The Fall of Human Civilisation

[genteelGunslinger]

That was Fish, here. It was magnificent.

Oh, well, what do you know. I didn't think it was in this thread that he had posted that. WHOOPS!

I would write some more on fedorafreak, but I'm at school at the moment. I think I'll write something small.

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The hatter looked across the ruins of his old home. So many memories. So much lost. He would weep, but his manhood prevented the tears from flowing. He simply sat in silent contemplation.

His house was mostly submerged. The only part that wasn't underwater was the corner of the house that seated the hatch to the Suburban Refuge, and the lonely rock which he had shifted almost a year ago that had stood as it's only barrier, and on which he now sat. What was the point in locks, he had mused years ago, when they can simply be picked or smashed? If one can smash this bolder, they are more than welcome within the halls of the Manhood and Fine Attire. They had earned it enough with that act.

The hatter was posed with the problem of travel over the swampland that had taken his home. He devised that he might be able to create a raft using the scavenged rags of his forgotten ties to tether together his family couch to the fridge, both of which a notoriously buoyant, which made the hatter fear that they had drifted off in the year of flooding.

By sheer luck, his fridge had been caught in the doorframe of his kitchen, and, upon wadding through the sunken house, he had entered through the laundry and found himself in his old haunt. The kitchen had been where he and his son had created masterpieces in confectionery. He had always told his son that you only ever use ingredients you make yourself. Now everyone knew why.

The hatter dislodged the fridge, bringing down half the doorframe with it, and pushed it in a corner where it would be unlikely to drift off. He entered his living room, and wasn't surprised to find that the wall of the house had collapsed, and so the flood had taken everything inside with it. Including his couch. He looked around for any of his prized hat stand. His pride and joy. He could no longer see them.

The hatter trudged up the flight of stairs that lead to his bedroom cautiously. Across from the top of the stairs was the door of his son’s bedroom, and to its left was the door to the outer balcony. Between his son’s door and the stairs to his right was the passage that led to the bathroom and the master bedroom. He had made certain to strip the bathroom long ago, but did not have the time to fully go through the large walk-n cupboard in which he stored his most precious of possessions, and thus, had left much behind. He went down this passage, as time was short, and night appeared to be close.

He had to move fast.
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Gotta go to class. Will be back in a second. Spelling errors can wait.

Edit: Fix'd some typos in this post.

[draconicAlgorithm]

All of you are wonderful, beautiful people. I'll attempt to put something together to contribute to this glorious creation.

[Morhek]

Years in the future...

...but not many.

The blasted heath has lain barren for many years. Ever since the woman who once kept her fortress upon it was stabbed by the THIRD AND FINAL ANTICHRIST. The grass does not grow here, and probably never will. The nearest trees are a few hundred kilometres away, and have grown misshapen, a dark and mangled grove that sprang up as a monument to the great QUEEN who should have tended them.

Today, it has a visitor.

The SERPENT LEARNED JUSTICAR shuffles slowly over the dead earth, his OCCULT ROBES rustling in the slight breeze carrying the stench of death. Light glints beneath his hood, possibly off his shaven head. And in his hand, he carries a BRIEFCASE full of QUESTIONABLE MATERIALS. He pauses for a moment as he comes across a SNAKE curled up on the warn dirt, and reaches into his robes.

A second later the SNAKE becomes AIRBORNE. He proceeds on his way.

He has travelled far on his one-man quest of vengeance. The man who he once considered a friend, the man who would often talk with him of STRANGE FRENCH CUISINE and the nature of MIRACLES must pay. There is blood on his hands that must be paid for, and he shall LAY HIS VENGEANCE upon him. There is a weapon here. And he must find it.

There are a few bricks scattered around, remnants of the once vast mansion that stood here. Nary a wall stands as testament to the QUEEN OF TV, murdered by the SUPREME COURT INJUSTICE. But there is a cave...well, a grotto. Uncovered by the elements, and the hands of a dozen starved orphans, the passage leads down, down into the bowels of the earth. The JUSTICAR nudges aside an orphan corpse as he descends. It is too late to save them. But their vengeance shall come. Oh yes.

