I did. He glided hither, and appraised me with his scanning eyes. His face told the story of a man finding a stray, cold, damp puppy and deciding he would help. A compendium of other stories strengthened his countenance. His was the face of age hardening, weathered but unbowed. His was the experienced vitality that begs the question, “How much longer will this guy last as a dominant force in his field of endeavor,” like he were some oversized Johnny Unitas.

Ghost: “Hold on to my robe.”

Me: “Sir, are you sure you’ve got the right guy? I’ve not met the Ghost of Red-Pill Past.”

Suddenly, my feet fell through the floor, and I reflexively caught myself by grabbing the spirit’s robe. It was a heavy, lumpy wool, yet the fabric was dry, clean, and cool as if no body were in it. My hands got clammy, and somewhat translucent. The clouds could be felt better than they could be seen. Maybe that’s what gina tingles feel like.

Ghost: “You have studied the Manosphere blogs and field tested the ideas. You have studied history. You are the One, Neo.”

Me: “I have NEVER gone by that name.”

Ghost: “No pressure.”

A smirk lightened his aloof expression for just a moment without altering the certainty of his outcome independence. We were above the clouds now, and I could see them faintly in the starlight. The moon was new and dark, fertile for the few who can see void and fill it.

Ghost: “Every masculine spirit is the One, unto itself, lost in the masses and found in the solitude. My cousin the Ghost of Red-Pill Past found his worthy scribe, the One who wrote the Book of Deti.”

We made our descent onto a peninsula arrayed in artificial light between a halcyon ocean on the west and a large bay on the east. A spacious business campus with many buildings dotting a grassy landscape grinned wider and wider to catch us. Upon a giant green statue the ghost landed gently, then I. My footing was good for no apparent reason.

Ghost: “This is the house of the all-seeing eye of Goog.”

The ghost waived his hand over me, and my smartphone vibrated and played the James Brown song “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World.” I answered the phone, but no call. Instead, my browser was opened on a Web page describing how to develop Goog apps. I saw the icon of the Green Cyclops, instructive text, and some pictures of app interfaces. We floated down behind the statue and landed beside its base.

The Ghost of Red-Pill Present directed my sight to a faded inscription relief with the radiance of his palm. It was a stack of seven messages, just like the email app illustration shown on the Web page.

Ghost: “Behold! The Seven Lorem Ipsums of Goog!”

They looked like lorem ipsums alright. I only saw gibberish.

Ghost: “Record these lorem ipsums that their meanings may be unsealed and testified before the world!”

With his arm high in gesture, I saw the baking soda of his exposed armpit. He must read the blogs too, I thought. I saved a copy of the image and bookmarked the Web page with my smartphone.

Ghost: “Try these.”

He held out a pair of glasses. I did as he bid and put on the Seeing Glass of Goog. It was surprisingly easy to record the lorem ipsums with the Glass, as if it could read my mind. Maybe, too easy. I could photograph the base wall, surf the Web, bookmark, and save. This was the image I saw:

The Seven Lorem Ipsums of Goog

He snapped his fingers once. His chains remained still and quiet. In my left eye he had put the Translator of Goog; and in my right, the Wiktionary. The translator was part Latin alpha, the part that would not admit mistranslations into English. It had an autodetect beta side, and I also had the certain Wiktionary. Thusly, I sought meaning in the strange words with as much sourced agreement as possible. I particularly checked for mistranslation from Goog’s Latin agency, eminently useful for the simultaneous translations of many words.

In my right hand the ghost put the Light of Holo from the elves of Goog. The elves worked for Goog and many other houses in the Mountain View Plain. The luminous Goog device contained a power that spoke to me through subcommunication. I felt the conflict within it, between the love of truth and the technocratic service to the Matrix. The Soul of x86 was once rumored to have cried out for the same anguish only to be shut up and never heard from again, but it was a hoax. The message ostensibly from some third party was nevertheless loud and clear, a shout of truth at the heart of the world—and without flashing the Rectum of Woe that is not love.

Bill Sux in Integrated Circuit

The US Department of Justice had made trouble to get its protection money and fealty from the Baron of Mt. Rainier. There is only the business of the Trust of Fiat and the business going out of business. Consolidation, is dominance, had long ago reached critical mass.

Chapter 2

Ghost: “Direct the Light of Holo upon the first lorem ipsum, and tell me what you see.”

I read the first inscription aloud:

2011 Holiday Gift Team
Chambray echo park four loko mustache elit, wayfarers leggings master cleanse incididunt

Ghost: “Now read the translation by your Rosetta sight.”

