Sunday, August 31, 2008



cast-iron conclusion

A friend of mine bought a set of brass knuckles the other day from a chinese flea marke. I glanced at them, but passed over (poorly constructed die cast zamak pieces of shit). Given that he's a white college student who almost never ventures anywhere more dangerous then the restricted section of the hogwart's library, I asked him what he needed them for. His answer?

"Oh, so I can save somebody's life if I need to."

Wow. Last time I checked, brass knuckles didn't teach you how to do CPR.

But seriously, wrong ideology.

Brass knuckles are for fucking someone's shit up. If you say "I hope I can save a life with mine" then you will never be able to use them to their full potential. You need to say "I want to unpretty a bitch with these". "I want to put you on a permanent soup diet". "I want to abort your jawline".

'nucks are vicious fun for the whole family. Get out there and pulp someone's kidneys today.

If you want to save lives, join Medeciens sans Frontieres. It's on my to-do list, for the record.

I'm a little disappointed in the old 'steel sandwich' standby, though. In recent times I've seen it plastered all over a wide range of scene kid emo faggotry - It's really let himself go. What happaned to the old days, when brass knuckles stood proudly longside blades and zipguns, used to settle stories down on the wes side?

If scene kids want to use brass knuckles as a fashion icon, they have to earn them. I want to see some emo kid slit his wrist with the blunt side of a pair of nucks. When I do, I'll be happy to let him wear the bloodied metal around his neck whenever he wants.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Cleaning up after family gatherings.

You will need:

One bag of cement. One bathtub. One set of butcher's tools and bone saw (Dremel or stryker saw will help a lot, too). One cannulation kit (with trocar, preferably pencil point). One water-jet aspirator. One scalpel. One 44-gallon drum. One rental or stolen car, one large body of water. One empty house. One slaughterhouse rack or similar (the object used to hold up carcasses by hooks). Hydrogen peroxide, caustic soda and dilute hydrochloric acid

First, prepare your victim. Poison, gunshot, ligature strangulation are all favorites of mine, but hell, it's dealer's choice. You should be wearing a synthetic balaclava that covers your entire face, clear plastic rainjacket or japara, showercaps over your shoes, nitrile gloves - That sorta thing. Wrab the body in a large plastic sheet or tarp, use a heatgun to seal the ends, and use a staplegun to further hold them down. Use a rental car under a fake name to transport the body. We want to move it as quickly as possible post mortem, before lividity and settling is established.

Find your house. Take the body to the bathroom and set up as many air condidioners in the room as possible - We want it colddddd in here. Shut the doors and windows, then slit open one end of your corpse ravioli. Put up with the stench. Hang them on the slaughterer's hook by the feet and put the plug into the bathtub. Hook the trocar into their carotid artery, take the other end of the cannulation tube and run that inline to the water jet aspirator. Plug the aspirator into the bathtub faucet and turn the water on.

By creating a hypotonic environment in the fresh blood (when it is suctioned and mixed with the tap water), the net concentration of water is higher outside the cells the inside. As any highschool biology graduate will tell you, a difference in concentration around a cell membrane will cause the higher concentration to move to the lower. Basically, the water is forced into the blood corpuscles. Boom! The cells lyse and breakdown into a sludge free of solid organic matter that could have been used for DNA testing. Next, empty your 500g container of sodium hydroxide (caustic soda, draino crystals) into the bath. This will probably cause the blood to spit, boil and splash so watch out! You should be wearing a mask, showercap, thick gloves and safety goggles anyway when working with blood to prevent cross-contamination. Stir it all with a glass rod or plastic pole, and once it's all dissolved (should take 15-60 minutes) use hydrochloric acid (bought from the pool store or hardware store) and litmus paper to neutralise the muck, then siphon (I'm sure you all know how to do this) it into plastic water jerry cans. Store them in the freezer, making sure to leave room for expansion of the blood as it freezes.

Bring your body down from the hook and lay them in the bathtub. Using good-quality butcher's knives (nothing electric, mechanised or with fancy bits that might get blood caught in) remove the arms. Do this by finding the soft spot under the back of the shoulder (if you hold up your arms, you'll see a large muscle under your arm at the back and a small inwards curve - that's the spot) stabbing the point of a large, sharp carving knife in hard. Push it in as deep as it will go without punching out the other side and lever sharply towards the edge of the blade while dragging the blade out to slice through the tendons. Do the same on the other side, continuing in the cut. Then you should be able to just pull the ball out of the socket.