The tunnel opens up into a vast cavern, filled with CARS and ROWS OF SEATS. A few broken cameras lay where they were knocked down by the explosion years ago. This was once the secret recording studio of the QUEEN OF TV, meant to be used to spread her message to the last remnants of humanity. She prepared well, but not well enough. Or so it would seem.

There is another object in this cavern. A large four-poster bed, upon it a shadowed figure lays dead but dreaming. The JUSTICAR approaches, eyes wide, and lays his BRIEFCASE beside the huddled and withered form. Clicks as he opens it, the LIGHT filling the cavern. Brighter. Brighter. Even behind his SWEET AS FUCK SHADES he has to squint.

And he hears a voice, echoing through the cave:

"WHAT MORTAL APPROACHES THE QUEEN OF TELEVISION?"

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HOLY MOTHERFUCKIN FUCK!!!

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All of you are wonderful, beautiful people. I'll attempt to put something together to contribute to this glorious creation.

Yessssssss...soon we shall rule the Homestuck forums...everything is proceeding as I have forseen...

[UmbraSicarius]

From the depths of a murky swamp did rise
A horror gaining strength when a child cries
Once a president then a tyrant
Across the great void was he sent
Now he's come and all must fear
The man who made death a career
(lets see if someone knows, just who he is and who are his foes.)

[Morhek]

From the depths of a murky swamp did rise
A horror gaining strength when a child cries
Once a president then a tyrant
Across the great void was he sent
Now he's come and all must fear
The man who made death a career
(lets see if someone knows, just who he is and who are his foes.)

...Lyndon B. Johnson?

So now we have ZombieCyborg George Washington, Vampire Abraham Lincoln, Immortal Theodore Roosevelt fighting EldritchAbomination LBJ?

[UmbraSicarius]

No it is Andrew Jackson

[Morhek]

No it is Andrew Jackson

Oh. Whoops. So it's EldritchAbomination Andrew Jackson vs the Presidential Action Squad.

[genteelGunslinger]

Okay, next part. I feel like this is becoming it's own sort of adventure tale of life shortly after Crocker. I am going to go somewhere with this., I think.

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The hatter entered his bedroom, which used to belong to both him and his unusually silent wife. In fact, he sometimes wondered what she did during the day. She seemed to have a perplexing lack of expression in every moment he had been married to her. In fact, he could not even remember whether she smiled, or even said anything at the ceremony. They probably took her absolute silence as a sign of stunned euphoria, and simply proceeded with the marriage. Looking back, he realised he also didn’t remember when they had decided on having a child. Or even attempting to consummate this child. But if it ever happened. It happened here. The bedroom the two of them made with their love. Even though they seemed never to speak that love.

A book came to mind, but he forgot its name, and what about that book that was so important. So the hatter simply decided to stop this pointless dawdling and get some actual work done. Like locating his ties. And something else to use for the craft. Luckily, the second floor had not fallen in, and the room appeared to be safe and sound. The walls where still cracked, and the plaster flaking from the roof with ever step he made, but the hatter trusted the house he built with his own two hands. With the shear mangrit that he held, he imbedded into its foundations the courage he excelled in every aspect of his being. He put his soul into this house. And now some Alien Conqueror had destroyed it. Destroyed everything he held dear. His marriage, which was fine the last time he left the bunker, which was only about an hour ago, was on the rocks, and his son was without a future. They had been robbed of everything.

He vowed, should he have the opportunity presented to him, to ripe the spine out of every Crocker sympathizer he would happen to come across. Where he intended to go, he might just find them.

The hatter strode across to the cupboard, but halted at the door. His instincts picked up another presence in the room. He could feel tramping feet on the other side of the door. He backed from the door. He was without arms. If there was someone or something on the other side, it might be dangerous. He needed something to bludgeon it to death with.

