Emerging from the literary depths, following the consuming voyage through “Harassment Architecture,” I eagerly embarked upon the haunting terrain of “Gothic Violence.” In this eagerly awaited sequel, my anticipation was richly rewarded, for within its pages lie potent and evocative fragments of prose that reverberate with profound resonance. While the quantity may be lesser than its predecessor, the impact remains undiminished, as the narrative unfurls with a potent force, relentlessly piercing the reader’s consciousness.
With trepidation and fascination entwined, I present to you a curated selection of these profound quotationsâa glimpse into the darkened recesses of the human psyche that resound with a disquieting elegance. Brace yourself as you navigate the realms of shadow and light, surrendering to the intoxicating allure of this literary endeavor that defies categorization. “Gothic Violence” may present a different narrative, but fear not, for its incisive incantations penetrate just as deep, leaving an indelible mark upon the reader’s soul.
At the break of six in the morning I’m awoken by a woman wrapped in black wool and living ivy. Her eyes are violent and her breath is heavy with wine. She lays across the length of a velvet corner lounge and cackles towards the foot of my bed. With everything plugged-in and running, we use pre-loaded peer-to-peer programs to pull every ten zombie computers back to one primary computer. That makes one hundred and sixty primaries, all of which control the ten lowers they are assigned to. The day begins again for a second time.
On each device, we fire up a number of programs. First, a batch program that mimics the activity of your typical internet user while running an ad program. This program clicks every single ad it sees, at rapid speed in this case, and each click costs the company money with zero return on investment. Not a single new customer, just a bill paid for space used and what’s counted as engagement. This alone, across the sixteen hundred devices, will cause an estimated dent of two million dollars per day, spanning over all involved businesses. After this, we start another program that automates the creation of free storage accounts and then fills the maximum allowed space with documents tided in federally-observed keywords. Inside, the documents contain nothing but innocuous baking recipes. It’s capable of making and filling both accounts every thirty seconds. On top of this, the contents of each account are then sent to every email on a list of over three point four million “subscribers”, as pulled from public company registries. CEOs, lawyers, real estate agents, financiers, stock brokers, landlords, intellectuals, professors, branch managers, et cetera. The subject line of each is also padded with watchlist keywords but contain none of the actual contraband. Whether it’s opened or not, the sheer number of notifications handed out becomes a rattling experience. If, for some reason, the recipient chooses to open it, the contents trigger a shutdown sequence on each of the various operating systems phones, computers, and tablets. Because this is done through a text code error, it falls into the “technically legal” category. The devices will, on average, take five to ten minutes to fully reboot. When they do, there’s a fifty percent chance that it reboots to the same screen it last showed, causing another shutdown sequence. Again, not illegal. This can brick the device until it must be physically reset by customer service. Much like the aforementioned, another program accomplishes the same task in terms of making and filling storage accounts, but this time loads them with cryptographic, information-dense photos at the highest possible resolution. These too are titled with more trigger words and each is entirely different, generated by a photoshop action with shifting parameters. Also loaded into these is the near-exact scan of a hundred dollar bill most often used by top counterfeiters, though the portrait is replaced with someone smiling in corpse paint. These too are emailed en-masse to the subscriber list. These two create-and-load programs, operating in their most efficient form, launch nearly two million new accounts per day. Because it’s all automated, nobody has to be in the facility for any of this to work. This is true efficiency. Behind all of the main programs is one that correctly automates the work required for those numerous pay-to-survey gift card sites. In theory, it could make up to ten thousand dollars an hour in various payouts. Most of the proceeds go immediately back into the machine. For us, this means more computers, faster internet, increased security. A faster killswitch as well. The remainder is used to pump carefully selected enemy companies and trade options across various platforms. Massive buy orders for shares in devious organizations like meat replacement companies, biotech research facilities, and metal miners. Another program, aptly named Patel One, uses a scattering of convincing but pre-recorded customer service calls from large companies in automated mass-calls made free though shell call-forwarding accounts. “Hello, who am I speaking with? Hi, yes. I’m with so-and-so service provider calling to inform you that we’ve charged your card on file with a minor hundred dollar fee for services rendered. You should see it on your next statement.”
‘When the call-taker inevitably lashes out or questions the charges, the recording waits a moment then replies with something along the lines of: ‘We understand your frustration but this is not the correct department for disputed charges. I will forward you to such."