I sensed the Light of Holo washing over me, telling me, “Be not afraid.” I read by the Light not myself and yet seemingly me:

2011 Jewelry Heist Crew
Mulatto, multicultural, preppy leftist media coverage of public rally, the unregulated drugs high, the Hispanic must be crazy, four mustache elite, the Hispanic mustaches talk non-Progressive, the Ivy League Female Imperative master cleans the incident

My words were heavy with incantation and became enlivened with sanguine annotation, as if from my breath. Chambray, I realized, was a diverse fabric fashionable among the SWPL crowd. A spirit of meaning pressed passion against me as fire pushes heat, but I was not uncomfortable. As I continued to speak the translation, great vibe came upon me, and the heavens stirred with rumbling like a steady roll of distant thunders, and the hair on the back of my neck stood, but not on the front. A neckbeard am not I.

And I saw a gold foil covering the first lorem ipsum relief. My vibe was good, so I approached without anxiety and removed the seal. Lo, I saw a white horse, and he that sat on him raised up a hoodie stained with blood for all to see, and from it fell 12 pieces of jewelry, a watch, and a screw driver. The rider snatched them from the air and pocketed them under his chambray vestments. The chambray was American cotton, white weft and black and brown warp, woven by looms imported from Banksteria, and the weft got the blame and the warp got the accolades for whatever it covered. Four mustaches wiggled upon his blank face, the kosher two above and the gentile two below, and they were BS on the rider’s left, and RW on the rider’s right, posing as right-wingers but in truth a lesser BS to follow the greater down the road to serfdom.

The Four Mustaches

A crowd of junkies gathered ’round in awe. They were high on anything they could find for lack of better resources. They passed around a blunt and abused Four Loko. The face of the rider enchanted them, and they prayed to St. Skiddles of Thug’ry for a cool-ass lean recipe. A crown was given unto him upon the horse, and the crown had six sides three times, and the inscription ‘In God We Trust’, and the power of the crown was in being the head, and never the tail; and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. And the Christians conquered for the crown in war, and the atheists conquered for the crown in peace, all foreign rivals and then themselves, for the foreign entanglements came home to roost in a time of peace-war, the time of end times of great civilizations.

Those things I saw faded away, and I found myself staring at the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog. The first lorem ipsum relief was anew in embedded gold.

Chapter 3

Ghost: “Direct the Light of Holo upon the second lorem ipsum, and tell me what you see.”

I read the second inscription aloud:

Larry Page
Nulla brunch excepteur, irure veniam blog sint squid. Consequat pariatur keytar con-

Ghost: “Now read the translation by your Rosetta sight.”

I read by the Light not myself and yet seemingly me. My words were heavy with incantation and became enlivened with sanguine annotation, as if from my breath:

Larry Page (co-satrap of Goog)
Sorry, no brunch (no Sunday morning politics), I blog page to be academic nerd. The resultant product keytar (keyboard guitar) con-

When I had finished, and the heavens rumbled, and the hair on the back of my neck stood, I saw a silver foil covering the second lorem ipsum relief. My vibe was good, so I approached without anxiety and removed the seal.

Lo, I saw two riders on a red horse. Each of the three wore a laurel wreath upon the head. The riders were a boy elf and a man elf. The boy road backwards facing the man, the lad’s eyes inquiring at the man’s dour face to no avail.

The red of the horse was strangely nebulous, ghostly and corporeal, a descriptive enigma most proximate to translucent iridescence. On the horse’s head was fitted a bridle of fire, not burning the horse, with one rein on the left but none on the right, and a sandglass mounted above. The sandglass tilted leftward closer to the horizontal the more the left rein was pulled. There was no telling exactly when the sand that was fire would run out from the convection alone.

The elf boy held up in each extended arm a full animal skin with the mark ‘006’. One skin was that of a ram; the other, a he-wolf. Each skin was aflame at the bottom, slowly being consumed. An empty balance scale hung as a talisman from a cord around the lad’s neck. The arm to the horse’s left was inscribed ‘006’; to the right, ‘007’. Repetitively, imploringly, the child asked the man, “Who is John Galt?”

The man elf had a full-sized man’s body and an elf’s face and ears. On his head protruded ram’s horns, and snug against them sat a crown of fire. The fire did not consume his laurels nor scorch his horns. He played a keytar slung by a strap over his left shoulder, as if searching for the melody of a pure and wholesome essence, and the meandering notes drowned out the voice of the boy. The keytar on occasion ejected public missives that shot into the air and dissolved bit by bit so that the public might imbibe of it. The man remained silent throughout and did little with the rein linked by a twisted loop to his left wrist.

The red horse trode roughly straight across a giant flatland through unkempt meadows and thin groves, over gentle hill and dale—and patches of wasteland. When the wind was strong, dust clouds caused a nuisance. In the distance, I made out a plume that was smoke by day and fire by night.

Me: “I cannot see what the plume is, and I have a feeling of malaise about it.”

