? _ ?

foto: jakekeeler.com

hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmming.

The next step. Where? This field is long and vast.
It is ever so green. A lone cottonwood, crabgrass and clover.
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\/\/3 ) [] ^\ 7 N33[) 2 5933I< 1337. 7#15 15 0v2 71/\/\3.
I#v¢k joooooooo & uR 7oooooooooo[)z dooooooooooood..
YR °/d BLUD. BLCK-N-DEADr. /\/\o7#3r 3427# EET U S°°n.

this is just about to happen.

One of the Ends - ForNever

LapVance, LapVance LapVance...

And There Was Nothing Left but a Man and a Woman and an Ocean of Spilling Blood

Sir Cina and ETC, YWFT: The End... The Zine.

.....sayyourwords.........................

Number Twelve

This place is not dead,
but they know our names.

TOO Many Dogs

The Dogs are disgusting. Too many of them, they’re well trained and marching in straight lines. When they want to be sick, they point east to falling AIR-O-PLANES and beg us with sense memory to chase down what we shoot from the sky. I scream at them. We’re Terrorists! Not Cannibals! They shrug and think we’re wasteful.

The Dogs are disgusting. They eat out of the gutter and they’re rude and they don’t care who was there first. I was there first. The man, he was shuffling down the sidewalk, sticking the sharp crusty bread into his face. He was careless, and he cut the corners of his mouth ragged, and he went mad. Roaring, a spot of blood landed on his sandwich. Screaming, it dropped to his shirt. He hated this part of the story, the part where he wasn’t even allowed to eat his fucking sandwich, and he called God terrible names and sent curses and threats rattling skyward. This sandwich was an insult and he threw it back in god’s face.

He wasn’t a scientist, that man, he can’t measure things like where God’s face is or how hard to throw a sandwich in it. It was streaking straight up when faltered twenty feet in. Slowing it stopped, zero point zero acceleration, until gravity took hold and arched it back on to the street, the wind tearing it apart on the way down. The lettuce got free early on and was wafting the slowest, still airborne when the meat splashed in the mud. It was dry, and brittle like a leaf. I checked, he was gone, screaming and bleeding terrible about God, so I got set and judged the angle, waiting. This was going to be delicious.

And the disgusting dog smashed into me, the fucking thing threw a full body check. I skidded through the sludge filling the pocked street, full of sharp unrepaired canyons, my shoulder tearing open and the mud lapping inside. There I was when seven of them, sprinting in rhythm, clobbered me on their way to the rest of the sandwich. The body-tackler was already choking down my lettuce. After a quick vote, some show of paws, they carved it in perfect sevenths with their sharp claws and neatly swallowed. I hate those dogs and I’m not the only one.

<+> <=>
There are towns, outside the fence, where the dogs aren’t so well protected. There, they have canvasses painted with marbled street scenes, detailed down to strings of black ants and beetles glued on for authenticity, then laid over the deeper divots. Our city dogs are not so stupid, they would deftly pluck the delicious wasted bugs off the tarp let some idiot human fall in, but these are stupid, poorly trained country dogs who hobble through, ragged, halfbred and hungry, and who fall in and cry.

The townspeople are wicked. The crying doesn’t make their hearts sing with compassion, to let the poor dogs out. Instead they grab longer pikes with joy and stab the squealing mongrels from the pit. A grimace, a laugh at the poor weeping dogs, then they lit them on fire and…

And you don’t try that here, where the thugs have class and weapons, strict orders and War College encyclopedias horded away. The problem is not dogs because dogs are forever and infinite. It is your hope for no dogs, for a free lunch, for more besides to hope at. STOP looking to the sky for manna of dried up lettuce to drop, SUBMIT to the animal hordes, because you hope for a second and your shoulders ache, and your shirts rupture, the sandwich rips your throat open, your guts hang at your knees and you go mad. You laugh in the face of a dead dog and let him soak in oil until he’s stuck back on his pole, and lit on fight, to send a message, to light the corner by the depot and keep your storefronts free of hooligans for one, two nights at best. It all depends on how long you soak him, or on how hard you can hope.

EMPEEZ BEARD WAS FUTURISTIC AND HUGE.

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...

Hanging half-houses, split down the middle, resting in the air among the twigs and
tops of tree.
Blue skies. Blue Buildings. Black Ice.
But its summer or spring or some sort of in between. More steps to the beach.
A proposal of sorts. Nostalgic Barbs. Shared Pasts.

Micheal Bay-Mean Beep-Small Print Paranoia.

The Saint. Spoke two us. Faces in the text.

Q: What are we trying to say?

Q: Where do these things exist?

These and numerous others were postulated by men long dead and decomposed.
Brainful Zombies. Sellers of Hoplessness. Full of Mind Fuckery.
The paper said "leave these questions be" and mother said "come home to me"
The old dying man marked it on his calendar.
He was no Kurdt Loader.

Save Yourselves... Save Our Souls

Immoral Axe of Self Indulgence
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The End Is Nye - Maddy Omega.
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Chopping Off The Head That Feeds You

Bukefelos/Plant Beasts
Maidens of teh Mask/HLHL Happy Puppy: Toile and Soil
Skull/Skull

- 3xS+L=False, $$$=Awesome: Screenprinted scarves save lives. No, they don't. Consumerism does.
- Flip these images for fun that defies polar allegiance.