He walked back out to the hallway and passed his son’s bedroom onto the balcony. He looked down onto what used to be his front lawn. Because of the debris, he could not go through what was left of the front door. Luckily, the tree in front of his house had toppled onto the balcony. He could use it as a ramp down to the lawn. And there stood his Excalibur. Its mighty stance unturned from the earth it was planted firmly into. Its little red arm-swingy-dealy thing or whatever it is called was standing tall. This was a good omen. He had mail.

The journey down was made difficult by the mucus of the swamp that clung to the soggy bark of the tree. His son had never played on the tire swing that he had tied to it. He never will. All that was left of it was a small rotting knot around the thickest part of a limb. It had been carried away long ago. Dropping down into the water once more, the man fought his way over to the mailbox. He opened it and peeked inside. Indeed, there was a letter. He plucked it from its iron cage and opened it with haste. It was a notification of his shipment for a box of shaving cream. The warehouse that once held it was plundered in the aftermath of the worlds end. Some brave soul had delivered this message to inform him of such a catastrophe. He shed a tear for the first time in his life for the shaving cream he would never use.

He composed himself once more, and uprooted the mailbox from its post. It was tougher than he anticipated, as he only managed to snap the makeshift handle in two. Never-the-less, it will serve its purpose.

He made his way back to the bedroom along the tree once more and through the passageway. He put himself into a defensive position besides the door, up along the adjoining wall, and swung it open, holding his mighty weapon at the ready.

There was a shift in the room, and then silence. The hatter peeked around the corner. It was a centaur.

He had heard of such beasts appearing in certain contained areas of the world. All completely white, and many of them completely dangerous. He heard these beasts were relatively friendly, but could reach the size of skyscrapers. This was one was only as small as a mule.

It was grooming its mighty moustache with one of the rusty razors the hatter had left behind. It was doing a piss-poor job, and had removed an entire side of its stache on accident. It was crying.

The man figured it would never be able to impress his friends with such a lack of balanced facial hair. It was a disgrace. The beast didn’t seem frightened of the figure that had stumbled upon its humiliation. It simply heaved itself up and trotted out the door. The man stared at it as it made its way out of the room.

The hatter breathed a sigh of relief. It could have been anything behind that door. A mirebear. A cougerfish. Or some other abomination against nature that no doubt had been created in the sick experimentations of the BatterWitch. Luckily, it was only a pathetic creature such as the centaur that had just left the room.

He continued into the room, and began his search for his ties. Much of what was left had long since degraded and many were ruined with decay. He found, however, a much better replacement. Pants. He had received them from a college of his on his 41st birthday. That was 3 days before the end of the world. An entire crate full of pants. All made of the finest materials. All still in perfect condition. They will do nicely. He was done putting them into a small crate with which he could haul them down the stairs in with ease, when he noticed a small cupboard at the back of the wardrobe. He dropped his crate, and walked over to the cupboard. He thought he could use this in place of the couch, but was unsure if wardrobes floated as well as, say, a refrigerator. He thought that today was the day to find out. But before lifting it from its resting place to trek take it down to the kitchen with, he decided to inspect its contents.

When he opened the wardrobe, he was struck with a dazzling light. He shielded his eyes, but it did little against the intense glare of whatever shone from within the wooden hold. Then the light subsided, and he could finally see what had struck him with such holy light. Before him was a sight more beautiful than he had ever seen.

A pair of the most beautiful pants he had ever seen. They radiated with a holy pantchritude that beamed from its surface. He was awestruck. On the bottom of the cupboard, was a letter. That letter had his name.