The Ghost of Red-Pill Present gave me a knowing glance and then fumbled within the folds and layers of his robe. He pulled out a book, looked it over, and then shrank it. Two halves of a red capsule materialized with a soft flash of light betwixt his lightly pinched digits, and he encapsulated the shrunken book. He pulled out a small container, flipped it open, put the red pill in it, and put the case away.

He fumbled through his robe and pulled out some sort of flask and a vial. He again lightly pinched his thumbs against each forefinger and conjured two halves of a capsule, but this time blue. Into one half he poured the contents of the vial that should have overflowed the capsule half but did not. The liquid was clear and wafted a tang of opportunity and risk that momentarily heated the membranes behind my nostrils.

Ghost: “These are the tears of Betty Friedan.”

I erupted with laughter that fizzled away ingloriously. His unshaken demeanor disturbed me, for I felt his weight of my implied ignorance. From the flask that was a dispenser, he poured a white powder.

Ghost: “This is sugars: artificial, genetically modified, and all-natural.”

The ghost pulled out the small case and added the blue pill. On his nose he placed a mirrored pince-nez. I pondered the point of it and the fact that I had not brought my sunglasses. His large hands were opened flat before me, the red pill in his right, the blue in his left.

Ghost: “Take the red pill, and learn what causes the malaise. Take the blue pill, and the malaise will be so buried into your psyche you won’t worry about it—per se.”

I wasn’t too thrilled about the qualifier ‘per se’; moreover, I was already committed to red pill. I had taken the red pill before, about female nature, and for me there was no turning back from exploring the ramifications. The proverbial rabbit hole is first entered by unlocking the poon hole, but poon per se is only emptiness. The poon does not make the man; the man makes the poon, as all poon will demonstrate given the chance. I tell you, brothers, red pill is a journey, not the everlasting state of a single transformation, because life is process and death is pure indifference. Many of you are enlightened undead, which is all but dead waiting to make it official, and so neither out of fold nor worthy of patriarchal fellowship and deliverance. Leviathan has tentacles in sundry dimensions. Do you?

I took the red pill. It tasted sweet as honey in my mouth but sat bitter in my belly much longer. I let go of my senses and my perspective climbed in flight. I saw myself and the ghost recede into the distance and my whole view evanesce to another place. Lo, I saw the two riders on the red horse. I understood the man’s voice was refusing to speak unless it were to speak the truth of truths that would overtly rein the horse at his will on the right as well as the left.

And still I flew higher. The great flatland was tamed to my perspective, and behold, I saw a caldera sloping every so Fabian and Frankfurt in its gentle slope that is the rotation of the natural log, exposing its base character to nary a useful-idiot clodhopper until one is well within its grasp. A multitude of humanity was slowly swirling upon the round gaping face, mostly counterclockwise and clockwise around the pit, as if it were a hub or drain. Collisions occurred for great political circus, at times causing injury, but the swirling tendency continued in measured fashion, indicative of some governing abstract force.

The humanoid figures, varied but all sharing sheepish markers, circumambulated, each with a red animal and not infrequently with some conscientious objection incarnate. Some humanoids road red horses, others road red mules and cows. Most walked, some with a wolf or dog or cat on a fiery leash. Other wayfarers carried a small cat or toy-sized dog or a chicken, sometimes ensconced in crossed arms and sometimes ignored on the shoulder. Every so often I saw a red animal die and dissolve into nothing, and its humanesque counterpart all too human died too, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. At the focus of this whirlpool, rendered in dying dirt by the mystic law of rent was a great citadel, and I was drawn nigh.

As it waxed before me, trepidation grew in my heart until I dared not close further. Every so often a traveler consummated the journey into the One that is collectivist alpha. Politically undead clodhoppers drifted across the event horizon tangentially. They died, ashes to ashes, but their translucent iridescent red animals rolled headlong down the slippery slope into the flames of the open furnace waiting below. More rarely, a fervent believer, typically of the SWPL denomination and high of IQ, to consummate a consciously understood pilgrimage, ran or rode headlong into the gullet of the citadel beast all glassy-eyed. In all cases the flame accrued human vitality little by little.

Workers for a government-funded green energy company ploddingly shoveled out the ashes of the furnace. What curious creatures they were: ghouls in asbestos suits with life expectancies no better than thrice that of the slaves once made to mine salt in the Sahara completely by hand, but these workers lived longer with the asbestos suits than without. Remarkably, the furnace was teeming with ghouls, and few climbed the slippery slope to know anything else. Other workers were riders of dragons, were equestrian wolves, living better and longer lives. They emptied and returned the buckets filled by the ghoul suits, as they were called, after dumping the toxic ashes strategically across the fruited plain.