The line rings for a tone or two then connects to the actual customer service line of the company in question. Whatever happens from here forward is simply bonus points. The program ensures that the call-taker is a customer of said company by way of various public registries. Other unrelated sub-programs and projects include one that has our devices mass-download underplayed free games to dethrone actual top picks. One that simply overloads smaller websites with innocent mass-visitors to crash it, one that uses the previously mentioned storage accounts to comment single sentence anti-government sentiments on every trending video, one that uses every attached computer to vote said comments to the top of the page, one that brute-forces millions of generic follow-bot accounts and unfollows everyone it once followed, one that uses light funds to put inflammatory location filters in major cities, one that asks random companies for free samples, one that fills top multiplayer mobile games with bots to intentionally lose matches, one that changes dates by a single day in Wikipedia articles, one that directs thousands of physical spam letters to a special-ed camp near Monmouth University, one that ships pallets of free LISPS boxes to UPS, one that schedules appointments at primary care offices but never shows up, one that leaks paid internet whore content across thousands of forums and websites, one that finds algorithms on social sites and works in direct opposition to them, one that mines cryptocurrencies with free energy, one that scatters credible threats in slant anagrams. The list goes on.
All of these are surmounted by Mother Magda, our master stroke program. Using all of the above programs and the millions of data points they collect, we are able to predict huge leaps and dives in specific corners of the stock market. A thousand profit in options placed on SPY here, nine thousand profit on a low weed start-up there. It’s so close to insider trading that it’s not. Either way, the money is laundered squeaky clean through your typical routes. Whatever money we can’t get through the pipeline is cleaned by way of an in-house, undisclosed Chinese wholesale arbitrage system. The profits made here are almost exclusively used to keep a crooked and pricey legal team on retainer. We are talking about my lawyer’s lawyer and his entire staff. All extra cash, and there tends to be plenty, is pocketed by everyone involved for personal use. Men have to live, have to eat well, have to stay armed.
The entire facility is disguised as a generic heating and cooling repair shop. Everything inside is attached to a killswitch for the unlikely moment it gets raided by police. All you have to do is call the suicide hotline on the big green phone.
It comes to mind that every human may be capable, extremely capable, and that’s why it hurts to see the many fall short of even average. Capable of what though? Of altering the course of human history for the better? Dramatically said, but yes. Even if the majority of common men were to maintain livestock and know a fraction of something like carpentry, would that not raise the value of commonality? Maybe common would become less of an insult and more of a compliment. Perhaps it would create a world where people always said things like “Thank God for the common man.” And by that, those common men became necessary for good.
Instead, we see that the common man of today is largely expendable, and many times by no fault of his own. He’s masterfully tricked to sit comfortably below the average. He was replaced by the gargoylic claw of the abstract global economy. Cheaper and more nameless labor, a life focused around work, billion dollar smart technology that requires constant human maintenance. If only we had elected an Amish president prior to the Industrial Revolution, I think we may have made it out of the trench.
The world is bountiful and full of solutions that grow on trees or spring up from the dirt. The blueprint was always in our hands. Meeting people who refuse this or ignore the qualities of nature ends in worry. One day I will meet a woman who looks to me as the world does, so constantly impressive in its beauty. A regenerative source of good in every aspect. A woman dancing like the moon on her own lake.
All that defies natural order stands on weak fooling. Either kick the legs out or apply additional pressure. Never in the history of time has an artificial system rivaled the original blueprint, and none ever will.
It feels good to cut firewood and cook your dinner with it. It feels good to run around a field with no roads or power lines in sight. It feels good to tend to goats, and cows, and hens. It feels good to lay in the sun for hours. It feels good to eat when you’re hungry, drink when you’re thirsty, sleep when you’re tired. It feels good to know that your work provides for yourself and your family, not for a faceless organization. These are practices we cannot afford to abandon. Traditional life is heralded not because it is fashionable, but because it works. It is a framework from which all creative and heroic endeavors might spring.
Science and medicine are simpler and more intuitive than we are taught by the powers that be. They overcomplicate and mythologize both so that they are seen as out-of-reach and therefore remain profitable, protected sectors. No sane population would ever trust the purported labcoats of our time. All of their “knowledge” is a scattering of words blindly memorized from a couple books over the course of ten years in school. These are not serious people, but midwits squirting food coloring into beakers or telling people that a cough is fixed with antibiotics. Medical and scientific authority is earned by action and innovation, not by looking at flash cards for a decade. We learn through experimentation, not by sitting through eternal lectures.
