Fulfilling a promise.

There are some experiences that just stick with you for the rest of your life. Many of them are exhilarating; they're heart-racing and manic, and the intensity of the danger at hand as adrenaline pumped through your veins ingrained something into your mind. Others might be tragic. You can be emotionally burdened and have the misery beaten into you furiously as you attempt to forget that trauma and let the past be the past. While some might be enlightening; you just learn something new and it's always going to come in handy. Oh right, did I ever tell you folks when I visited a sex shop?

This old story came into my head when I was up in Victoria last summer. My family late at night were going through a Burger King when in the same shopping district was an Adult Store. The windows were barred and they looked like they had lard sprayed onto them; just thick inconsistent layers of disgusting whitish spray all over the windows to intentionally fog them. To keep the peering eyes of judgment from gazing in. I wanted to know what kind of spray they used to fog the windows so I could do it at my house to keep to my business in my room, so I asked my dad if I could go in. My sister was also mildly curious but disgusted. The man outside informed me I could do it myself, and he had videos that guided me through the process of doing so. He then informed me they were the security videos from inside the store, and after thinking what the customers actually did to get that thick film of slime on the windows, I gagged and left. But that wasn't the first time. Right, the story.

The first rule of thumb is to make sure that you don't go in alone. Going alone makes you the kind of sleezeball that will get you judged by others for being lonely, desperate, and a lech. Going in with somebody suddenly makes it an adventure with a bounty of relics screaming to be discovered. You would be surprised at the stuff that they keep in these stores. The unfortunate victim at the time was my girlfriend. Now after a first extremely awkward, extremely unnerving sexual experience that will never be discussed under the penalty of death, this seemed like a good idea to... well, get some good ideas. But if you people have read any previous stories, you would know that Ami is an extremely shy, withdrawn, bashful, socially-awkward individual. Nothing will drive that point home farther than taking said person to a sex shop. Oh dear, I had to get her high to convince her that it was a plausible idea. Besides, it couldn't be that awkward, right? Right?

The manager of the store either must've been stoned out of his mind or he simply didn't care that two 15-year olds were glancing through his peddling station of sleazy goods looking for something to indulge themselves with. Everything about the place seemed off. You were cut off from the rest of the world while you were in here. The apocalypse could occur, and you would only figure it out when you stepped outside. The air was... different. You felt like just breathing was making you contract any airborne STDs, which don't exist anywhere else but in a sex shop.

Going to these places, there's a lot to uncover. There's a lot of books and videos and instruments and doo-dads and our young ignorant minds couldn't stare at any of it for more than a second before being overcome with an intense combination of laughter and shame. This was back in the good ol' days where not everybody used the internet for porn because books and magazines were still the norm. It was like wandering into an abandoned library for smut. There were pornography magazines from eras that I didn't even know had pornography in active circulation. I guess those people in the 60s just started doing loads of drugs and started taking pictures of themselves sucking and fucking and contracting Gonorrhea and HIV without a care in a world. Those were beautiful times, weren't they?

"Ohhhh... my." Something caught her eye.
"Eh, you find something interesti-- Oh merciful Jesus what is that."
"I think that's supposed to go i--"
"Oh good Christ you're kidding."
"The picture of the woman spreading her legs like... that says otherwise..."
"Dear lord, it's like King Arthur left Excalibur in here."
"I think I would break something trying to get that up the--"
"Ami no."
"It's definitely bigger than y—"
"AMI NO."

Then we found another odd tool. It was something that was akin to a thong, except it had a penis in the front. I never saw anything like this at that point in time.

"...What in the hell would anybody do with this?"
"It's clearly for women." she responded.
"Why would they want such a thing?"
"Uh... lesbians maybe?" I then scoffed with disgust.
"Lesbians don't like shlongs. If they did, they wouldn't be lesbians now would they?"
"...Fair enough."
"Still disgusting."
"Maybe it's for a woman and her boyfriend t--"
"I SAID NO, AMI."
"That would explain the bottles of lubrica--"
"FUCKING HELL, SHUT THE HELL UP AMI."

