“The man who lives this way, doing wrong, the gods destroy. Such a man was Paris. He came the home of the Atreidae, and then abused their hospitality, running off with the wife of his host.” - Aeschylus.
_____
[ERROR]
Note: Analyse. Distinction between a brigand and an adventurer?
<Search> - [NonCompat_Values] = [NullFound].
.::[Imagistic_Sibilance]::. [ERROR]
Am I Paris?
You’ve got to be kinda’ a sick horse to take the kid’s arm off when he feeds you liquorice. That’s all I’ve been doing for months. To the ‘Sesians. All I’ve bloody done. [HYPERBOLE]
Well. Uh.
I’m not being amazing with myself. Looking at the times when the It/that/wore/I, wore flesh, is like looking at at the American Beauty remake. All the glitz and better photography but none of the real. You’ll always be conscious it’s not what you came looking for.
I feel like I’m reverse transgender. My body becomes less mine the longer I live in it.
Funny how we all grow into dementia. Except when it isn't. Now; every time.
———
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
Why do, and when, androids dream of Electric Sheep? [query]
[Response] When they’re imitating bloody people, of course.
Unremarkable, crap people. The kind that kill for a contract. Y’know, enlisted ones.
Hell, it was a path to advancement. Feathered yer’ forehead with as trim a laurel any a woman could wish for.
You’re a regular little Vespasian, you are. Plebby as the come, too, but with the look of the eagles beating through your fallopian.
Now eldritch abomina only gets up in the morning purely to piss on your palladium plated flower beds. Isn’t life fun when you’re weak and feeble, have relatively normal, consistent problems to deal with such as cellular obsolescence?
The joke’s on you; when Allah comes down to rapture the crap out of everything you’re going to be stuck here burning in the wake.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
[statement]They call it a STEM gun. I’m assuming it’s not throwing Science and Technology Education Masterclasses at you till your pancreatic tissue fails.
Beautiful, really. Like how gunpowder started off for fireworks, and then the big, evil, Ming dynastic peacock abused it for siege artillery, or something.
Absolute wonder. Firing these off with prime numbers running through your brain like you’re the synthetic body double computer game action hero version of you your autistic shoulder devil always know you could be, if you’d just get of yer’ arse, lift, and have premarital sex.
Watching men throw up as neutrons displace their construction. Watching their ions slipping over each other. What's the half-life of a human heart? Be romantic and say it's forever?
Under this badboy? How long is a hock of Bullcrap?
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
Tail to head, back again, any one of the legs then reverse it? Maybe eleven if you skin it by the todger? Hell if I know, I’m a bunch of positrons. Most I’ve peeled is pappy’s roasts.
Plenty of ways to skin a human, too, if you’ve got the psychopathy for it. Tried it. Not my cuppa’.
It’s like a wannabe domestic terrorist panda at the all-you-can-eat-bamboo end of semester school disco. You eat, shoot, and leave. Professionalism isn’t getting frenzied and forgetting yourself, it’s being scared enough to rely on those finely honed personality weaponisations all that drill has hammered into you. Instead of crying, you shank the bastard in the gut. Go deep enough and you might give that little incumbi pervert a little intestinal probing of its own, little runt.
Ugh.
Screw me.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)