The same can be done with the knees, initial cut should be done in the direct centre of the back face. Hips are a little trickier, just find the soft spot on each side to the interior of the hard pelvis bone. Then bring the cut around over the top to the outside like an upside-down U and twist the thigh sharply to dislodge the remaining meat while working a serrated knife in deeper with a sawing action. The thigh should come away easily. Finally, take the cleaver and the carving knife. Use the carver to hold back the skin flap on the neck while you slide the cleaver in the slit in the windpipe you made and position it over the spine. Then use the back of the carving knife, or preferably a deadblow mallet to hammer hard on the cleaver and axe the spine in half. The head can then be cut away with the carving knife by tracing the point around the back of the neck like a lino cutter.

When you've done that, you should have two shins and feet, two thighs, one torso, two arms and one head. On the torso, identify the stomach. Take a long, sharp rod about 10mm in diameter and at least 300mm long (if hollow, even better) and force it through the diaphragm, through the stomach, and into the lungs, puncturing all three. I find it easiest to start about two inches above and two inches to the right of the belly button, puncturing vertical with the instrument held at about fifteen degrees to the plane of the body. Wiggle the rod, make sure there's a nice open hole. Take your parts, wash them thoroughly in the hydrogen peroxide and then use the rest of the H2O2 on EVERYTHING you touched - Burn anything you can, e.g clothes gloves etc. Take everything and put it in the plastic drum. Get this to 'your' car. Along with the bag of cement, jugs of frozen blood and another jerry can of water. Procure a boat, 20 footer or so, fibreglass powered sort of thing or a small fishing boat/trawler. Put everything on the boat and head out for international waters. Once you hit IW, mix the cement into the 44-gallon drum on top of the parts and wrap the blood cans in chains/anchors and dump them. Put a few kilometres between you and them. Sit back with a cigar and wait for the cement to finish curing. Then roll it off the side and head for shore. In the absence of having access to a boat or IW, a deep lake or major river/estury will suffice.

If you were an idiot and didn't wear your gloves, wipe the boat down with isopropyl alcohol/H2O2 and burn the wipes or rags afterwards. Scatter the ashes into the water. If you return the car in pristine condition to wherever you rented/nicked it from, chances are they'll never link it to the murder. Just make sure you've chalked out the license plates or stolen another pair from somebody else when driving the stuff around, and obey all traffic rules.

That should do you - Anything else that needs to be improvised to suit your situation should be common sense.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

The Fire and the Steel

You're doing sixty, and you hit a patch of black ice going around a corner. It's eleven at night, and your corolla rolls the corner down into the ravine.

You can smell it, even before the car stops moving.

That sweet, acrid, castor oil and boot polish fragrance - gasoline




f i r e.

Your legs are crushed. Spine seems okay. Your kid brother is in the seat beside you - Well, bits of him. The rest is pooling around your legs, and clinging to your hair.

You didn't know where the screaming was coming from - Maybe it was you, it had started as the rending of metal as the chassis warped and tore. Maybe your kid brother still has lungs. Who knows how long they'll last.

That smell, that sweet death smell is getting hotter. Starting to vape out - Highly volatile, free to move.

You're covered in glittering fragments , like crystal scarab beetles, the hordes that come to carry you along the river styx where they'll quench your red-hot soul, lock tight the austensite lattice of sin and flesh in the dark waters. You know what they are. but the glass still cuts you just the same.

Beside you - The pedestal from the windshield, ripped out, long and jagged like a cockroach's leg with joints and serrated corners, as if you'd used a blunt can opener to trace it, then finished the job with a ball-peel hammer and centre punch

Sorta like how your head feels right now, like there's a little gnome inside ball-peening his way out. You can feel something dripping down your face. It tastes like copper, and once again, you don't know who it belongs to.

You're watching that jagged bit of metal when you see the flickering flare of yellow-red, the smoky curl, that little black finger with the bright yellow fingernail, dragged across mischmetal. Whoomph. The cheap vinyl upholstery shrivels, curls and smokes around you, tasting like salt and old tyres.

It's just out of your grasp. If you reached though, you could probably plunge the edge into your throat, like yake-ire, and let your warmth mingle with the cold, hard steel and the mellow-yellow gasoline fires, in the hope that maybe - Just maybe - You'll bleed out quietly before the fire gets to your toes.

Australia: We Will Motherfucking Eat You

The name "Australia" stems from the latin 'Terra Australia Automobile', meaning "Holy shit it's a lion get in the car". Up until only a few hundred years ago, the sole occupants of the Australian continent were a race of hyper-intelligent ants that had come from space to bring prosperity to earth. They were promptly eaten by niggers coming across a land bridge from Polynesia, who mistook their compact fusion modules for bloated sacks of honey. Following their rapid extinction at the hands of the invading newcomers, came the first white settlers. Riding motorcycles and giant whales, they were mainly criminals from england who had been arrested for not being snobby enough, and sentenced to colonise this new and bountiful land. Most of them are still wondering when the punishment starts.