Everything Happened at Once

_a recap_

THIRSTY
REGIT REPAP pink hats scream REPENT in the mirror. Conned-In soon questions intention - we sit in wordless awe of how little we know. Stutter in response... survival... ummm.... whatever. Rely on these compulsions, trust in reaping... and sewing. BOMBS - POST SMALL/STONE punkrock DOC., then, travel to MORBIUS (palms thirsting plasma) releasing EPs. Certain Frustration or Probable Blood Pressure or Parent's Over Shoulder. Yes. White Vans and epic rap music.

F'REAL
WorkForThem until you don't. Work For Me into the night. T-Juiced... KILL YOURSELF, FATAL, CROSS (stand on your head for that one), CROSS STITCH (on yer head again), and yes, BLOOD LUST (suffering from 6 hour layovers days later). The Enabler - Dentist Spawn - granted (Francis Ford) Copius quantities of high life: results in the annihilation of Mexican suckersx30or40. The darkest of lights illuminate cakes and beads and flowers to our delight. Stand upon these kegs and drain them with a mighty swallow. Count to twenty 1 or 2 or 5 and stomp until your boots crumble. walk home (surely).

SADDER(est)
Awake to the PM. Stacks of Wack(s). More of the dark light and weddings and the glow-y rods and jazzy-flashing crotch goodness. CHEERZZZZZ. Thanks to Mel and DM2X. image source... Doom Field(s) / Wolf Pack(s) / Cake tower - BFF x 1Third = Jess unless... no.... of course. The Shit Children paid and traveled to witness the wretched crowds of Teh Trock ("Those are T's. Really. OMG."). Painful, but thankyou friends. Drown the crowds with bleak scrawlings dripping downt the chest. REPENT - again. yes.

Lush.Hype(r): Ceremonial Undertakers, Till-Toil Death Do Us Part, and we will do so in a timely fashion. I loathe you... Dearly Beloved. Dreary drawling darlings may we dawn this gloom as wife and groom. Dressed in black and glowing bile palely veiled defiled vile mine is yours through tribs and trial. Unbridled Hate. Finally together for never forever.

The WIVE$ grant us sanctuary - post A-troc-alypse (never again). We laughed and spoke and bathed in fire; oak burns slow. James Brown wants to rock a tramp stamp. I can support that.

SONNED Aye.
Centrifugal force defies 55. Looooop(s). Wojak gets warpainted to appease a small terror. Colt Masta Kill commands all despite his size. A leader indeed. Mud Kayaks and a leprechaun's sword. VanLagerHagaBinsBurgenismology is a big word. Holy Crap! this guy crashed his bike into a tree, bounced his head off a stump not 10 feet away. The Forrest spirit helped him up. Fuuuuuhhhh... mind blowing. Shoulda taken his picture. So Tired. Over to the largest continent with a "Z" More Fish Rapped Raw... cuz FYBS loves to satiate such indulgence.

"a bleak outlook on the future"

photo credit: JAWZ

earsick,

so this is what I'm thinking. for this future psciencefictionpsycedelic tipple nipple ripple.

set-ups:

(A) story - place take full of cake in a neofuturistic sinvironment. the rules
(THERE ARE NO RULES)
of the masters of the universal law
universe should be pretty pretty pinkish. oh, so not to work
the narrative into any old cobweebled corners.
i guess-guess what? for directional similarities you could make a closet
and fill it with holy clothes or robes.
connection of the worlds. ours and the other ours.

the main protagonist is an assassin/mercenary/gopher golden shower
for various variables. [he was never to be seen again - ed.]
organizations and mega-conglomerates and corporate output modules.
------------------------
------------------------------------------------ things are
bleak ---------------------------------------------------
-----------. ------------ to keep the government supplied air out
------------ this "pharmaceutical air" keeps the general population
sedated. ------------------------------- Fontleroy, either first or
last.

things ---- ------ -- ---------:

mutated toxic waste behemoths
apocalyptic military regimes
rivals
massive ship crashes (like speed 2 where that boat crashes for like 30
minutes, unreal.)
-------- navigation of megacities
Kool Keithish/Doctor Octagonal

so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, i don't know what you think. I was thinking this could be
sort of an ongoing book until it's finished and then maybe hand bound
hardcover or some zine shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. I've got a sketchbook i've been working in on above around.
and we could just hand it back and forth until we populate this
universe with some elaborate world weaving.

I'm also not opposed to handing it off to other people and having them
make little one-shot type vignettes that fit in somewhere in the
fictional world. this would also open an option of overlapping
characters and fresh storylines. fresh storylinez? WTF!?!

storylines and characters
gonzo/beat

i gotta throw some light now. you around this weekend?

.....

Heir-on,

I hear what you speak, and am filled with pleasing sensations...

I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak

I am presently at the Cafetto's coffee hole utilizing the "wi-fi," ya'
know what I speak?
know what I speak?
know what I speak?
know what I speak?
know what I speak?

I will be in MPLS from this moment until sometime mid-next week. This
should give ample time for you and I to converge and start this epic
adventure off...
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.

I forsee cheap beer and a nug or two in our near future...
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near

I do not have your #, so hit me up...
free of obligations at I'm free of the day... and night.
free most hours
free most hours
free most hours
free most hours

xxx. xxx. xxxx.

ETC...

.....

how does sunday afternoon or monday late afternoon sound for cervezas
y mota verde? que? mesa agua, amigo.

I have your number and will give you a call. before then if i hear nothing.

wird is bond.
aa

.....

Sunday?

Wird.

ETC...

and for future reference...
whats yo digits?

.....

church it up then.
R.I.P.
R.I.P.
R.I.P.
R.I.P.

XXXXXXXXXX

*this information has been chapped chopped fucked and screwed. KTHNXBAI! -Tubs