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I tried to do this as best as I could. It has taken me about an hour to write up. Enjoy

[Morhek]

Your name is Samuel L. Jackson, Adept Prime of the Cult of Dutton. As a Mage of Rage, you are one BAD MOTHERFUCKER. Except, you know, fighting for the side of good. You guess. Your strife deck is currently set to BLADEKIND, and your QUOTE MODUS contains one BLADE OF SHINING SAPPHIRE, a SUITCASE, a spare pair of SWEET SHADES and a PISTOLKIND SPECIBUS. You have more than a passing interest in WESTERN PHILOSOPHY, a healthy respect for the ENGLISH LANGUAGE, and a phobia of SNAKES, especially on AEROPLANES. You are currently on a mission of vengeance against the AGENT OF EVIL, your old "friend" John Travolta. And you have just awakened the enraged spirit of possibly the second most evil woman on television, the GREAT QUEEN BEE herself.

What do you do?

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Okay, I suck with image editing programs, so if someone could help with assembling an illustration, I'd appreciate it! I have the necessary individual images, I just can't get the transparent background thingy to happen. MSG me if you're able to!

[ashdenej]

[genteelGunslinger]

Excellent work, Ash. They are all brilliant pieces of art.

Actually, do you think anyone could possibly create a banner for the thread? Maybe I should go ask mO for assistance.


By the way. Fish, why did you put Takeshi Kaga in the open post? He isn't evil. He's clearly the mightiest Tv Cooking Show Host to ever live.

[Morhek]

Well, he's on the cover of Time. I guess I know who I'm voting for.

Do they take cash or cheque?

[Morhek]

> STRIFE!

The QUEEN BEE roars in anger before you can even think of ABSCONDING. Not that you ever would have. You've got motherfuckin' business up in here, and shit needs to get transacted. She spreads her arms, lips parted in a cruel grimace, and summons her vast swarms of APIDAEAN ASSISTANTS. The caverns fill with the sound of buzzing.

Your robes protect you from the worst of it, and your hefty MANGRIT attribute deflects the majority of the attacks.

>AGGRESS!

"Well allow me to retort!"

An item drops out of your sylladex - your spare pair of SWEET SHADES crash against the cavern floor, shattering. As if today wasn't bad enough. You wish you'd thought to bring a COUCH SEECIBUS for the occasion - maybe borrow one from the Paladin of Justice. Instead, you draw your BLADE OF SHINING SAPHIRE, and launch yourself at the QUEEN BEE using the Magyyks learned from your benevolent master, the First Son of Skaia.

If there were witnesses, they would sing of the great underworld battle in lore and legend. But none are there to see the great battle between the Mage of Rage and the QUEEN BEE. Your blade swings, cutting through the waves of barbed insects, ploughing a path as if through a black and yellow WINTER FUCKING WONDERLAND.

You let loose another quote. "Enough is enough! I am sick of these MOTHERFUCKING BEES in this MOTHERFUCKING CAVE!"

Your sylladex drops another item, this time caught - your PISTOL SPECIBUS. You equip your trusty VERA, and take aim, lining up your ultimate attack, REVENGE OF MARCELLUS WALLACE.

The bullet fires true. The QUEEN BEE slumps, her winged minions scattering before your wrath. You holster dear sweet VERA, plundered from the corpse of a space pirate who had the misfortune to run into you, and look down upon the vanquished foe.

"Do you still have it?" you ask.

"What?" is the answer you get.

Aw shit, now your blade just popped out. Hell no. You are NOT going through with this schtick. You just shoot her. There is a sigh of air, and you swear you can almost hear her ghost joining the rest of her kind in CHAT SHOW HEAVEN. Good riddance.

You claim your prize. A small pocket book, old, brown and battered, stamped with the mark of the Batterwitch herself.

And then you leave.

[genteelGunslinger]

And now Samuel L. Jackson goes on a 'Book of Eli'esque journey across the country. Soon, he'll be accosted by VAGABOUNDS OF A 'B'ELOW STANDARD ACTING ABILITY. Their leader must, of course, be Tommy Wiseau, who is collecting book in the search of the very one Mr. L. Jackson currently has in his possession, in a hopes to gain favour with the Condesce. He must have an army of tux-wearing hooligans who all have footballkind and spoonkind specibi, and spout lines from 'The Room' where ever possible. They also have Quote Syllabi.

