Brain Hammer

EvilTwin Powers: Activate!

Yesterday was EvilTwin Day. Everyone stayed home and sent their EvilTwins out in their stead. That shit was all fucked up. The mail man's EvilTwin was all like, “here's your fucking mail, Hamilton House Apartments!” as he dumped the mail for the entire building into the big puddle in the parking lot.

Some fuckers' EvilTwins sent their EvilTwins, so instead of having to deal with (already evil) Information Desk Lady at the DMV, I had to deal with her Ultra-EvilTriplet. Actually, I didn't have to deal with her, because I had my Ultra-EvilTriplet out doing my bidding. And since I am so bad-ass in the first place, my Triplet is Super-Duper-Ultra-Evil. In fact he's the SuperVillian known as The Solipsist, whose mutant ability is to convince himself with infinite sincerity that the entirety of creation exists only in his perceptions.

The Solipsist: I have just retracted all of reality into my mind and taken you with it. Being a mere figment, you are now entirely at my mercy.

DMV Info Desk Lady's Ultra-EvilTriplet: Noooooooo!

Since The Solipsist was out doing chores for us, my EvilTwin and I went out for a stroll. We ended up spending a mostly pleasant but ultimately poopy afternoon in ChinaTown. A trinket shop caught our eye(s) and we ducked in. Most of the stuff crowded into this tiny place was a bunch of dust-covered crap, but a box of Chinese Finger Traps near the entrance seemed to really stand out. They were red, white, and blue and on prominent display, I guess, to signal the shop owners' patriotism.

Slaughterhouse Pete: I wonder if anyone has ever actually been trapped in a Chinese Finger Trap.

Slaughterhouse Pete's EvilTwin: Huh-huh. That would be pretty goddamned funny.

So then I reach into the box, take out a Chinese Finger Trap, insert index fingers into the ends, and. . .Holy Shit!

Slaughterhouse Pete: Holy Shit!

Slaughterhouse Pete's EvilTwin: What?

Slaughterhouse Pete: I am seriously stuck.

Slaughterhouse Pete's EvilTwin: Give me a break. Quit fuckin' around and let's get outta here.

Slaughterhouse Pete: No, seriously dude. I am seriously stuck.

Slaughterhouse Pete's EvilTwin: Huh-huh. That's pretty goddamned funny.

Slaughterhouse Pete: Dude!

Slaughterhouse Pete's EvilTwin: See you later. Dork.

So now I'm standing alone in this shop feeling like a total dumb-ass with my fingers stuck for real in a Chinese Finger Trap. A little Chinese old lady materializes from the back. I intuit immediately that she is the shop owner's Ultra-EvilTriplet. Her English is pretty fucked but I can tell that she's telling me that now I have to buy the Finger Trap. She's got some kind of conveniently selective comprehension: she seems utterly boggled by my requests that she help me escape but she understands immediately when I say that I would need help getting my wallet out of my back pocket. I had only a twenty for which she said she had no change.

little Chinese old lady shop owner's Ultra-EvilTriplet: You have to buy whole box.

Slaughterhouse Pete: Noooooooo!

She took my twenty, put my wallet back in my pocket, tucked the box under my arm, and pushed me out the door with both hands. Up the block I could see my EvilTwin at a news-stand reading Hustler and pretending not to see me. Staring even further in the distance, I noticed a faint shimmer ripple through the entire scene and I realized then that this had all been the work of The Solipsist.

Bah!

MindMap

SMT ENM

Yeah, I'm versed in the various DarkArts, but I like to keep it strictly solo. I don't much like to hang out with the other sorcerers,'cuz, seriously, I'd rather be caught at a convention of Trekkies or Furries.*

One downside of my magickal reclusion, however, is that I really don't know what other peoples' experiences with the forces from the UltraVoid are like. What kind of music works best for the summoning and the placating?** Should you leave out some milk and cookies like for Santa Claus?***

Most of my questions along these lines have to do with the bills I've been receiving from the ElderGods, since it isn't entirely clear what they have been billing me for. The billed items are designated with cryptic abbreviations and no translation key is supplied with my statement. When I'm billed

$17.50 SMT ENM APR 23,

. . .was that for the smiting of one of my enemies that occurred on April 23rd, or was that for the especially smooth enema I enjoyed in celebration later that day?

Worse than this, it totally peeves me that the bill always comes like right before the due date. I always wind up with late fees. It's an obvious deliberate scam because the ElderGods always include with the billing statement a flier encouraging enrollment in their automatic withdrawal program. ElderGods taking funds right out of my checking account? I am not crazy about this idea. I know that I've pledged them my eternal soul to be devoured in the maw of chaos during the EndTimes, but I still feel kind of funny about surrendering my routing number.

—
* Hey , remember that dude with the pointy Fantasia Sorcerer's Apprentice hat and robe in the back of the voodoo shop in New Orleans? Yeesh.

** Buck Nood and the Suede Playboys are devout materialists. Made of meat they be. I'm learning the hard way that the ElderGods hate Buck Nood and the Suede Playboys.

*** Few realize that Santa Claus is an ElderGod. He's kind of small potatoes as far as the pantheon goes, but he does have leathery wings beneath his coat and he grew the beard to conceal the psionic tentacle-antennae that dangle from his chin.

NILF

So the other night I had the candles and the pentagram and shit out for summoning the Elder Gods. I was hoping to placate them and maybe get them to juice up my enemy-smiting powers. My incantation style was kind of half-ass, I have to admit, 'cuz I wasn't really expecting this to work, but then, whaddya know, there's a flash and a sulfurous “bamf” and two or three of ye ol' Elder God phase in from the UltraVoid.