Then we found the video section. With little booths. Tiny, dirty little booths where they showed clips of the dusty old VHSs playing their wares. Those tiny little booths smelled like something. I couldn't quite describe it. It smelled like someone ran a train on a horse in there and forgot to clean it up. It was intoxicating. It was disgusting. It was irresistible. What we saw on those tapes were abhorrent and vile, and it robbed us of our innocence as we were just visually violated. But we couldn't look away. Then Ami glanced at me, dead gaze on my face as she recalled.

"You know, after watching all these videos, I'm surprised you haven't--" I interrupted.
"Fighting with all my willpower, thank you very much."
"That must be har--"
"POOR CHOICE OF WORDS."
"That must be difficult here." Now she's messing with me.
"I'm thinking of those lewd images of my relatives I stumbled across to kill any urge."
"...Why?"
"God forbid I disgust you in any way with indecent thoughts."
"...Right."
Bringing a 15 or 16-year old young man to such a place was a poor decision upon recollection. I demanded to depart immediately. Ami was busy looking at her wallet while gazing at Thor's Hammer of Mjöllnir before hearing me shout "OH HELL NO." and dragging her away by the hood of her sweatshirt out the door.

* * *

"And that's how it would go." I declared.
"Interesting story. You should get it published." she said.
"It would be interesting, come on."
"Do you really think they would let us into a sex shop?" Ami asked.
"Maybe if they didn't care."
"I don't even think there's a sex shop in Manteca." she said.
"We've never been to the West side, there might be. A lot of old and shady places there."
"Lucas you're an idiot."
"I like how you just wondered how we would get in there and yet didn't question any implications of your behavior once we got in."
"Can it."
"The Hammer of Mjöllnir would be a definite buy."
"Get bent."
"It's probably bigger than I am, I don't see why you wouldn't."
"I'm getting the strap-on so I can f--"
"AMI NO."

It's not a block, it's a whole damn wall.

Writers Block sucks.

I think most people have been in those kinds of situations before. Where you have the idea, the drive to get something out there. "I FINALLY GOT IT! THIS ONE IS GOING TO BE THE BIG ONE! I CAN SEE IT NOW, I'M GONNA TURN IT ALL AROUND!" Then when you finally sit down to write it, you just stare at the monitor for a while. You look down at your hands; they're completely still as they rest on the keyboard. Nothing's happening. Like an undisciplined dog, you start swinging them around and slamming them into things in hopes that they'll start working. Then you smack them on the metal railing to your keyboard tray and your palm is now bleeding. But son of a bitch, 20 minutes later and all that effort and blood of wildly flailing about, and the page is still blank.

It's almost become detestable; to have an idea you want to write but as soon as you open up the word processor, you can't articulate a damn thing. It's like an infant with a strive to be educated and to learn something, so he opens up the hardware in the kitchen drawer to hopefully become a prodigy in engineering. Instead he gets his head tangled in an extension cord and he inadvertently lynches himself on the door knob. The only thing you can think about is what you could be doing other than this. I could be playing Starcraft 2. I could be grinding in WoW. I could be jerking off. I could be on Facebook. I could be out getting drunk alone. I could be reading. I could be doing something CONSTRUCTIVE.

And it's frustrating as Hell. You got a bunch of things going, and when you get hung up on one thing, you just want to do that one thing. Can't do it? Fuck everything else. Everything else is on hold. It almost makes you want to bore out the part of your brain so you forget and stop giving a fuck and get to work. It almost makes you want to kill yourself. And that's almost a legitimate statement there. Everybody has a tool to articulate and channel negative emotional responses into. Mine is writing. I can't write? I can't vent. I can't vent? I start to get anxious. I start to get anxious? The string of arson reports in the county start rolling in.

But right, projects projects projects. The first thing I intend to get done is the Christmas story finale. That's actually mostly done. The entire story concept is complete, and I've written about half of it. The next part is the second chapter to It's a beautiful world we live in. And next is something I haven't discussed yet. A fanfic. Oh dear, I can't believe I'm starting one of those again. Those are the shit-tier of stories in writers circles. Don't care, I'm writing one. It's going to be Etrian Odyssey, so it sort of doesn't count since the series doesn't even have a damn story for the most part. I'll essentially be making shit up at this point, I just don't have to come up with a backstory or history of my own.