[Morhek]

And now Samuel L. Jackson goes on a 'Book of Eli'esque journey across the country. Soon, he'll be accosted by VAGABOUNDS OF A 'B'ELOW STANDARD ACTING ABILITY. Their leader must, of course, be Tommy Wiseau, who is collecting book in the search of the very one Mr. L. Jackson currently has in his possession, in a hopes to gain favour with the Condesce. He must have an army of tux-wearing hooligans who all have footballkind and spoonkind specibi, and spout lines from 'The Room' where ever possible. They also have Quote Syllabi.

What are you talking about, this is patently obvious, how does something this CANON need explaining? XD

[General-jwj]

An ocean eastwards from the initial point of Imperial First Sighting, resistance against the alien tyrant rose as surely as it did there.

First and foremost amongst the great and famous to uncover the evil of Her Condescension was one Jean Claude Van Damme, master of splits and great philosopher, as well versed in the intricacies of the martial arts as he was in the mysteries of the mind.
He quickly uncovered the subliminal network engineered by Betty Crocker, his transcendent brain functioning in ways no one but him could understand. His initial efforts to warn the populace at large went tragically disregarded, sadly. The speed of his mind meant he had trouble expressing his thoughts coherently, and he was oft regarded as little more than a rambling fool.
Much like Cassandra the prophetess, he had divined the future from the complex pattern of lies and misdirection engineered by the Alien Overlord, but was cursed to never be believed.

His efforts were further hampered by the treacherous underlings she had planted herself into all television networks, in every country. Whether discussing the worrisome rise of the juggalo party in American politics with the infamous political commentator Pascal Vrebos, whose silver tongue plunged Belgium headfirst into the New World Order concocted by the Batterwitch, or while trading words with Arthur, a French talk show presenter who could manipulate the masses with nothing more than a few well placed lines, he always found his warnings laughed away as his usual incomprehensible ramblings or outright dismissed.

Understanding that this world now needed a Universal Soldier more than ever before, he equipped his Footkind specibus and set out across the sea to confront the witch on her own turf.

His duel with Jason Statham, the gatekeeper to the Witch's main imperial propaganda station and mightiest human fighter under her dominion, is said to have lasted two days and two nights and to have shaken the whole foundations of the building, so that it crumbled as if made of dust. It is said that upon inspection of the ruins, Statham was found impaled to a wall, Van Damme's left leg still holding him in place. The rest of his body was never discovered.

The short reprieve from the unceasing mind-altering bombardment, brought in the blood of one of Humanity's most lauded martyrs, was in the end useless. It was however one of the high points of Mankind's feeble struggle against extinction.

[This picture was taken seconds before the fight began by Crockercorp security cameras. It is believed that JCVD's sunglasses were provided by a famous Hollywood movie maker who was sympathetic to his cause. The inattentive bystander in the background was crushed by the initial shockwave resulting from the kick.]

PHEW. Well, if someone had told me I'd one day be writing Homestuck themed JCVD fanfiction on the internet ... Anyway, I hope this isn't too bad for a start. I'm still a little confused as to all this.

[genteelGunslinger]

-kick-

No, this is great. Good work

Edit:

That picture is magnificent. It should be in a museum.

Oh, hey, Harrison Ford!

He's probably too old for this, though. So why not a Time-travelling Harrison Ford!?!

It'll be a callback to Aradia. He'll 'Make her pay'. Whoever she happens to be. Some spider related bitch, no doubt.


By the way, you can take these ideas at your will. I won't do anything with them. They are just sort of...floating bits in my mind.

