Rome Wasn't Burnt In A Day

"Grant Morrison's The Invisibles meets Fight Club, with ...a completely unique take on what makes myth tick," said Underground Reviews, and that's exactly what you get with this lean book, no choice but look the void right in the eye. As Nietzsche famously said, "When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you." He knew the storm is coming. The fabric of the self, the fabric of a society, of a culture, of a species, all may reach the point of rupture without recognition. Is that not even more true in the psyche that wishes to distract, to look elsewhere, to numb out the terrible truth, that we live in that void already. It is an absence, the myth of no myths, no meanings.

Which sounds fucking awful, doesn't it?

Who could have predicted it'd be a band on the road that set it all off, the mad Bacchae and their rock apocalypse?

So don't be sad. The party is going to be a blast, drinking and fucking to the edges of oblivion; riding off with Lilith and Ariadne, Dionysus, transexual Jesus and Artemis into that sunset, (because who wants to remain virginal at the end of the world?) They offer polyamory and LSD instead of jealousy and fear, spiritual transformation instead of a 9-5 grind. When they pull into your town and open the door, who in their right mind wouldn't hop aboard? The feds say "these kids have to be crazy to go with 'those people.'"

Machines shouldn't speak for men. You'd have to be crazy not to go.

The joy, the release, at the end of all things is absolute. It's the getting there that's Hell. We must find our way out together, or not at all.

Those who wander through life without knowing who they are: No more. Unlock the Fallen God within your sleeping self. All it takes is the right story. Contact the Order of the Hidden Path, begin your initiation now. There is no time to waste.

-Gabriel De Leon, 2012. OHO, OHP.

Take a mad ride past the event horizon of sanity with the band Babylon, in the final days of the American Empire. First in the psychedelic occult, myth and fairy-tale laced urban fantasy series, the Fallen Cycle.

Party At The World's End

The Leviathan Spirit

10 Minute Prayer School: The Leviathan Spirit from Generals International on Vimeo.

404 Documents, Installment Five: Interrogation.

(Read all 404 Documents)

The interrogation room was nothing special. An office conference room. The ceiling fan whirred slowly overhead and the fluorescent lights flickered, flooding the interior with a dingy and unnaturally greenish yellow hue. The man seated opposite me was husky, forty-something going on seven-hundred, and world-weary. I could tell this from the lines and bags under his eyes, like the rings on the inside of a hewn tree. Those sunken circles made his face seem like that of a raccoon's, which may have been comical in any other setting.

“I’m Agent Trevino,” he said, the tone of his voice doing nothing to dispel my narrative.

The Patients Run The Asylum

FROM FALLEN NATION: PARTY AT THE WORLD'S END

Scritch, scritch, scritch. The night nurse waddles through the hallways of the asylum on those god-awful rubber-soled shoes. Back and forth. I can’t rationally blame her pacing for my insomnia, but I do it all the same.
I feel the walls leering in at me each night as I roll around in my lice-infested bed, my eyelids clenched shut. They will probably look like two desiccated grapes by morning – swollen, sticky, and purple-veined – as I toss back the meds with bitter-tasting water. I just finished counting the blocks again. (There are 551 cinder blocks, 104 and a half floor tiles, and 25 asbestos-dusted ceiling tiles in my room.)
I was atrophying. No sex, terrible food, no music. There is no worse imaginable hell. Bored is bad. Bad for me, and even worse for the staff. I get creative when I get bored. Maybe those who tend the mental health machine are as much slaves as we are. I wouldn’t know, stuck as I am on the inside of the metal-insulated plate glass.
It’s “depressive ideation,” the doctors say, to think about the poisonous PCBs, polluting our bodies’ water by proxy. It is an “obsessive fixation” to mention the soil, leeched of its vital nutrients, leaving us all hollow as dried gourds. Granting dreams equal reality with waking was “magical thinking.” They had a nifty name for everything, and a real obsession with sickness. They saw it everywhere.
These things are just the realities of our lives, if we open our eyes. The lie is grinning talk show hosts, Prozac, the American Dream of normalcy, homogeneity, safety. The natural state of the human animal in troubling times is not happiness. Show me a man grinning in the trenches as the bombs fall, and I will show you a lunatic.
The first couple months, I was sure the story wouldn’t end here. I held out hope. I was, after all, just an overeager, idealistic kid. I thought I could break the cultural brainwash by hopping on a table with a toy gun and scream “You’re free!” Apparently that gets you a twenty-to-life sentence these days.
The terrorists didn’t just fly planes into buildings. Somewhere in that twisted rubble lies the shattered remains of this country’s sense of humor. I admit that the Shahada flag flying behind us in our propaganda video may have given the wrong impression.
Bottom line: ideas don’t count for a whole lot in this world, but on their own, they’re mostly benign. Ideals, on the other hand, get you a special jacket with one sleeve. Ideals get you shot.