But right, there's your update. Don't expect another for a while. I still have to shake this shit off.

How Bob and I save Christmas, part 2.

The quickest way through a man's heart is through his stomach, which happens to pass through the liver. After sacrificing Midleton's finest to escape from a tent riddled with a bunch of a elegant young men ready to pleasure themselves while watching a woman fornicate with livestock, I was going dry and I was getting very irritable that I no longer had any whiskey to drink. Because you see, the thing that makes the winter cold that much more bearable is a river of liquor to subdue the local populace into a near-comatose state of inebriation. Also it can be used as a fire-starter in several instances, but I would opt against this if you're handling some of the ritzier alcoholic beverages and you have other fire-starting tools at your disposal, like matches or adolescents dressed in several layers of clothing. It's also known in an ironic sense that large amounts of liquor can kill your sex drive, so after the recent break-up with my girlfriend before visiting Washington I've been dilating my blood vessels constantly to keep the heat-seeking moisture missile's targeting system offline.

Unfortunately this is the land of the hicks, meaning there's hardly going to be a saving grace like a 7-11 out here, let alone one that sells high-quality Irish Whiskey. And with sub-zero temperatures sweeping through, my donkey finally froze to death and collapsed to leave me stranded. I pulled an old-fashioned survival technique and cut the filthy animal open to live inside its innards during the snowstorm until morning seeing as how I couldn't see three feet ahead of me. Inside the animal, slowly sobering up and freezing to death I looked back on my miserable life, thinking about that cunt who dumped me, how Bob disappeared or is still at the donkey show. And I also had the charred and deformed mass of what was once a woman snuggled right next to me like some body pillow recovered in a chemical fire. Considering the whiskey dick was wearing off and my throbbing libido was coming back to haunt me, in my desperation I looked for whatever random orifice on the dead hooker that wasn't seared shut like a flesh welder. Like some disgusting hard candy, the tough outer shell still had a soft creamy feeling, so I indulged myself until I fell asleep.

I woke up about an hour later, still freezing my nuts off but the snowstorm died down. I was eager to crawl out of my donkey house only to see a Holiday Inn across the field that I was slowly dying in. And god-almighty, a liquor store. Hesitant to leave my new lover behind, I slowly dragged my corpse girlfriend with me through the snow across the street; she was stiff as a board, so it wasn't that difficult. I waltz into the store, still hard as hell from blue balls. I had to be very careful not to knock anything over as I made my way through the slim isles. Of course long slim corridors that are hard to get through only made my mind race even more, so I had to be quick and grab my whiskey before I caused any collateral damage while I was there. I got to the counter, and realizing I forgot my wallet, I pondered to myself if my new friend had anything. I went outside where I left her and checked her pockets, unaware whether it was actually a pocket or a crack in her charred skin that I was reaching into. I eventually found her wallet with several 50s in there. Awesome. I also looked at the ID in her wallet. In a disturbing plot twist, her name was Amelia, the name of my girlfriend in High School. This also explains that despite being a burnt husk of a human being that she still looked damn good, especially with those C-cups I remembering cherishing. I was in immediate mourning knowing that I ended up killing her and that she got involved in the underground industry of livestock porn after we broke up, so I figured I would pay my respects and bury her. But I can take solace in the fact that I ended up sleeping with her for real this time instead of the atrocity that happened the first time we tried consummating.

After I buried her in the snow, I shed a tear that froze before it hit the ground. Good bye, my beloved; a shame it had come to this before we could make amends. Being depressed, I figured now would be a better time than ever to get drunk beyond reason, but while I made my way into the store the shopkeeper pulled a gun on me. Apparently he saw me burying that corpse and figured I did something terrible, but instead of explaining it to him I jumped behind the shelves in his store as he unleashed a hail of bullets in my direction. I grabbed the nearest molotov I found, stuffed with with shreds of my white T-shirt and threw a flaming bomb over my shoulder in the poor man's direction. I heard it shatter and the man started frantically screaming, telling me that I've clearly struck him. I run out and steal the gun he dropped while he ran and flailed throughout the store. I grabbed my whiskey, but I couldn't leave the man; god forbid he suffer the same fate as my girlfriend. So I shot a bottle of bourbon on one of his counters and the spark set the entire liquor store ablaze. That meant by contrast, the man wouldn't be out of place in the environment. I figured he could learn to live with being on fire in Hell, so I'm prepping him for his soon-to-be new environment.