The cultural landscape of Australia faced a major turning point in 1885 when giant humpback whales were deemed illegal for use in V8 Supercar competitions. The economy, largely built on the export of high-octane nitroblubber, crashed hard. The resulting depression shaped Australia permanently, instilling in them the spirit of mateship, of the hard go, and the eating of rats. It is for this reason that the Australian coat of arms includes the Humpback whale, and at Albany in Western Australia, you can visit a museum built from the last racing whale garage to operate on Australian soil (the notorious offshore whale yards ran illegally for the next decade or so until finally being stamped out).

Settlers in Australia lived a tough life. The primary interests at the time were gold, wool and wheat, so when Doctor Kellogs opened the first wheat mine in Iowa, Australia compensated for the loss in business by developing the gold farm. By careful husbandry of the steel wool-giving 'Ferrino" ram, they were able to breed a sheep with golden fleece. This ushered in a new age of peace and prosperity, until some wog bastards in a little wooden ship came over and nicked it. That simple event sparked a fuse which eventually ignited the famous Cronulla Riots - Remembered by all, and immortalised by the phrase. "We shall fight them on the beaches... With trolley poles and a broken stubbie!"

The flora of Australia consists of wild blackboys, spinifex grass and dirt. Australian fauna comprises over four hundred species of venomous snakes, sixteen hundred venomous arthropods, two venomous mammals, twenty dangerous eagles, two deadly flightless birds and several dozen very, very angry species of assorted mammals with axes to grind. After the rabbit-proof fence was enacted in 1901 to commemorate two hundred years of federation, indigenous 'natives' evolved into the common Australian icon of Kangaroos, in order to bound the fence and the dole-line, and also to better fight with police. Every animal native to australia can and will kill you if you give it a moment's notice. There are many imported species, and luckily, most of them settle for stealing your job and waylaying norwegian cargo ships.

Suffice to say, only the strong survive in Australia. With spiders the size of a small suckling pig, strange mutant beaver-ducks with venomous spines and an ostrich that can disembowel you with velociraptor-like precision, Australian men have adapted to a hitherto-unseen standard of manliness. The path to an Australian primary school is sown with barbed wire, broken glass and old syringes, and unless the children can kill a crocodile with their bare hands, skin it with their teeth and craft a rudimentary pair of boots, they go unschooled, and quickly die. Australian cowboys grew tired of chasing cows on big flat plains, so they let wild stallions loose on mountains and ran their horses up and down eighty degree inclines until the horse caught fire or exploded, as was common with the cheap chinese imported horses they used - This was the origin of the modern 'burn-out', and for some time it was a common sight to see a crowd of young men in leather coats, crowded around a young brumby, hooves and knee joints billowing clouds of smoke as it's rider drove it in tight circles around the woolworth's carpark.

Common pastimes of the Australian public are 'Aussie Rules Football', which is a variant on the French game Rochembeau. Aspiring champions take turns kicking each other in the nuts with scorpions taped to their feet until somebody passes out. A death is considered highly unsporting, and very rude, as it ruins the game for the next guy in line. Rugby is gaining popularity, though it is harder to keep the scorpions on the try line. Australian culturan tourism attractions can be classified into one of three categories: Big rocks (Example: Uluru, Wave Rock), Big holes (great Australian Bight, Limestone Caves of W.A) or ridiculously oversized fruits (E.g The big bannana, Shannon Noll, etc...)

Australian wines are widely respected as some of the best in the world, the recent export vintage 2005 'Cabernet Sauvingoon' of the Barossa valley was highly sought after in the professional racing circuit overseas as an effective antifreeze AND topical cure for athlete's foot.

Surely, with such a rich and varied heritage of bad-assery and fighting for your life on a daily basis, one would expect Australia to soar in future years! Godspeed, Australia! And good luck!

I can't live with myself.

Every time you open your eyes you bounce text off the back of your skull, and it sticks with the same kind of wet thumping noise that you get when you punch a week-dead baby. Then, once there's enough semi-cogitated sputum accumulated there, it all comes crashing down, real Tower of Babel shit, and you rake through the vomit with your fingertips extended like a web spider, searching for the chunks that have glued together coherently, this activated complex soup of thoughts and conceptual diatribe filled with polymerised dumplings of sense.

Be sure to wash your hands after every meal.

