Post by hachiman0 on Sept 14, 2021 12:34:42 GMT -6
“Please. Please, come in. I know the scent of mermaids is wafting its aphrodisiacs upon us, but you must understand that I mean nothing more than a taste of human vinyl. Isolable senses might be the true undoing of all mankind. And Women too because the simple ying cannot complete its form without a proper yang. Like feng shui in the shadows of yesteryear, you must believe in ultimate spatial awareness. But do come in! There’s nothing to fear of me nor my parlor tricks!”
A cautious film crew steps into the cannibalized remains of an army truck decommission in the days Khrushchev’s Cuban crisis. Oddities spin like demented mobiles from this makeshift museum featuring the gallant visage of one Howard Black. Deeper into this sanctum, guided truthfully by the diving spirit of Hachiman, the crew comes about his amuse bouche before some fabled meteor strikes the loam.
“Now, you must be wondering why I have become obsessed with “The Lost”. Simply put, he seems to lack the abundance of guidance I take so wholesome and for complete granted. Oh, such a lovely soul. I imagine if he were to greet us from a pack of Starburst he would watermelon—its gustatory populi!”
His smile deafens his silent observers. Meanwhile—his travelers fearfully entranced and all but incapacitated—Hachiman returns from dingy bedsheets hung like tapestries in his soothsaying best: ragged cloth fashion into a turban with a smoker’s jacket smuggled from the fall of pornographic chivalry.
“Howard Black is a certain strike to the heart. Bruce Lee famously told us to mind the Greeks, spiritually at least, as you obtain your soundest mind, soul and physic. You seem tense. Might I offer some session of acupuncture? Needles find our buried truths whether we surrender them or not. And like the dingo welcomed on unsuspecting farmhouses, Howard Black gets a pass at the common household. He’s the enemy of all that call this sporting venture calls true and tested.
He also has the facial constructs of a masked vigilante without donning the headdress of rapscallions. How? Well, he’s got the gift of gob with a people pleasure between the lips. My words could coat water with caramel and still never sound so impossibly sweet. What makes him an idol… well I did some research.”
That baffled crew mutters behind mics as Hachiman digs into an 50’s era footlocker. He then produces several prints from a what appears to have been from the tourist sites of Tenochtitlan. Idols of Yucatan lore bring a satisfied silver to his otherwise milky eyes.
“Whose got the death whistle this time, Mr. Black? You squashed the sweet potatoes once constituting Jaice Wilds and called it a masterpiece. We’re. Not. Sold. You’re rampant sense of presence under the rising eye of that Obsidian Seer we all pledged our talents under willfully… willfully surrendered as well. But what I bring you is omniscience only the peace of humanity can usher those unwilling to enshrine their souls to this physical world. Not realms harnessed by social media and Italian high fashion. Not even slimy backs off psychedelic can bridle our human need to serve wildly off course.
And why are you trying to escape? I was about to make MREs from Desert Storm. Beef stroganoff you philistines—the good shit! But first I need to get to the ‘good’ part.”
He smiles, nodding and practically pulling the camera operator back into his sunken domain parked woefully under one of the countless bridges lost to bygone eras. And, true to his word, Hachiman began to cook these leftover MREs like a deranged millennial occultist pledging fealty to Julia Childs.
Now that dinner is served at a meeting of spellbound minds, Hachiman offers his prophecy. This process begins with Rick Flair-esque gyrations that suddenly become violent thrashings by the guidance of whatever mystery substances grace his otherwise unseeming “peace pipe” all but one camera grip refused. Dilated and larger in circumference than a dinner plate, Hachiman utters a prediction.
“Howard Black is now set to take over where the sands of Las Vegas could not contain the first class of intrepid travelers, bound only by their code of wrestling. I cringe thinking that anyone is more deserving of the public outcry that he caused last our congress met in its bloody session.
But what is a lost boy without a need to cure his woeful travels. Perhaps he needs more than an ancient pathfinder’s blaze along the endless route of greatness. But what do you see on the path? What tools do you have to blaze your way to the end of the great chasm in the black pyramid’s shadow?
Allow me to show my own, and I won’t charge any more than a nominal consultation fee when you no doubt adopt my coursing methodologies. First, you need a compass. What self-respecting traveler goes with proof of True North when this world rotates us in flawed directions endlessly? Next, your diviner. See, I’ll even be kind enough to calibrate this one to the Earth’s magnetic pulse. Observe!”
They tape him twirling a stick between to meaty hands, as “cosmic distortions in otherwise placid magnetism” draw Hachiman towards a small box. He then lifts the lid, upon which a pile of Dasani® water bottles. He then tosses one to a producer with a cheesy smile.
“All in the wrists! But most of all, Howard Black needs to find something to believe in. I see the veil and scry past where the serpents hide. This snake is not our friend but hero looking to pillage everything on his pathway to providence. Consider ourselves misfortunate because everyone watching your little video today is but one of many acres that he will salt pursuing happiness. Our suffering a passing thought. Untilled until the dawn of the next age, only few warlords will reap the vegetables our hapless numbers grow… so maybe that’s my only reason to derail him now. Stop his monster before it wins our hearts.
That is a tall order… but I accept it on the name of my family, Bishamonten and myself—and my soul too. All of these must coalesce lest I leave this ring for him to profit. That I cannot do and feel whole. I’m so dearly sorry to give this premonition, Howard, but I must destroy your mission before it kisses the very face of our astral deities. Time to for us all to wake up.”
He looks right for a long and uncomfortable silence before breaking that quiet in a raging outburst.