As I escaped, I saw a ring of torches outside. It was a mob of psychotic killers, all pants-less with erections that they could fly revolutionary flags off of. It was the bunch of horny men from the donkey show, clearly out for blood. I went off into the snowstorm and prepared for war.

How Bob and I save Christmas, part 1.

I went and visited some relatives in Washington for Christmas last year. To be perfectly honest, it didn't sound like a very inviting prospect because if I hate my mother, then it would only be obvious that I would hate my mother's side of the family almost just as much. I knew a friend up there that I visited whenever I got the chance, but the man seemed to have changed since I saw him last. Let's tentatively call him Bob.

Bob and I were bored while we froze our asses off outside.

"Bob, why the fuck aren't we indoors? Your house isn't that far from here."

I say that because Bob lives in the countryside where the Amish apparently invaded and used whatever dark witchcraft they wielded to curse the grounds from ever being paved. Not that it would help since there must've been around 3 to 4 inches of snow on the ground. Now wandering the Washington wilderness alone with Bob, it can be a rather stressful endeavor. Bob was a bit of an eccentric fellow; he was superstitious to say the least. He was randomly pissing on the trees we walked by, saying he was "spirit-herding and creating a barrier of trees to trap his latest harvest" but I personally thought he was bullshitting me just so he can show off his impressive package, seemingly unfazed by the chilly night air. He was wearing shorts in sandals with a tye-dye T-shirt while I was dressed in enough layers of clothing to stop a bullet. Bob is an odd fellow, but I had reason to suspect that Bob was on drugs that cold wintery night due to his behavior that seemed even more out of place than usual.

I wasn't one to complain, because I was cold. When I'm cold, I become irritable, and when I become irritable, I start to drink excessively, and that's something that warms you right up in 15-degree weather. As I drank, I kept asking Bob "When the hell are we going to get to your house?", slowly growing impatient with him as he simply responded "Just a little further now, Conrad." Don't ask where the fuck that nickname came from, but for some reason Bob always called me Conrad and occasionally threw rice and flower pedals in front of me as I walked, apparently blessing the ground I treaded on. I believe Bob thought I was the devil, but he always confused me and my brother so I didn't hold it against him. He's also colorblind, so he can't tell me--a man white enough to look deceased and my brother who looks like a beaner-apart from one another. Of course this made me question if he really knew where the hell he was going, but Bob always pulls through in the last moment.

Eventually we saw a tent and Bob told me the carnival was in town, so we should go inside and warm up. Against my better judgment I did, and as I wandered in, it was indeed warmer. But there were a lot of shady people. There was a scantily-dressed woman within this ring of people, and all the men were gazing lustfully at her as they undid their belts. I did not like where this was going. That woman is going to catch a cold in this weather; she needs to put something warmer on immediately. These men were clearly giving her their jeans and pants to warm her up, but what about them? Another man came out of nowhere made his way into the center.

"Thank god, this person looks dignified. Maybe he'll halt what the hell is about to unfold here and help this poor woman."

He was carrying a leash with him. And I saw an animal. I immediately started chugging my whiskey because I knew where I was. Bob, god bless him, had led me to a Donkey Show.

Now this wasn't necessarily the first time I was in an enclosed space with about two dozen men jerking off, but it certainly was going to be last. I immediately started freaking out, but I didn't want to work my way through the crowd; God knows how many erections I would have to grind against to make my escape, and considering these were new clothes, I didn't want to get them dirty. So what did I do? I jumped into the center of the ring of people where the woman and the donkey stood. If I could redirect the crowd out of my way, I could leave. So I used the last of my whiskey and set the poor woman on fire. She ran screaming for the exit, as would be expected. The crowd avoided her because apparently fire is bad, then I got on the Donkey and gallantly chased behind her to make my exit.