[General-jwj]

I'll come back for more later tonight. During the night, alongside the epic saga of Jean Claude Van Damme, I also concocted a story of the Batterwitch's meddling with the Metal scene, and the ensuing repercussions. I'm gonna namedrop quite a few bands and songs, while trying to keep this entertaining for everyone, metalheads or not. :]

EDIT : anyone noticed the Dave reference in the caption ?

[genteelGunslinger]

I'll come back for more later tonight. During the night, alongside the epic saga of Jean Claude Van Damme, I also concocted a story of the Batterwitch's meddling with the Metal scene, and the ensuing repercussions. I'm gonna namedrop quite a few bands and songs, while trying to keep this entertaining for everyone, metalheads or not. :]

EDIT : anyone noticed the Dave reference in the caption ?

Ah yes, I did see that. But I didn't at first connect it with Dave. Should of known better.

Dave should hand out shades of awesomeness to all high ranking freedom fighters, and individuals that fight against the Batterwitch, without necessarily being part of the main resistance force.

The ones he past down to Dirk are actually his original pair, and are seen as a symbol of ironic rebellion and bravery. Dirk doesn't realise it, but he wears history.

[ashdenej]

TT: After a while, Fieri started campaigning for public office. He'd never have won, if not for her.
TT: It seemed inevitable.




TT: All too soon, he was being sworn in - and then he was helping her next candidates get a leg up right off the bat.





TT: It came as a shock to the rest of the world.
TT: But why wouldn't it have?
TT: The saturation of their media wasn't nearly as intense, to say the least.

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[Fish]

By the way. Fish, why did you put Takeshi Kaga in the open post? He isn't evil. He's clearly the mightiest Tv Cooking Show Host to ever live.

It had to be done actually I just went through the thread taking any images that were posted in response to that potato.

Kenneth Branagh watched his friends gradually turn to the malignant force. Now, that he had "friends" was certainly debateable, but he commanded the most powerful Shakespeare acting company in the world. Branagh, or "Agh," as he liked to be called, ordered his companions to retreat with him into the wilderness of Northern Idaho to protect their minds. There they would be safe from the seeming plague of a strange apathetic fervor affecting the media.

Unfortunately, they were not as secure as they thought. As they caravanned into the snowy forests, their party was assaulted by roving groups of established conspiracy theorists and libertarians. Agh, of course, appreciated the irony, but he still set scouts ahead of them and posted guards at night. All members of his troupe were of course trained in the use of medieval weaponry as part of their initiation, and many also practiced martial arts, so the bandits were not much danger.

One early morning Agh woke up to a light drizzle and went for a walk. The night watchmen saw him leave, but it was not out of the ordinary for their leader to wander off into the forest to soliloquate. On occasion he even returned with a bear slung over his shoulder and a tale of a hirsute battle.

Perhaps against expectation, Agh didn't quote off Shakespeare at every possible moment. But as he climbed rocky promontory and watched a distant mushroom cloud bloom and slowly drift down again, he thought of one, and spoke it. "What fools these mortals be," he noted, fully grasping the irony of this statement.

But soft! A person had come up behind him. He spun around quickly and jumped back.

"Oh no."

The creature bore his friend's face, but it was distorted by an inhuman snarling grimace.

"Keanu - "

"What have they done to you - "

The creature, its body enlarged by the steroidal applications of Tim Tebow, lunged forward.

As it galloped away, leaving Branagh bleeding on the wet grass, it heard him curse aloud.

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Fuck I don't remember Shakespeare quotes ever.

[Morhek]

No, this is great. Good work

Edit:

That picture is magnificent. It should be in a museum.

Oh, hey, Harrison Ford!

He's probably too old for this, though. So why not a Time-travelling Harrison Ford!?!

It'll be a callback to Aradia. He'll 'Make her pay'. Whoever she happens to be. Some spider related bitch, no doubt.


By the way, you can take these ideas at your will. I won't do anything with them. They are just sort of...floating bits in my mind.