On the level just above the furnace, more dragon riders flew in and out of the citadel. The riders were always wolves, and their mark was always ‘006’. The dragons were of body ghostly red, opaque by the cumulative depth of a vigorously swirling iridescence, and winged in translucent flames. At times I saw a wolf denuded of its mark and dragon wings, usually timed to cause free fall into the gaping pit of the furnace. At times I saw a sheepish humanoid on horseback receive the equestrian mark and become a wolf on dragonback and fly to safety such as it was.

Atop of the citadel was a castle, and the salient feature of the castle was a great central tower, and on top of the central tower was the Eye of Governance, the eye of eyes, and it contained the eye of NSA, and the eye of NSA contained the eye of Goog. The eye of eyes viewed all things in a short span of time, searching for resisters to have them picked off, and those resisters had the mark ‘007’. Obedient sheeple were always permitted to make the plausibly deniable soft kill if moved by political orthodoxy. The majority of sheeple did not carry license to kill at any one time, for most were sore afraid and politically clueless and loathe to shoulder social decisions, but all 00s did by natural law unrenounced, and the 006s of collectivism sought to pick off the present and future 007s of patriarchal self-determination for the glory of the citadel beast, devil-God, and country.

Those things I saw faded away, and I found myself staring at the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog. The second lorem ipsum relief was anew in embedded silver.

Chapter 4

Ghost: “Direct the Light of Holo upon the third lorem ipsum, and tell me what you see.”

I read the third inscription aloud:

Owen, me Amy 7
Helvetica occæcat 3 wolf moon whatever voluptate fap. Salvia eiusmod pitchfork, 3 wolf

Ghost: “Now read the translation by your Rosetta sight.”

I read by the Light not myself and yet seemingly me. My words were heavy with incantation and became enlivened with sanguine annotation, as if from my breath:

Owing me ‘n’ my 7 (inches)/Owing me Army 007
Whiteness blinds Fiat Credit Party (head) for whatever pleasure masturbation. This wise devil (sage pitchfork), Fiat Credit Party (head)

When I had finished, and the heavens rumbled, and the hair on the back of my neck stood, I saw a copper foil covering the third lorem ipsum relief. My vibe was good, so I approached without anxiety and removed the seal.

Lo, I saw a janiform padrone-priest on an outdoor stage under bright lights. He wore only a white toga, for practical reasons, and stood within the aegis of an immense holographic floor insignia of tentacles and the Eye of Providence. The tentacles were calligraphy of the phrase ‘Novus Ordo Seclorum’.

His rearward face was cherubic, milky white, rosy-cheeked, in tears, silent, with eyes fixed upon a liberated white woman dancing capriciously to and fro in and out of the observable but shadowy backstage, or upon a limit of his sight lines, for the woman danced to the elevator music of her feeeeelings.

His forward face, swarthy, two shades lighter than pitch, biting the lower lip, titillated, beaming, gazed at the throng of hindbrain hedonists clamoring toward and around him. A succession of the lucky and bold few were reverently upon him in turn, contrastingly overawed, vocally reduced to repressed groans or checked silences. The priest of pleasure platitudes, the master of gauche, had the situation well in hand, anointing eager devotees as disciples of the new utopian age with the mark ‘006’.

The clock tower across the way began chiming eleven rings. The orgasmic dignitary looked about the plaza and then smirked. Not a ‘007’ was to be seen, at least not openly, and that would be control enough to seize victory in the midnight hour.

Those things I saw faded away, and I found myself staring at the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog. The third lorem ipsum relief was anew in embedded bronze.

Chapter 5

Ghost: “Direct the Light of Holo upon the fourth lorem ipsum, and tell me what you see.”

I read the fourth inscription aloud:

Taddeo
Dreamcatcher artisan biodiesel, commodo gluten-free salvia helvetica aliquip photo

Ghost: “Now read the translation by your Rosetta sight.”

I read by the Light not myself and yet seemingly me. My words were heavy with incantation and became enlivened with sanguine annotation, as if from my breath:

Daddy-O
Con artist of green energy, opportunely guilt-free (half-)whiteness sage has objectives to frame

When I had finished, and the heavens rumbled, and the hair on the back of my neck stood, I saw a zinc foil covering the fourth lorem ipsum relief. My vibe was good, so I approached without anxiety and removed the seal.

Lo, I saw a growing village of white entrepreneurs employing white workers and black slaves, and its name was Jamestown. And village freemen anointed themselves ‘007’, and they trained to kill on the field, and they moved as one ferocious but thoughtful beast, and its name was Patriarchy, and its number was ‘70707’. And I saw the village grow into a powerful city on a hill, and the population grew by native fecundity and by the immigration of whites and the importation of blacks.

Slavery wained as the pool of free but non-entrepreneurial labor grew. Blacks were slowly assimilated and permitted more freedom, most whites permitted a little less. Most blacks and whites were materially poor but a few were rich, including the richest blacks in the world, and a black man married and a white woman who was Irish, and the Irish men were angry, being in competition with blacks for the lowest jobs, but the Irish slowly bettered themselves and their anger abated.