It's a beautiful world we live in.

Bullshit and lies. Everybody knows the worlds sucks. Well there's the irony in the title. A new story of mine has started and a separate blog is called for so it doesn't get lost in the more independent works and general announcements here.

http://itsabeautifulworldwelivein.blogspot.com/

This particular tale centers around Alan Capan's odyssey through a shitty life and how he tries to pull himself out of it. Sometimes in healthy ways, but mostly not. As you can expect from most of my works, this won't be a particularly bright tale, so there's your viewer discretion. I don't intend on it to be incredibly long, though. So hopefully I might actually finish this story.

And expect a few minor updates soon. It's July, which means Christmas is coming.

I will deck the halls with my vengeance.

Remember that humiliating experience? You bet you do. Like you could forget shit like that. Most people have had that one experience, that one defining moment in their childhood or High School years where your soul desperately tried to rip itself from your body to avoid feeling the anxious awkward trauma it was being subjected to. All but 30 seconds and there's something that will stick with you for your entire life, that people will laugh at you for. Something that forces you to shirk whenever you hear it, where aggravated murder will take place if it's so much as brought up. If I described your particular experience and your reaction then congratulations; you're a pussy. You've never truly lived until you've wanted to die on the spot.

I had these moments a lot. In fact I still do. By my own personal measuring stick, I've lived more than most people probably reading this. In fact I live my life through humiliating and embarrassing moments; the anomaly is when something isn't going completely to Hell. There was a young ignorant boy who should've been in bed reading Archie comics while listening to NSync because he was a boy and said that he was quiet and a bit awkward. He is not a young man, he is a boy, and a boy only by technicality because he hasn't earned his twin badges of seminal honor from the scouting crew yet. Real men learn to revel in that awkward situation and take that emotional trauma and deadweight, then throw it back in everybody's faces and laughs at them instead.

I was at a terrible school in the 5th grade while I lived with my family and relatives because we were broke and had to move in together. But life was eventually on the upturn; I got out of that house and left that terrible school. We finally got a nice two-story apartment in a closer town with one of the nicest schools in the county. After so much moving around, we were staying put.

"Son, we'll be in this place for a while. It's going to be great."
"I know, pa."

And I thought it would be. And I was in the middle of a semester so I transfered to that school. On my first day of class at this new school, I had to pee so I went into the bathroom. The door was chained to the wall and it was empty; it was greeting me just perfectly. When I was in there, I noticed that there weren't any urinals. This perplexed me a lot. I looked around for a bit and then I began to hear kids outside talking, laughing. This perplexed me even more. As I looked onward I saw shadows of people walking in. I guess I didn't have the place to myself anymore, I thought.

But then I had that moment. That moment where you realize something was wrong. A group of girls walking in, giggling, pointing, laughing at the new kid who just managed to miss the door sign and wander into the girl's bathroom on his first day of class. When I walked out, a ring of kids to greet me, also pointing, also laughing at the new kid who just managed to miss the door sign and wander into the girl's bathroom on his first day of class. I certainly was hoping that something a bit more distracting like a screaming teacher on fire or a school shooting would occur to pull the the attention off me. That didn't happen, at least not until a young anemic pyromaniac named Charles Finnegan would set a teacher ablaze before he went to High School and ironically died in a gasoline fire later that semester. That was what defined me. I wanted to run away from it. But I couldn't.

"Son, we'll be in this place for a while. It's going to be great."

Yeah I bet it fucking will.