Clearly the resistance must send Harrison Ford back in time with the help of a SMALL BOOK acquired by a SERPENT LEARNED JUSTICAR, to stop Crocker before her rise to power. But the enemy knows all too well what they are doing, and sends a robotic assassin of their own to kill him before he can accomplish his mission...before he's born.

An assassin called...

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Johnny 5

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Except that ole' Ford knows a thing or two about killing tin cans that have no feelings...

[LordHyper]

This is all brilliant. Could someone write something on "bakecrime"? As in, baking a cake that doesn't use anything Betty Crocker related?

And Conan O' Brien just has to be a major player in the rebellion against the Batterwitch.

[General-jwj]

Calle me obsessed. Call me insane. Call me deranged. Call me mediocre.

I care not, for I have achieved my ultimate purpose in this world.

BEHOLD JEAN CLAUDE VANDAMME

(note : try to actually scrounge up an ounce of talent from somewhere)

(EDIT : thanks to Andrew Hussie for posting the full sized Shaggy 2 Dope sprite I based this on in the comidisc thread the other day, and thanks to Ash for asking him to do it in the first place )


EXTRACT FROM METAL HAMMER MAGAZINE - APRIL 2017 EDITION [Propaganda or Counter Propaganda related material will be annotated via brackets inserted within the extract]

Aocuriousbcoincidenceeforythisymonthsonewureleases,rtheatwollegendaryinewecoalitions,nthem"Trident Corps"iands"Garish Skull",treleasertheirenewscollectivesalbums on the same day, April the thirteenth. [this date has been behind numerous Crockercorps related events before. Further analysis is ongoing for possible alien cultural significance]

Forcaequickareminder,shereeareraefewpmembersoofdtheuTridents,csponsoredtbyibakingomogulnBettyhCrockeru:mSlipknot,aSlayer,nAnthraxsandlFiveaFingervDeathePunch. Their new compilation album, entitled "Surrender", contains remixes of various classics. "She is the law" and "Don't Fight 'Em 'Til You Can't" (by Anthrax) , "Ameralien Capitalist" and "Under and Over Water" by FFDP, "World Painted Tyrian" by Slayer and "All Hope is Gone" by Slipknot. [the last song appears to have not been altered. Reasons for this are unknown]

DetailssofltheeGarisheSkullspretaliatorynalbumoarewunknown. Founding Members Metallica, Megadeth, Gojira, Volbeat and Mastodon could not be reached to comment [this has been revealed as a lie : the Betty Crocker employed redaction simply did everything in its power to smother the upcoming release. The album never made it to the record stores]

In a recent interview, Kerry King had this to say about his erstwhile tour comrades "those f*cking pussies can't see the sh*t that's going down. F*cking sponsors are a must now, and Betty Crocker is the best f*cking sponsor we could find. More beer money for the real metalheads."

[further case study, see next file]

That's all for now folks ! I'll continue this metalhead storyline later on. I like it already
In the meantime ... You should totally ... Read between the lines

[genteelGunslinger]

Jeanne Claude Van Damme is awesome as a sprite. But one problem with the CTV footage. He's kicking with his right foot.

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The hatter doffed his new finery, and started at himself in the smashed mirror within the cupboards door. They fitted like a glove. But one that went over ones torso. Perfect. However, he foresaw that there was much work to be done, and he did not want his new pair of pants to become soiled, which would be a tragedy that he would not be able to bear. He pulled out his trusty wallet, and, using the strange technology the Founders had created many years ago for the gentleman of the apocalyptic future, ‘CAPTCHAlogued’ the pants. It is said that the Founder’s themselves had created a wallet that could contain objects of enormous size. However, that was lost along with the last heir to Founder’s wealth, who mysteriously disappear along with his house on the day that the world finally saw its own end. For that reason, the bunker was without leadership, and for that reason, why the hatter was here, scurrying about his home like some dopey lad.

He missed his old friend.