Diversity of special interests weakened then fractured the ‘007’ culture, and the city caught fire. Crisis is opportunity, and the ecology of special interests naturally selected a covert special interest whose patron saint was superlative greed, and the superior parasitic faction ensconced itself swimmingly in the wound without much notice.

Verily, I saw the devil Abraham come to power. He restored the city by bastardizing the culture, and freedom he redefined as immunity from unlicensed natural selection, and the new selection and the new slavery was the greenback, and the new culture was progressively inclusive of all manner of peoples. And the city council changed the city’s name from Jamestown to New Plymouth, and the spirit of entrepreneurism was replaced by the spirit of universal political fraternity without borders, of spreading democracy, of dispensing justice to the ignorant world. An official motif was made: The Shining City on a Hill; and it was New Rome, and old imperialism, even as old as the story of Israel’s Esau. The beginning of the New Age of Mercantilism had ended. The founding father of the New America was deified, and militia men no longer trained in the field.

The inferiors were formed into a coalition, and a New Deal was made: inferiors were made equal to 007s. And upper-class white women secretly wanted more hamsterbation, unbeknownst even to themselves, but the scions of 007-dom did not see since they were conditioned to the equality of women’s purpose. At the very top of the hill in New Rome, they created the Third Bank of the United States in the name of serving the Female Imperative, and it beguiled women by the purchase of many mouths to make women its servants and perpetual protectors.

The laws were rewritten and strategically enforced. Ex-wife custody and alimony empowered women with ‘00’ licenses to kill nuclear family and the paternal transmission of culture, and fiat female hiring empowered women with ‘00’ licenses to emasculate work culture and economically disenfranchise men. The women were each number one in their primeval heart of hearts, and the husbands dared not tame their wives for fear of masculine vilification, and the women burned all the more with a passion to christen themselves 001s, egged on by the Edward Bernays indoctrination matrix.

And lo, I saw a red giant rise out of the city. His linen uniform was black on the front and green on the back, and he wore a badge. With him was a giant red ox. The giant had a sword and created a fire and beat the sword into a plow shear. The giant hitched the shear to the ox and plowed the city. After he plowed the city, wives increasingly had disdain for their husbands and saw themselves as victims robbed of their potentials. They exercised their ‘00’ licenses and killed their marriages and short-circuited the cultural transmission of fatherhood. The men were weak, having abdicated their ‘00’ licenses long ago, and they were divorce-raped, and the masculine vitality of ‘7’ was seized, with every 6 parts going to the state and for every 1 part going to the ex-wife. But the state controlled the issuing of ‘00’ licenses, and the new culture was ‘006’. The entitlement princesses supposed the culture to be the momentarily most advantageous ‘001’-ism under the rubric Progressivism, and sung songs of ‘me-me-me’. They always sang for more because the Female Imperative could never be satisfied, could never intuitively understand math, could never respect the finite scarcity of wealth.

Shrieking issued from the shining city on the hill, always the same solitary note in monotonously monotone chorus. As the shrieking grew louder and louder, the hill supporting the city subsided lower and lower. And the women rode the backs of the men, except the elite men. And the elite men of the new and hidden patriarchy anointed themselves ‘006’. And they set about to perfect their order, and to build a tower faster than the hill could sink, and it was in their power to become neo-‘007’-dom later if they could deal fairly among themselves, for nature is amoral. But the devil that is greed was strong with them, and I saw the red giant and red ox each had an Achilles’ heel protected by a magical guard made of credit. Only red pill observers could see through the fiat-credit facade to the Achilles’ heel of the New Age order that is leveraged exposure.

As the tower grew more and more magnificent, the rest of the city decayed. Increasingly, men refused to carry women or pretentious male churls on their backs and learned seduction and the greater Game science. Outcast pleb systemizers audaciously elucidated the fundamental masculine nature ‘007’ with the bioluminescence of the acultural female nature. Red-pill men studied and debated and advanced Game knowledge.

Lo, I saw troops sometimes in the field but always in the city. And the voice that officially commanded the troops was TOTUS. TOTUS gave executive orders, made press statements, and gave speeches punctuated by ‘em’s and ‘eh’s because he spoke from the heart that he didn’t have. And he spoke of the oppression of women, and the oppression of blacks, kept from their civil rights. And he implied a past with spontaneous matriarchal civilization and spontaneous black civilization always just around the corner and stymied by the evil white man. The evil white men who controlled the fiat money and destroyed the city were never mentioned. The masses listened with star-spangled eyes, perhaps proud of their parasitic nature for the first time in their lives.