Of course this joke was thrown in my face a lot and it stuck with me through High School. Of course this wasn't something that I enjoyed being brought up. I think most people have a running joke about them that they just get exasperated by when it's constantly brought up, and I was no different. When you bring up an embarrassing incident to a shy boy, he'll cringe. When you bring it up to a shy boy loosened up by alcohol and vicodin, he'll laugh. He'll laugh after he's used your head to sign his name onto the curb in your own blood and grey matter. I was shy and quiet and reserved growing up, but boy howdy did I go to some lengths to enact certain vengeance on certain others. A lot of times it got violent. That was no way to go about it. Curb-checking Dilly Koffman and setting Charles Finnegan on fire wasn't necessarily the right thing to do. Sure it was the most convenient, but this was a turning point when I learned that mindless violence couldn't completely solve problems. Especially when it involves personal humiliation. Tampering with the mind was a far greater idea, and that eventually dawned on me. I don't believe one could truly enact revenge through violence; submitting the individual to the same emotional trauma you were induced to is what's the most important here. It just so happens that atrocious physical violence could often do both.

Sharon Maloney. That's a name to remember. Pretty, well-developed and a straight A student. Also one of the people who walked in on me and essentially led the charge against the humiliation that ensued after that incident. Most of you noticed these girls at your High School. The seemingly perfect girl and perfect student... as long as you're in her clique. Otherwise she's the snob and the bitch that at some point in her life let's all those student ambitions eventually collapse and crush her so she either goes for the drugs or decides to start smoking something more rigid and riddled with testosterone. I was the final piece of weight that caused that support beam of hers to crumble.

This was after I became single again. That needs to be brought up for relevance and for what's about to take place here. For one particular day, a friend of mine managed to sneak a few tools to school. We excused ourselves from our respective classes, and met up in front of the bathrooms. Meanwhile for a temporary alliance, my ex-girlfriend was in one of Sharon's classes. She slipped a laxative into her bottled water. Granted we were no longer on good terms, Ami couldn't help but get in on sabotaging a bitch we both hated through the freshman year up. Sharon immediately went to the bathroom. After some mingling around, we quickly hid and left as we noticed her approaching. She immediately ran into the bathroom. As she shuffled in standing up straighter than a man with a broomstick up his ass did, she noticed something suspicious. There were urinals in the bathroom. The signs were switched. Before she could turn around, the sound of a door slamming and the lock clicking echoed in there. I walked around the corner just to see the conflicted look of anger and horror on her face.

"Well hello there, Sharon."

She was fidgeting a lot walking around. I knocked on the door to my friend.

"You're going to wait out there for an hour to stand guard, and I don't want you to interfere. No matter what you hear, you will not do a thing. No matter how much begging you hear, you will not unlock the door and you will not stop me. For an hour you hear nothing. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes." He hesitantly replied. I nodded and approached her. My friend couldn't help but listen in on what was occurring.

"This is going to be great for me, you know that, right?" I told her.
"W-w-what's going on!?"
"Calm down, you don't want to make a scene, do you?"
"I don't have time for this!"

The sound of the doors pounding and slamming could be heard through the reinforced door.

"N-n-no no no no... this can't be happening." her voice was becoming panicked.
"Just calm down and take them off slowly, you wouldn't want anything bad to happen, right?"
"N-no, I-I refuse to l-listen to you... what are you planning to do?"
"You know you have no choice. What is it? Are you seizing up around me? That's no good, it's going to make it difficult for me to have my fun with you."

My friend's eyebrow began to twitch. He was hearing something that began to sound unsettling.

"...You, YOU'RE A DISPICABLE HUMAN BEING YOU KNOW THAT!?"
"Scream louder. See what happens, Sharon. I don't think you want to yell at me."
"THIS IS INHUMA-- what? What are you doing? What are you going to do?"
"Shut up. You're only going to make it worse."
"......W-w-W-what do you want from me?"
"I think it's more of a manner of what I want to do to you."
"PLEASE STOP THIS, IT HURTS SO MUCH ALREADY!"
"I won't. I'm going to watch you twist and fight it with a smile on my face."
"I CAN'T TAKE IT, PLEASE STOP IT ALREADY!"
"If something tears, you're going to have to pardon me."
"PLEASE NO!"
"Heh, you're going to take it and you're going to enjoy it. Let's run some water to drown out the noise."

My friend was almost ready to open the door, but he fought the urge. After a while he heard something over the water.

"PLEASE GIVE ME MORE, I BEG OF YOU!"
"Call me your master."
"MASTER, PLEASE GIVE ME SOME MORE!"
"You're lucky I'm being generous, I'll give you what you want."
"OH GOD YES, IT'S INCREDIBLE!"