I lost that idealism as months turned into a year. Our guerrilla street teams of lunatics – whole lot of good they were to the two of us that got hauled in. And Jesus was lost to us all, wandering endlessly in an inner world of possibility. I envied his Eden, where he was a she and all was as it should be. That wasn’t my dream, but I knew what it was to be consumed by an ideal. It sure beat the hell out of the reality that the doctors were trying to adapt us to. A world that deifies the flat-line of an EKG, a world without moods or personality, a place where stability only equals stagnation and where genocide and rape in the name of National InterestTM is fine, so long as you choke down the meds and ride the neon escalator to zombie-land.
Socrates said, “An unexamined life isn’t worth, living,” didn’t he? Well, a life inside a black box isn’t a life at all. Each day atrophies my soul. And with this goddamned three foot tall Venusian goddess squatting just behind my shoulder? – Cow teats jangling and flapping wetly, her breath sweet like honey and milk with the copper tang of blood – I mean, how can anyone expect to get any rest with that? It’s just not right.
Fuck is it ever hard to get to sleep around here.

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hyperdimensional merovignian bees

Everything is a goddamn crap shoot. We are meaning-making machines, but it’s all a farce. Let me give you an example. It’s a funny story- the story of how I met a rock star or convict-on-the-run, and simultaneously contracted an incurable disease. I know how that sounds, but look. Had nothing to do with “pants off” games, either. They just happened to happen at the same time.

Correlation, causation, right? Not linked. So get your mind out of the gutter.

My mind was, of course, wallowing in the filth as I drifted in and out of sleep, my head rolling into improbably painful positions, my mouth ringed with a thin patina of shame. Or drool. (Same difference). In that meandering state between sleep and dream, nothing is quite real, nothing is quite dream. They call that a liminal state, right?

I was thinking about this one look. It was a look a lover had given me once. They'd reached that point where their restrictions had been peeled off like a layer of paint. Nothing in the world can ever compete with that look of starved depravity, a mixture of pleading, supplication, and oddly, dominance.

I played it again and again in my mind. It had been years, but that one moment remained etched in my memory as if in some indelible marker, as all other times, places and faces were slowly worn away. A clicking, rattling, whirring sound in the cabin snapped me out of that eternal moment. I didn’t know what it was, and for a while I could keep it out of mind. I was replaying those moments, the delicious moments before everything turned to shit. Yet the moment was slowly losing out. I could feel scratchy things, hungry things, scuttling around in the machinery of the bus. It wasn't sexy hungry. It was, rather, cold, empty insect hunger. I could feel them inside there. Lurking. Waiting.

The air started to smell, I don’t know. It just smelled off. A chemical smell, like DMT or magic markers. I gave up. There were no more "eager mouths," or "nubile mounds" or anything like that. Just a beehive buzzing, mechanical bees, razor sharp bees. Growing, choking out the air, blotting out the sun. I opened my eyes.

This was the first I noticed that someone was seated beside me. Kind of weather-worn looking guy, he had a young face but was also covered in a pattern of wrinkles like kidskin.

“Do you smell that?”I asked him.

“Huh? Smell what?” he asked. He seemed distracted by something else, but I was still mostly fixated on the chemical smell and what sounded like Einsturzende Neubauten trapped inside the air ventilation system.

“Nevermind,” I said. I saw a sign drift past. 300 miles to New Orleans. Loooong ride ahead. “So where you from?” I asked.

He got this 1000 mile stare, like a guy that’d been in the trenches too long. “All over,” he said. “I was in Babylon.”



“Hm, the band that’s been in the news?”
"Everyone's dead now," he said, giving me a look I'd never seen.

And that’s about when the hyperdimensional merovignian bees started crawling out of the ventilation system.

Y Transmission

FoolishPeople.Weaponized.Cast012 by agent139

Pennhurst

005 - ref

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