(If you've ever seen an Elder God, you know why I couldn't tell two from three.)

I'm a bit stunned, of course, because of the mind-aching horror of laying eyes on the non-Euclidian monstrosities draping their tentacles all over my entertainment center, so I don't start in right away with the placating.

Big mistake.

The patience of the Elder Gods is as small as their cruelty is vast. There's another sulfurous “bamf” and it's back to the UltraVoid for my terrible visitors.

My disapointment is short-lived however, 'cuz as the wafting hell-smoke dissipates I discern a new stack of DVD's and VHS tapes piled up in front of my entertainment center. Gifts from Gods! I intuit immediately that my masters have left me a pile of their hideous other-worldly pr0n!

I break into a cold sweat just contemplating watching this stuff. Do I have the courage? I'm still not sure I've fully recovered from seeing Japanese chicks administer eels to their nethers. Dare I expose myself to the buggery from beyond?

Yes! Yes I do!

I get the first tape out of the case. It's not rewound! Oh, the evil I am seeing will not long go unmatched. For the third time this night I hear a “bamf”. It's just a half-bamf though. The ElderGods are not phasing all of the way in this time, but have opened up just a little tear in the space-time continuum. An interdimensional gash hovers above the stack of discs and tapes. A tentacle slips through the portal between worlds. My heart races! Ye Gods! I am helpless before your might! The tip of the tentacle feels around blindly before alighting upon the porn stack. Could it be that it is going to show me what to watch first? A recommendation, oh master?

I feel my heart will burst with anticipation. But then the tentacle wraps around the entire stack like a coil of rope and “bamf”, tentacle and stack are gone. Even the un-rewound tape I had in my hand has disappeared. They took their porn back!

I fear now that I will be driven quite mad, for the urge to see some genuinely Cthulian smut burns fiercely in my soul. Where can I get some? I will not settle for some cheap tentacular JapCrap. I want the DVDA* to be seriously Lovecraftian. You know: Crawling chaos money shot? Non-Euclidian Gang-Bang? The doom that came (and came and came) on Sarnath? The leathery winged chattering of the beaver that dare not speak its name?

Oh sweet mother madness, I shall one day cling to your embrace, but only after I have nailed a NILF**.

—
*Double Vaginal Double Anal

**Nyralathotep that I'd Like to Fuck

The Abyss Also Owes Me Money

I am excited by the prospect of The Elder Gods and as I gaze into the inky night and try feebly to grasp their boundless indifference, I imagine instead that I feel their scorn. Ahh, the ego I have!

I frequently meditate on how various incarnations of Past-Pete would react to snap-shots of the present day and Pete. I like to think his mildly horrified future-shock would rapidly give way to pleasure. And then I'm disturbed from my reverie by an angry phone-call from Future-Pete.

Future-Pete: Hey!

Present-Pete: H-h-hello?

Future-Pete: Enough with all the beer and pizza already! Fucking slob asshole!!

Present-Pete: Sorry!

You know how in The Greatest American Hero The Greatest American Hero gets a suit from space aliens that gives him superpowers to fly around and stuff? This is like that. Sorta. I wanted a space suit so I ordered it from some space aliens on the space internet. I wasn't totally sure what to expect, since in my desperation I was willing to plunk down the dough without ever seeing a photograph.

I was pretty pumped when the box arrived. I opened the crappy brown card-board box to reveal yet another box. The inner box was slick with lamination and bore in promising sans-serif “Put on suit. Go to space”. Dude.

I tore the nice box open and started putting on my stuff. There was a special paint I had to put on my body, especially my face, to protect against the rigors of vacuum and cosmic rays. There were these fucking huge anti-gravity shoes. I was so excited I put them on before my pants and then took them off to put my pants on. Then there was this nasal oxygenator: a cute little sphere you just put on your nose and it gives you all the oxygen you'll need in space. I think it was an oxygen scrubber/rebreather sorta thing that I've read about in sci fi that does some kinda mojo to turn your exhalables into inhalables.

I was impressed with how hi-tech the suit was but a little surprised at how it didn't really conform to my sci fi induced expectations: no fishbowl helmet, no accordion arms, no gigantinormous back-pack. I couldn't wait to admire myself in the mirror so I would know just how fucking cool I would look when I got to space.

I ran over to the room with the full-length mirror and it was all I could do to keep from tripping over my big floppy anti-grav shoes.

Then I saw my reflection.

A clown suit?!?!.

Bah!

The pictures I like.

[] I’ve got a bunch of pictures and I like them a bunch. Some of the subjects are objects and some of the objects are subjects. One has a man and another man. One takes to all fours and the other takes the lead.

[][] Another picture shows silverware in the drawer of a long abandoned house. Reflections between the rusted spots hint at the photographer. Close up a spoon reflects the camera lens which in turn holds another spoon. It’s a different spoon, though, and the point of the manipulation is lost on me.

[][][] One picture is of a gun. One is of a knife. I hold one in each hand with eyes closed and wish for a bayonet.

[][][][] I like a picture with moving parts. Clever folds and creases make a dancing girl wiggle, but image and girl alike get worn.

[][][][][] Another I carry with me all of the time. It's a talkie and shot in the three-dee. Its thick and rich and clear and deep. I wrap it around my head so tight I may never get it back off. Sometimes it makes me choke but then I just relax. And look.

Wake me up when this becomes the newest flavor of fetish porn:

http://www.lesliehall.com/8-sweaters.html

. . . cuz, though I'm aroused, it just ain't, you know, porny enough yet.

But then again, when is it ever porny enough?

Entropy

Balls bounce.
Cookies crumble.
Christopher Robin repeatedly pounds a nail into Eeyore's ass.