Studying neurolinguistics with present human languages as a base is sort of like realigning a maser collimator with a sledgehammer - It's either on, or off. 1 or 0. No divisons. We are hampered like all fuck by the languages we speak. Cogito ergo sum, writing itself is stupid. Trying to explain it is even stupider. Which makes me writing how to explain why explaining writing is so stupid, stupid cubed.

Which basically sums up the majority of human existence - Three dimensions of fucktardedness.

But it's the closest fucking thing we have to a true record of conciousness, as an EEG is nothing more then polygonal, hard-edged and neon coloured spaghetti, some kind of ridiculous raver bolognaise that's completely indecipherable as to what they're actually thinking about, only giving us the faintest of inklings as to which bit of their brain is doing the thinking and how hard they're thinking about it. We have qualitative, but not quantitative. It's the marquis test, not fractional GC/MS.

If it keeps on raining, the levee's going to break.

If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate.

Fuck your precipitation. Fuck the rain. The constant slow drizzle of fucktarded teenagers thinking they're all that.

This constantly-shifting soupy mass of crap, this cesspool of trendsetters and globules of trend-followers adhering madly to the closest particle of enough size to be affected by surface tension.

The trouble with being educated is that it takes a long time; it uses up the better part of your life and when you are finished what you know is that you would have benefited more by going into banking. But then again, I have always preferred being miserably enlightened, to blissfully ignorant. The red pill, in a heartbeat.

I post, and for a moment I find myself amongst friends - People who like what I have written. Then, a shadow of doubt, and people turn. Edits, accusations, questions of integrity. Fuck your integrity. If I write, then I write. If you read, you read. We are nothing but electric pixels played on a screen, bounced particles off a phosphor screen, so who are you to say what is real, true, or living? The electric things have their life too, paltry as those lives are.

Because today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups... So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms. I do not distrust their motives; I distrust their power. They have a lot of it. And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.

An Irishman hears that the banks are failing. He runs into the bank where he keeps his money and demands every cent of it. 'Yes sir,' the teller says politely. 'Do you want it in cash or in the form of a check?' The Irishman replies: 'Well, if you have it, I don't want it. But if you haven't got it, I must have it immediately.'

This illustrates power electric.

The basic tool for the manipulation of reality is the manipulation of words. If you can control the meaning of words, you can control the people who must use the words.

And certainly - I live my life by science, and the basic tenet of science is to ask questions and not to take everything at face value. But there comes a point where you need to recognise the correct path. Persistent and perpetual skepticism doesn't make you a critical thinker, it just makes you a jackass. That is Insanity - to have to construct a picture of one's life, by making inquiries of others.

Fuck your Acid.

Some men breathe through tubes, others through joints. Some men breathe through saxophones, and others breathe through their wife's lungs. Outside... It's America. We can hear it through the thin two-pak walls, dri-rite absorbs loose moisture but not loose hardship. The state of vegas looks down on sodomy, but when you look at their government, it's like a conga line of fancy boys banging each other sideways, all vying for yet another thumb in the pie that is their zoning regulations.

In vegas, he who controls the land, controls the universe. Excuse my herbert-esque diversion there for a moment, because what I really wanted to talk about was the difference between reality and the sub-quantum state of dissonance most people live in.

Here's a handy spotter's guide. If you wake up and can't remember whether or not you did something important the day before, you need to slap yourself out of the fugue we call 'society' as soon as possible.

Wake up. Brush your teeth. Pull on some gumboots and go let alligators loose in the subway. Wash down a handful of pineal glands with a chaser shot of adrenochrome. Let that shit wash your soul clean. Buy a nice little pocket .32 and stick it in the back of your belt when you go for the job interview as an ice-cream truck driver. Kill rabbits, and blame cats.

Break the mold a little. Keep the media on their toes by phoning in anonymous tip-offs and photoshopping politicians into politically demotivating scenarios. Above all - remember your name, and dress to depress.

Causing pain for fun and profit.

With the exception of the lucky bastard who dies in a nuclear flash; every person on the planet dies of one single cause. Cerebral hypoxia. That is the cause of death. The mechanism of death is what induces this - Now, this may be due to cyanide oxyphilia, organophosphate paralysis of the lungs; simple heart failure, exsanguination, or simple gunshot wounds. After you've done it a few times; this bit gets boring; because the ending is predictable. Cerebral hypoxia, every time.