My friend was now wondering what the hell was going on as he heard her moaning loud enough to be heard over the running sinks. Eventually he heard a knock on the door.

"I'm done with her, open up now."
"W-w-W-what? You're leaving?!"
"Yep."
"No NO NO, YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN DO THIS, MASTER!"
"Sorry, I've had my fun. You're on your own."
"I NEED IT, THOUGH! I NEED YOU TO GIVE ME MORE!"
"You're annoying." I turned my attention towards the door. "Alright, let's go." He unlocked the door while he had of look of morbid curiosity aimed at me. Sobbing could be heard from the bathroom.
"MASTER, DON'T LEAVE ME PLEASE!" her voice cracking from all the screaming. I walked out with a smug look of satisfaction.

"Good god, did you do what I think you did?" my friend asked, completely horrified.
"She's a really depressing individual. I think I broke her." A tone of pity was on my voice.
"Dude, if she called the cops on you, you could get expelled and arrested."
"For what?" I asked.
"WHAT YOU DID TO HER! SHE'S A COMPLETE WHORE, NOW!"
"Wait what?"
"DUDE, COME THE FUCK ON!"
"I ripped out and flushed all the toilet paper in the stalls and was handing her what was left as her laxatives kicked in."
"...Wait what." he was completely clueless.
"What the hell did you think I did to her?" I asked.

I never got an answer. But I think somewhere in there my whole moral of the story works its way in somehow.

The Phazer Project.

So I'm considering actually starting a separate blog for a story I plan on writing and infrequently updating. What is the name of the story? I have no fucking clue, but for now I'm simply calling it the Phazer Project. This will be a post-apocalyptic horror story that's taking place on a ravaged Earth. An undisclosed cataclysm has destroyed a good portion of civilization and an almost-constant electromagnetic storm across the planet has rendered most technology unusable. The perpetual storms and climate change has rendered most of Earth uninhabitable while killing off most of the vegetation.

While most of humanity dies off and starves to death, several unlucky members suffer a fate worse than death. People exposed to the electromagnetic storms for prolonged periods don't die; the electronic signals manage to separate themselves from their bodies and they end up becoming Phazers. They're nothing more than neurological impulses and impressions of people, almost like wraiths or ghosts. They possess abilities to manipulate the environment magnetically and to infiltrate and manipulate any forms of technology, which is a reason most electronics and metals are dangerous or avoided entirely. Those in that form slowly destabilize over time and eventually go insane and becoming mindless sentient masses of energy.

A large crumbling city in southern Brazil known as Genoma is the last refuge for humanity and the only place on Earth entirely unaffected by the electromagnetic storms. It's in a completely isolated system, making it impossible for the Phazers to infiltrate. Yet it's about to disappear as well; the generators are running out of power and they're both ejecting people out and barring most people from entering due to overcrowding.

Large amounts of technology are poured into creating Reapers. Reapers are both the saviors and mortal enemies of humanity; they're self-sufficient creatures who are shrouded in mystery. Some suspect they're Phazers installed into isolated systems or they're exceptionally powerful human specimens put into suits. Bulletproof, armored, self-regenerating and virtually immortal, they're meant to use their scythes and battery packs to kill Phazers and convert them into electricity to send back to Genoma.

The story itself involves one particular Reaper in general, codenamed NA 47-121. He stumbles across a Phazer who's a young girl named Anabel. She's actually been dead for over 7 years, an extremely long time for a Phazers to remain stable and rational. NA 47-121 decides to take the Phazer back to Genoma alive to study the key to her remarkable stability. Of course this draws the attention of other Reapers who want to make claims and return her themselves for the credit, and the few Phazers that hear of the girl traveling with a Reaper unharmed earns retaliation from them as well. All while psychotic human Outsiders hunt and seek to dismantle Reapers to learn the secrets of their inner-workings, the two are hunted from all sides as they traverse across the landscape back to Genoma.

I think it's an interesting premise, so hopefully I can run with it somewhere.