In the square, TOTUS brandished a pointed finger in the air and said, “Crazy-ass cracker.” His face softened into a hedonic smile, and his white-gloved hands moved in parallel to outline a rectangle in mid air. Then a melodramatic sadness overcame him, and a single tear catching the spotlight fell out of his right eye and down his cheek. “If I had a son,” he divulged tenderly, “he’d look like a blackberry.”

“The one with the on-demand virtual keyboard. The Z10. My precious little girls can work a Z10 better than us adults, and so can yours. It’s their right and their future. For da childrennzzzzzzzzz.” The crowd responded with thunderous applause. The large signs told the crowd to applause, and the troops made sure they did so enthusiastically. A black laptop flapped around like a spastically raptured clam about the base of TOTUS barking, “Nation of cowards, nation of cowards!”

TOTUS du jour and forty-four savored the moment of political eroticism and thought to himself, You ain’t seen the presidential pardons imma giv’n out, bitches, heh, heh.

Those things I saw faded away, and I found myself staring at the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog. The fourth lorem ipsum relief was anew in embedded iron.

Chapter 6

Ghost: “Direct the Light of Holo upon the fifth lorem ipsum, and tell me what you see.”

I read the fifth inscription aloud:

Hiroshi Lockheimer
Brunch cred wolf art party, you probably haven’t heard of them et officia mustache lo-

Fiat Credit Party

Ghost: “Now read the translation by your Rosetta sight.”

I read by the Light not myself and yet seemingly me. My words were heavy with incantation and became enlivened with sanguine annotation, as if from my breath:

Hiroshi Lockheimer (great intellect keeps great power)
Sunday morning viewers (brunch crowd) believe the Fiat Credit Party, you probably haven’t heard of them and the liberated Female Imperative (officiating bearded clam) lo-

Hillary 2016

When I had finished, and the heavens rumbled, and the hair on the back of my neck stood, I saw an aluminum foil covering the fifth lorem ipsum relief. My vibe was good, so I approached without anxiety and removed the seal.

Lo, I saw a giant harlot, nude, sitting outdoors at night, bathed in the light of a city lit glamorously. Young, nubile teen women, biologically in their primes and tended by their enigmatically red beasts, ostentatiously wore the mark ‘666’. Hysterically jubilant, erotically primed, and dressed for maximum sex appeal were these young women; and they crowded into the plaza created between the harlot’s legs; and they funneled themselves inside through the giant mistress’ vagina passage, ladies only. A sign over the entryway read: “Mother of All Things.”

A great horn sounded not long after the last teen beauty entered the giant harlot, and the harlot stood up in her splendid proportions. Softly, a repetitive sound was heard in the distance. Slowly, the noise got louder. The ground and buildings about the harlot began to shake. A giant beast dripping wet rose across the horizon. He had a head of seven conjoined heads but only one mouth, and the elemental heads were: two eagles, a lion, a rooster, a bear, a dragon, and a racoon dog. Upon the seven heads were ten horns. One eagle head had three horns and another horn sat midway between the other eagle head and the rooster head, and their horns were not like the others but similar to each other save the bud of a horn on the eagle head that was like no other.

The beast laid his paws on the harlot as a patriarch lays claim to his wife. The texture and hues of his scales and hair contrasted against her silky smooth, milk white skin. He fondled her, spanked her booty, and inseminated her with his seed of national dignitaries suspended in a glaze of commoditized purchasing power. The beast departed and moved about the city, destroying and rebuilding with great purpose. The people cheered and learned it was philanthropy, and they exulted the beast.

Meanwhile, inside the harlot, debauchery was simulcast in every language to the four corners of the earth. Men and women in white lab coats monitored the participants in every scientifically imaginable way. Occasionally, a dazed reveler was taken to an examination room for procedures he or she would not observe nor remember. The revelers lost knowledge of themselves and simply felt joy from good sensations and pain from its lack. And then the party was over, but the simulcast continued with previously recorded material as if the party were never ending.

The revelers exited the womb en masse. Some of the dignitaries emerged as rejuvenated wolves riding dragons. The rest were reborn as kenosis zombies with no ‘00’ capacity to kill or to do anything by individual will, and they had no markings, and they heard only the voice of the beast, and riding on the backs of each was one red monkey. Monkey see, monkey do. Each monkey’s mouth was clamped onto its host at the junction of the neck and the base of the skull. The beast, having returned from his great works, caught the falling ripe revelers into his hands, or they fell to the ground. Some he ate, increasing his strength. Most he fed to the harlot, increasing her strength. A sizable minority, including most dignitaries, he returned to the world as mindless agents of his cancer, the cult of collectivist imperative free of ‘00’ agency. The religion of the beast was ‘666’. It was the religion of fear sanctified by greed, and greed is the devil himself. The greed of the elite was for all power at the expense of all potency, and the greed of the masses was for purification from all power, from all causal potency called responsibility.