Imagine that I’m a baby about eight months into development and for some reason I’ve gained the ability to hear and understand English. I was listening intently for months and somehow figure it out, you know? Anyways, I’m listening and my mom is talking to some doctor about the ways to go about a very late term abortion. It’s an entire production and eventually she and the doctor agree on a date to pull my plug. I have some time to prepare.
I start filing all of my little fingernails into jagged razors. Teeth too, just in case. 1 get a little bored and start filing my toe nails with `cm. It’s a hard task, as everything is very tiny. The abortion day finally arrives. My baby heart is racing. I feel the chill those patient rooms always have. Three, two, one. Like some kind of machine gun I start prison-shivving the inside of my whore mother. I’m hitting anything I can reach, piercing holes like you wouldn’t believe. She’s screaming and the doctor has absolutely no idea what’s going on. I’m blinded by the light of the holes I’ve made. I’m hanging halfway out, grunting, kicking, and stabbing. Fluid going everywhere, sounds like someone is drowning me. The doctor tries to pin me but I cut his wrists and fingers up.
“Draw thy tools. My naked weapon is out!” I shout as more lab coats file in. None respond, only stand in fear. “I said draw thy tools!”
In real life, I wait for women outside the local abortion clinic and shoot them in the parking lot. If I know which car is theirs, I’ll save some trouble and cut their brake lines.
PROCESSIONS OF THE LOST AVALON Almost all extended contact with the normal world now ends in some grand unveiling of how strange you and your choices are. It’s usually avoided when the contact is brief, like ringing up at a store, but anything beyond that may become an embarrassing curtain-pulling ceremony. What do you mean you drink your milk raw? What do you mean you didn’t go to college? What do you mean you haven’t had a job in seven years and you were able to buy land in the middle of nowhere? What do you mean you have eight wives and stare at the sun? If you truly want to make it, you have to go fully into the void. You need to accept that you may not come out the other side. You have to walk so far and so confidently that not a measure could be half. It’s not unlike jumping ship in the middle of the night. You’re diving with empty hands into a dark ocean where you can either sink or swim. You have to make yourself so foreign to the normal world that you’d be a spectacle upon return. Have you heard of that man who was gone for years? He reappeared one day, at the grocery store, in deerskin armor and dried blood. That’s you. Your hair is long and sun-kissed, your eyes are jagged glass refractors, and you smell like a man who’s nearly died but never has. Carts and feet shuffle backwards as you enter. The intercom music hurts your ears. You howl at the burn of florescent lights and leave. It’s another seven years before anyone sees you again. The gap between you and the average man widens. You’ve only come to claim warbrides. If you are instilled with the hatred of wage labor, you and you alone must go so far into the wild that you could never possibly return. Rarely can anyone else do this for you. Maybe you’re lucky enough to get stolen by a pack of wolves. Unlikely though. The middle world sees every outcast as self-exiled. They like to think that every outcast is doing it on purpose, that he needs attention or otherwise. Never a consideration that he was born to be on the outside. Then, when the outcast climbs to the top through outside means, they throw rocks at his feet and shout insults. How dare a man exist outside the system and win. How dare he find different ways to meet better ends. This too is an exile. The cashier race and their boundaries of what’s acceptable are a pitfall for many. No ancient hero, or his soldiers, listened to what the cubicle kind had to say. The pencil pushers and paper shufflers of this world are doomed to remain as such, pressing buttons and passing ill judgement. Pay no mind until it’s time to kill or enslave them.
Don’t get me wrong, it is entirely possible because love is real, but you should examine it thoroughly. There are criteria that reveal women who are suited for marriage. It’s hard to go wrong with a young homeschooled virgin, raised by two parents. No debt, no tattoos, waiting for marriage to leave home. No strange hair dye, no strange clothes, no racy photos or online presence. Reject the bullshit opinions you’ll hear when you say you prefer these things. Reject the excuses you’ll hear from women about why they have those tattoos, why they had sex before marriage, why they thought it was a good idea to move out and go to college. Accept no substitute for the real thing: a woman of actual value. Avoid whores like the plague, a phrase I will use even though viruses are not contagious, but the self-generated cleansing solution to a weak body. If this all sounds hateful to you, you’re due for a natural awakening.