“No Great-grandfather! I will not slay him! Only teach him the righteous path—the path of enlightenment! I may be your demigod of war, but I will not kill this beautiful man! Never again! The God of WAR demands our obedience! And Howard Black shan't be destroyed. Not today...”
The crew sees their chance to escape as the scene fades to black.
A cautious film crew steps into the cannibalized remains of an army truck decommission in the days Khrushchev’s Cuban crisis. Oddities spin like demented mobiles from this makeshift museum featuring the gallant visage of one Howard Black. Deeper into this sanctum, guided truthfully by the diving spirit of Hachiman, the crew comes about his amuse bouche before some fabled meteor strikes the loam.
“Now, you must be wondering why I have become obsessed with “The Lost”. Simply put, he seems to lack the abundance of guidance I take so wholesome and for complete granted. Oh, such a lovely soul. I imagine if he were to greet us from a pack of Starburst he would watermelon—its gustatory populi!”
His smile deafens his silent observers. Meanwhile—his travelers fearfully entranced and all but incapacitated—Hachiman returns from dingy bedsheets hung like tapestries in his soothsaying best: ragged cloth fashion into a turban with a smoker’s jacket smuggled from the fall of pornographic chivalry.
“Howard Black is a certain strike to the heart. Bruce Lee famously told us to mind the Greeks, spiritually at least, as you obtain your soundest mind, soul and physic. You seem tense. Might I offer some session of acupuncture? Needles find our buried truths whether we surrender them or not. And like the dingo welcomed on unsuspecting farmhouses, Howard Black gets a pass at the common household. He’s the enemy of all that call this sporting venture calls true and tested.
He also has the facial constructs of a masked vigilante without donning the headdress of rapscallions. How? Well, he’s got the gift of gob with a people pleasure between the lips. My words could coat water with caramel and still never sound so impossibly sweet. What makes him an idol… well I did some research.”
That baffled crew mutters behind mics as Hachiman digs into an 50’s era footlocker. He then produces several prints from a what appears to have been from the tourist sites of Tenochtitlan. Idols of Yucatan lore bring a satisfied silver to his otherwise milky eyes.
“Whose got the death whistle this time, Mr. Black? You squashed the sweet potatoes once constituting Jaice Wilds and called it a masterpiece. We’re. Not. Sold. You’re rampant sense of presence under the rising eye of that Obsidian Seer we all pledged our talents under willfully… willfully surrendered as well. But what I bring you is omniscience only the peace of humanity can usher those unwilling to enshrine their souls to this physical world. Not realms harnessed by social media and Italian high fashion. Not even slimy backs off psychedelic can bridle our human need to serve wildly off course.
And why are you trying to escape? I was about to make MREs from Desert Storm. Beef stroganoff you philistines—the good shit! But first I need to get to the ‘good’ part.”
He smiles, nodding and practically pulling the camera operator back into his sunken domain parked woefully under one of the countless bridges lost to bygone eras. And, true to his word, Hachiman began to cook these leftover MREs like a deranged millennial occultist pledging fealty to Julia Childs.
Now that dinner is served at a meeting of spellbound minds, Hachiman offers his prophecy. This process begins with Rick Flair-esque gyrations that suddenly become violent thrashings by the guidance of whatever mystery substances grace his otherwise unseeming “peace pipe” all but one camera grip refused. Dilated and larger in circumference than a dinner plate, Hachiman utters a prediction.
“Howard Black is now set to take over where the sands of Las Vegas could not contain the first class of intrepid travelers, bound only by their code of wrestling. I cringe thinking that anyone is more deserving of the public outcry that he caused last our congress met in its bloody session.
But what is a lost boy without a need to cure his woeful travels. Perhaps he needs more than an ancient pathfinder’s blaze along the endless route of greatness. But what do you see on the path? What tools do you have to blaze your way to the end of the great chasm in the black pyramid’s shadow?
Allow me to show my own, and I won’t charge any more than a nominal consultation fee when you no doubt adopt my coursing methodologies. First, you need a compass. What self-respecting traveler goes with proof of True North when this world rotates us in flawed directions endlessly? Next, your diviner. See, I’ll even be kind enough to calibrate this one to the Earth’s magnetic pulse. Observe!”
They tape him twirling a stick between to meaty hands, as “cosmic distortions in otherwise placid magnetism” draw Hachiman towards a small box. He then lifts the lid, upon which a pile of Dasani® water bottles. He then tosses one to a producer with a cheesy smile.
“All in the wrists! But most of all, Howard Black needs to find something to believe in. I see the veil and scry past where the serpents hide. This snake is not our friend but hero looking to pillage everything on his pathway to providence. Consider ourselves misfortunate because everyone watching your little video today is but one of many acres that he will salt pursuing happiness. Our suffering a passing thought. Untilled until the dawn of the next age, only few warlords will reap the vegetables our hapless numbers grow… so maybe that’s my only reason to derail him now. Stop his monster before it wins our hearts.
That is a tall order… but I accept it on the name of my family, Bishamonten and myself—and my soul too. All of these must coalesce lest I leave this ring for him to profit. That I cannot do and feel whole. I’m so dearly sorry to give this premonition, Howard, but I must destroy your mission before it kisses the very face of our astral deities. Time to for us all to wake up.”
He looks right for a long and uncomfortable silence before breaking that quiet in a raging outburst.
“No Great-grandfather! I will not slay him! Only teach him the righteous path—the path of enlightenment! I may be your demigod of war, but I will not kill this beautiful man! Never again! The God of WAR demands our obedience! And Howard Black shan't be destroyed. Not today...”
The crew sees their chance to escape as the scene fades to black.