The beast returned to his great works. The harlot went and bathed in a nearby river in a manner carefully controlled by the attendant white-coats. Then the harlot returned to the glamor and pampering of her party scene. She sat down and opened her legs to the cheering throngs of young females hungry for pedestalizing attention only government resources could deliver.

Those things I saw faded away, and I found myself staring at the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog. The fifth lorem ipsum relief was anew in embedded clay with iron bits. The iron corroded and the clay developed streaks of dark stain that spread and reddened. And the clay by means of iron fodder and free air began menstruating foully and profusely, and the blood trickled upward onto the four layered reliefs above, and where the blood ran the layers emitted a light vapor and dissolved, and the structural weakness caused cracking, as if the layers were stacked forming a central pillar bearing the burden of a great civilization.

Chapter 7

I was awash in a jolting surge of adrenaline, my abdominal muscles were suddenly contracted in remarkable fury, and I observed myself thrown into an upright sitting position. I was in my bed, in my dark bedroom. I got up and turned on the lights to be sure. I had a look around. Everything seemed well enough. After lying in bed with the lights on for some time, I turned off the lights and tried to sleep.

I started to drift away.

At once an electronic sound cried out in my mind, “Booda, ba, doop.” “Rise and hold on to your smartphone,” a computerize voice told me, “that ye may take notes and give an account of what ye shall see.”

Through the wall I saw emerge a glowing figure of a man wrapped in a cowl, altogether in uniformly subdued charcoal gray with scarce relief contrast in white. The figure was obscured greatly by his robe, but he looked frail, thin, about six feet tall. His hands were little more than bones wrapped in skin, as expressed by ghostly substance. Occasionally, I caught the metallic flash of the innards of an electrolarynx implant. There was little flesh to hide the device any better than the translucent housing did. His face was indistinct under his hood.

I noticed my smartphone was in my right hand.

Me: “Wh__. Wh__.”

Ghost: “Who am I____?! I am the Ghost of Red-Pill Future! Booda, ba, doop.”

His bone finger directed me thither out of bed.

I smiled demurely to stall and ponder what my options were.

His arm reached out unnaturally and pulled me by my upper arm into a standing position beside him. He pointed to my dresser. I put on my Glass of Goog and grabbed the Light of Holo while recalling uncertainly that they were not there before.

Ghost: “Hold on to my robe.”

Me: “Sir, are you sure you got the right guy? I’ve not met the Ghost of Red-Pill Past.”

Ghost: “Booda, ba, doop. As charming as ever.”

Suddenly, my feet fell through the floor, and I reflexively caught myself by grabbing the spirit’s robe. It was a heavy wool, yet the fabric was dry, clean, and cool as if no body were in it. Same ride, different ghost. Once again, I was standing before the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog.

Ghost: “Direct the Light of Holo upon the sixth lorem ipsum, and tell me what you see. Boop.”

I read the sixth inscription aloud:

Amy, Kenzo, Zi 3
Food truck reprehenderit elit enim, 8-bit single-origin coffee butcher ethical gluten-

Ghost: “Now read the translation by your Rosetta sight. Boop.”

I read by the Light not myself and yet seemingly me. My words were heavy with incantation and became enlivened with sanguine annotation, as if from my breath:

Army, Kenoses
Media (food for thought) deceiver blames (white privilege) elitism for it, heavily burdened, working class white Hispanic butcher ethical guilt-(free)

When I had finished, and the heavens rumbled, and the hair on the back of my neck stood, I saw a silver foil covering the sixth lorem ipsum relief. My vibe was good, so I approached without anxiety and removed the seal.

Lo, I saw who had been the rider of the white horse with the blank face and the four mustaches. He emceed a circus on the big stage before the big plaza and the mighty clock tower. The team of performers on stage were supplemented by technological showmanship integrated by use of a giant holographic green screen projected as a canvas backdrop and requiring a tremendous energy consumption. The performers inculcated the religion of ‘666’ by framing all conflicts in terms of white male privilege and never in terms of property rights and economic merits. “White Hispanic,” they said. “Black angel,” they said.

Death threats fitting The Narrative were pondered for saving merits, and the use of violence that did not fit The Narrative was declared anathema if not neatly forgotten. The disenfranchisement of persons from property, from education, from livelihood, and ultimately from life itself was likewise selective, codified by feminine feelings and feminist sophistry that ingrained the vacuous religiosity of perfected religion upon the hearts of the masses ever deeper. Devout hearts regularly minced themselves into oblivion, but the poor thrive under such husbandry, and their ranks swelled exactly because of their subsidized and indefatigable wantonness. With such short life expectancies under the aegis of emancipated tragedy, they coveted everything their persecuted betters had except civilized character.

BOOM!

The mighty clock tower struck midnight so thunderously the ground shook. The sheeple in the plaza stared at the face of the clock all dumbstruck.