The hatter didn’t have time to read the letter, as it was getting much too dark. He had to move quickly.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous boom, a moo, and the sound of something STRONG lifting off into the air. Part of the house had collapsed. The hatter ran out of his room and looked down into the lounge to find that the beast that had left his bedroom had destroyed the remainder of the front wall of the house, clearing it for a path out, yet allowing the water to more strongly flow out. The water was now sweeping away what had not already been initially taken by the flooding, and the fridge from the kitchen had dislodged itself from its corner and was now once again stuck in the doorframe. It looked to almost be free.

The hatter rushed back into the bedroom, threw the clothing he had into the wardrobe, and, after securing the latch, lifted the wardrobe above his head, and chucked it into his bedroom, taking the doorframe of the cupboard with it. The hatter realised that he had just done something that was beyond normal human capability. Plenty of time to figure that out later, he mused in his mind. Now was a time for action.

After moving the wardrobe the rest of the way into the hall way, he wondered how he was going to get this wardrobe onto the first floor without it floating away.

Inspiration struck him. The toilet. He retrieved the porcelain throne from the bathroom, and tied the wardrobe to the toilet using a few spare pairs of pants. He simply tied each leg to the other pair’s leg, and so forth, until he had a rope of pants. He realised he could of done the same with bed sheets, but that wouldn’t of been original in any way. Using the toilet as an anchor, he threw both into the water that had taken over his beloved living room. The wardrobe floated out towards the large gap in the wall, but was stopped by the weight of the toilet.

The hatter had all he needed for the raft.

It took him another hour, and the sun was almost disappearing behind the horizon when he had finally completed his raft, securing both the fridge and the wardrobe together. He had gathered as many dry blankets as he could so as to sleep through the night with and remain warm on his journey, and packed whatever else he could find.

It occurred to him that he had taken no food with him from the bunker, which was a mistake in hindsight, and he kicked himself of it. He entered the kitchen and checked the cupboard to find that most of it had been scavenged long ago. That is, except for the canned food. Whatever had taken the food clearly lacked any sharp object with which to piece the cans for their contents. The hatter was not lacking in sharp objects. He withdrew his sharpest razor from his wallet, and unsealed the first can in the cupboard. It was mayonnaise.

He had a sudden feeling of democratic pride and hatred against all forms of monarchy and tyranny. He also had a strange hunger for chalk.

Collecting the rest of the tinned food, which held a variety of substances, he placed them all atop of the raft. He picked up the anchor, and pushed the raft out onto what would have been his front lawn. His car had also been lost. He felt nothing for it. It was a terrible car. After finding a good launching area, he stepped out of the mud and water, and looked down at his pants. Saturated. He still had a few spare pairs of pants, which he added to the remaining ‘card’ slots in his wallet. He had close to twenty cards, three of these containing shaving cream, two of these spare shoes, five being his spare hats, another for his razor, and another containing the letters he had collected since the start of his journey to the surface. The rest containing his food supplies and pants. No ties.

He had decided upon his quest when he realised that he had entered this world without proper neck clothing. He must go in search of replacing those long lost ties. He knew that, to find them, he may have to go up against whatever had risen to power in the time during his stay within the Refuge. That he may bear witness to the acts of atrocities that the monsters of the world that had reportedly taken over had committed to the Earth’s people. But he could think of no other option. He must save those ties.

Cutting the rope of the anchor, he set sail down along the swamp land and towards what used to be inland, using the mailbox as a rudimentary oar. At some point, a large river had surrounded the town, and head inland. The speed in which the world had had submerged was astonishing. He now drifted down through the ruins of his home town, which had become a suburban Atlantis. He was probably no further from the truth.

He decided to follow the current, and drift down the river for a while. Eventually, he would go inland, and find the nearest city, from which he might be able to locate his long awaited prize.

But for now, he had done enough mucking about, and so he decided to get some rest, and let the current take his raft, and he with it, off into nowhere.

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I have no idea what will come next. What shall he find in the nearest city? Who has taken over? I wish I knew more about celebrates and their culture before starting this