So liven things up a bit while you can. Finish them off precisely and definitively; personally I prefer either ligature strangulation with a loop of fencing wire and a couple of dowels, or intravenous administration of pancuronium bromide, potassium iodide and sodium thiopental... But before you get to that stage, stimulate the nerve endings a bit. Let 'em know they're still alive. If you're interesterd in information from them directly; you don't want to get too enthusiastic - After a certain pain threshold the memory distorts, common sense fails and panic reacions dominate. It's impossible to get a straight answer. In this case, it's as simple as implementing a 'pain proxy' - Loved one or relative, you work on them while the initial subject watches and listens until they're ready to talk.

Highly encouraging results have been achieved with a benzocaine local anaesthetic, and then abriding the skull very carefully with a dremel or similar rotary trepanning tool until the cerebellum has been exposed and adding dropwise liquid nitrogen to specific motor centres.

Similarly; a cauterising microwire probe, threaded into the lymph nodes under the jaw and triggerred elicits a fascinating histamine response which can induce instant allergic reactions; suffocation, sweating, anxiety...

I'm quite partial to an IV bag of sodium lactate, of sufficient concentration; wherein for as long as it is hooked into the subject's mainline they will be in a pronounced state of pure, abject terror. I have seen men rip open their wrists wih their teeth, preferring death to the indescribable fear they were experiencing.

There are more conventional means, such as fibreglass slivers under the fingernails, suspensions of uric acid injected into the joints, carbon dioxide aspirator masks, magnetostriction coils... none of which leave any physical evidence but are thoroughly capable of causing indescribable pain...

Oh, and for those special someones... cultured extract of the australian platypus' crural gland, prepped into a glucose/agar medium...

Killing people is ridiculously fucking easy.

People always claim it takes a certain breed of evil to kill, but it really doesn't. Anybody can do it - You squeeze a trigger half a centimeter more, or plant the accelerator pedal and aim for your ex-wife on the zebra crossing. You swap your elderly mother's pills for placebos, and when her heart gives out, you finish your cigarette before calling an ambulance.

Shit, it's like pringles. After that first one, there's no turning back. You're there for life, or you'll be next. That's the way it goes. When I was a kid, I worked in an abbatoir through highschool. According to my old paysheets, by the eight of seventeen I had killed over twelve thousand steer. These days, I get a lot more cash for killing a lot less dumb animals.

But that first kill? That first snuffing of insignificant but nontheless sentient candle? When you feel the heat from the muzzle flash crease across your brow, and you feel hot powder stipple your hand and the tiny flecks of splashback pitter-patter on your face like a whore spitting - it's like fucking Marilyn monroe without a condom.

I started out with the gov, working in the army. You never realise how much you hate the human race until they're swanning around in your crosshairs and you've got a flag on your shoulder that says you can rape, pillage and murder until you don't think you could get any harder.

Rape is cool too, but it gets boring. The screms are the best bit, but they make it hard to do on a spur-of-the-moment thing. I mean, shit, I could bust into any fucker's house and toss a toaster in the bathtub with him, but you can't just drag a McDonald's employee over the counter, slam her head into the grill and fuck her while the skin peels. Okay, well, you can, but you can't get away with it twice.

Bitch wouldn't put double mustard on my quarter pounder.

Introduce a little anarchy.

One of the most effective forms of civil disobediance is that which cannot be thoroughly proven as deliebrate - Military sabotage is hardly a considered issue when a malfunctioning fuel valve sends an ICBM careening into the ground moments after launch, even if it had been cunningly filed down a day beforehand. The invisible terrorist cannot be lined up against the wall. If a bomb is wired to a car's ignition, then obviously there is an enemy; if public building or a political headquarters is blown up, then there is a political enemy. But if an accident, or a series of accidents, occurs, if equipment merely fails to function, if it appears faulty, especially in a slow fashion, over a period of natural time, with numerous small failures and misfirings- then the victim, whether a person or a party or a country, can never marshal itself to defend itself.

So whilst the clenched fist, the raised molotov, the cocked hammer all lend the image of revolution, and rally the masses - They are all to easy to quash by the city-state, too easy to stampede through the streets with riot shields and automatic weapons, flushing out every dingy apartment block until the resistance is stamped on, steel-toed boots twisting in the dirt on the smouldering cigarette, that single glowing ember of vitality in the concrete jungle.

We need quiet riots. Sabotage. Revolution behind the scenes. A silenced .22 to the back of the skull while the executive gets out of the car. The revolution will come to a silenced world, like a patient etherised upon a table. It will not be quick. It will not be bright and glorious. The revolution will not be televised. It will be one, long, drawn out whimper of industry as gears grind to a halt, fuses burn out and cannot be replaced.

Raise the fist - But do it in the dark. Never let the enemy see the whites of your eyes. The Istigkeit is growing, and it cannot be killed. A dog's day dawns.