BOOM!

The ground shook again, and the sheeple were perplexed. They had no script for this great stimulus of evident authority. Bursts of fire were seen in the night sky here and there. Murmur grew out of the crowd, spreading rumors of government credits no longer working and, even worse, of the complete loss of the universal network signal itself.

Some sheeple were indomitable pacifists, standing patiently, not daring to make an independent move that could be deemed as willfully sinful rather than merely ignorant. Other sheeple became nervous activists agitating for a group activity to express cohesion. The active sheeple socially evolved over minutes into factions that fought each other and trampled the passive sheeple. Little rational purpose was involved. It just felt right, considering the absence of a grand collectivist alternative.

Behold! Flames rained down upon them all, burning victims to death with each direct hit whilst wolves riding dragons flew in and out of the light above the plaza.

The talking mustaches were long gone, concerned for themselves.

Those things I saw faded away, and I found myself staring at the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog. The sixth lorem ipsum relief was anew in embedded silver, and it began to shake. And its shaking shook the reliefs above, and the reliefs above were seen to be in loose chunks, and many chunks fell out. The shaking stopped and the chunks that remained lay on top of each other in a heap. The spent clay was noticeably drier and more brittle than before, and getting dryer still in the liberating winds of change.

Chapter 8

Ghost: “Booda, ba, doop. Direct the Light of Holo upon the seventh lorem ipsum, and tell me what you see.”

I read the seventh inscription aloud:

me, Roman 5
Cred fixie culpa, hoodie adipisicing skate-

Ghost: “Now read the translation by your Rosetta sight. Boop.”

I read by the Light not myself and yet seemingly me. My words were heavy with incantation and became enlivened with sanguine annotation, as if from my breath:

The 7-Headed Beast vs. 007 (self-reflective Western heritage of two potentials summing to seven)
I believe the fault fixed, hoodie (ignore the lorem ipsum nonsense word) derelict-

When I had finished, and the heavens rumbled, and the hair on the back of my neck stood, I saw a gold foil covering the seventh lorem ipsum relief. My vibe was good, so I approached without anxiety and removed the seal.

Lo, the sound of alarm filled the air, and all the sandglasses of all the ghostly red beasts with aware but indecisive masters ran to complete exhaustion and faded into nothingness. Their masters became sheep branded ‘666’. They could no longer be disciples of the religion, only stockpiled sacrament on the toe. So too became the entitlement princesses, losing en masse their ‘001’ licenses to be solipsistic hunter-sheeple. They became zombie sheep, for their rationalization hamsters were atrophied and unable to provide any animate mental context. The red animal vitalities of all those made sheep—what had mostly been pet dogs and cats for the weaponized ignoble princesses—seized them like prey in their fresh monkey jaws.

Simultaneously, every 007 shed his sheepskin disguise and made his rival presence known. The 007s arrayed themselves into an army, and the number of that patriarchal beast was ‘70707’. On the great caldera the two beasts of ‘666’, the citadel army of 006s and the philanthropy beast that paid and commanded them, faced the claimant sons of bygone patriarchy. The two beasts gathered and dined upon the their sheep, holding none in reserve, maximizing their immediate strength. Some sheep bayed in a tremendous cacophony, and all did not budge out of shear terror or shear stupidity. At the end of the feast, the theology of St. Skiddles was no more.

Sons and daughters, fathers and mothers of the 007s had been among the sheeple horde. All were brothers and sisters in human feelings and in human flesh. The wrong turns weaved through the lives of humanity were a Gordian knot, and pleb men had lost their courage and clout to cut it out of their own humanity for the tumor it really was. Lives would have been spared if the disease of human garbage were not left untreated and free to metastasize to an inevitable end.

The 007s marched forward, swords drawn, nothing left to loose now, outnumbered and outgunned by corrupt leverage made corporeal. The air crackled with tension, and the sky turned clear liquid gold; currencies collapsed. The musical chairs economy of the soft kill stopped playing its tune. The cock carousel stopped spinning and began to rust noticeably. The orthodox curtain of pretty lies began to fall like bloody wool at a great going-out-of-business shearing. The future was being cast from the present mold unveiling, and the tree of liberty would belong to one beastly order or another. Were the 007s too little too late, or were they opportune?

Those things I saw faded away, but the troublesome ringing sound remained, and I found myself staring at the back concrete wall of the base of the statue of the all-seeing eye of Goog. The seventh lorem ipsum relief was anew in embedded gold. A new stacking of reliefs was growing upward, thrusting through the debris of the old. My view of the wall of the statue base faded away, and I found myself staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. I turned to see my smartphone ringing and flashing insistently. A morning twilight glowed behind the curtain with the promise of a new day.

It was just a dream.

—‘Reality’ Doug, 01 November 2013

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