Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Deviant Core Member The Wisdom of The CouncilMale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 5 Years
8 Month Core Membership:
Given by Chronorin
Statistics 302 Deviations 51 Comments 11,058 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Favourites

Friends

:iconbt011010: :iconwritten-in-black:

Visitors

Activity


The Council of Gandalf is currently in deep meditation within the Wild Woods of Eregion.  Much work remains to be done this year.
The Scrotecratic Dialogues III: The Circle of Learned Men

I: Feminist Freakquency


My friend, your ignorance on this issue is understandable but tragic nonetheless.  When most people hear the word "feminism," they naively think that the word means what it once did -- equality, fairness, social progress, a benevolent antidote to the entrenched oppression of yesteryear.  But let me assure you, these are not the goals that modern 21st-century feminists pursue.  You don't know this because their ideas have not yet entered the realm of mainstream political thought, but I assure you they are gaining acceptance among influential figures at a rapid pace.  (As we've seen with Objectivism, our oligarchal class can totally embrace an ideology as the common people remain entirely oblivious to it.)  Modern feminism is doing exactly that; gradually building up adherents among the powerful, ensuring that it will reshape society in unfathomable ways in the decades to come.  Look, I've studied this extensively.  If you ever have the time I recommend that you read for yourself the sacred texts of feminism; not just the foundational works of Steinem, Friedan, Paglia, and Brownmiller, but also the newer and significantly more radical works of Andrea Dworkin, Deborah Hargrove, and Maxine Frinch.  Only then will you be able to glimpse the world they want to build...

...imagine, a world stripped of the so-called patriarchy and all concepts of heteronormativity.  A world of egalitarian equality, you might presume?  Such rigid homeostasis is impossible; nature abhors a void and in the absence of male hegemony, female hegemony will necessarily fill it.  This is a world where God is thought of as female, a world where the vast majority of political, economic, and social power is held by women.  Implausible, you say?  Hardly.  You only have to look at the current dominance of women in the office and in universities and the emasculation of the male in pop culture to see the emergent trend.  As women gain true financial and sexual equity, they begin to favor their female offspring over their male ones; increased personal control over reproduction is leading to a scenario whereby girls outnumber boys by significant margins.  Socially, normal male behaviors will be even more pathologized than they are now, until the male essence becomes utterly secondary, peripheral to the central cultural conversation, just as the female essence once was.

Again, I ask you to imagine this world and imagine the life of an average male who lives in it.  He wakes up and has no job to occupy his hours; technological advancement has rendered him needless.  Women maintain the automated economy, they outnumber men ten-to-one, and regard us as little more than pets and breeding partners.  The man has little else to do but work out to enhance his attractiveness and please his female masters, who share their males slaves amongst them.  That is what we shall be -- slaves, passed among women like mindless studs, with little purpose apart from endlessly performing the sexual act to satisfy the dominant females and provide genetic diversity for the population, and also watching, helplessly, as these dominant females engage in all manner of gleeful intercourse with one another.

Now that you know this, you can see why we must join with the radical feminists and help them to achieve this glorious future.  Oh, yes.  We must join them.  

.
.

II: The Issue of Allocation

You know what really pisses me off?  Grocery stores.  The very concept of them.  

Every time I go inside one, which is rare, I think to myself... really?  This is your primary mode of disbursing your food resources, civilization?  To pile them up haphazardly in a vast room, in piles and aisles, stacked on shelves and such, where they await the steady flow of needy citizens who mill about and paw at them, claiming those which they fancy and those they have enough currency to obtain?  And these goods, these goods you disburse, many are not even healthy.  The companies that produce them alter them by adding fillers, sweeteners, puffing them up with air and diluting them with water, in an elaborate ruse to wheedle as much currency from the starving drones as they are able to.  Pepsi.  Corn Pops.  Cool Ranch Doritos.  Microwaveable rice with sodium paste.  Dessicated fish holes and chicken brain purees, shaved cow horn, jellied yak testicles, Choco-Tacos, vanilla lard pie, Neptune salad, and frosted doughnuts containing sawdust and roach parts... all of it is vile to me.

I partake of none of it save cantaloupe, broccoli stalks, and certain types of apples.  This is the diet of the wise.

Also, I sometimes steal the occasional grape, white seedless usually, if I feel my central crystal core beginning to drain.  Oh yes.

Stores.  Bah.  I can think of so many other ways to distribute critical resources, I can think of at least half a dozen superior ways... but they might involve more pulleys and pneumatic tubes than you have the stomach for, society.

.
.


III: Taste of this Swag

Whenever I see the President meeting with other world leaders, I always think... you know, we need to establish a new sort of official wardrobe for his office.  I'm tired of seeing these foreign tinpot dictators strut about in their finery while our man looks like just another regular bum in a gray suit.  It's not right, damnit.  What do I propose?  Well, his suit should be a bit more regal -- perhaps something jet-black, double-breasted, tailored from the finest Italian cotton, accentuated with epaulets and a sash.  Maybe even go so far as a cape on certain occasions.

Now, obviously he needs something regal on his head.  A phallic hat?  Clearly not.  A crown?  Not so much a crown, but an elegant coronet, something light and streamlined, made of platinum or silver, adorned with sweeping eagle-wing ornaments.  I would use the iconic crown of Gondor as a starting point and then modernize it.

Speaking of which, let's talk scepters.  The scepter has long been an antiquated thing, purely ceremonial... but my research suggests that they once served a real function, that of providing a monarch with a convenient striking implement to chastise recalcitrant subjects.  That purpose is outdated, but I believe a scepter can still be very useful -- why yes, you've already guessed it -- create a modern scepter that is in reality an electronics device, containing a cel phone, GPS locator, calendar, all of that.  The finial of the scepter would pop open to reveal a small screen that has... well, anything that the new Apple Watch has, and perhaps even more.  The Apple Corporation would be the best choice to design this thing, would you not say?  I'm sure they'd enjoy the prestige of creating a singular gadget that would be used by one person only, under pain of death.  

I have other ideas, but you get the gist.  The important thing is that we get this in motion as soon as possible, because I want my man Obeezie to have a little taste of this swag before the next honkyass buttfuck clown takes over.  Scott Walker must never taste the swag.

.
.

IV: The Holy Ones

Okay, let me tell you something.  Years ago, when I was working for the Company, I spent a few years in Nepal and Bhutan.  During that time I had to visit that famous Mundungu Temple which the Taoists consider the holiest place on earth.  Gandhi made a pilgrimage there, I believe, and it's a sort of mecca for hippie college kids the world over because it's beyond the reach of the typical lazy Western tourist.  But the ones who make it there tend to rave about it.  They say the Monks of Mundungu are the wisest and holiest people on earth, that they feel some sort of sense of infinite peace radiating from the place, and that when they return to America they are overcome by its selfishness and materialism and yearn to return to the Temple...

...well, let me tell you what I found when I went there.  A drab stone building in the steaming jungle, two miles from the shittiest third-world slum village you could imagine.  Inside, the Monks spend their entire lives doing essentially nothing, just lazing about and "meditating" in their own filth, supported by the scraps of their society.  As I entered the dim and moldy inner sanctum the stench of dried feces was overwhelming.  The monk who was my guide had likely never bathed in his life, and I recoiled from the fleas and other parasites that I could see feasting on his blistered, oily skin.  I was forced by custom to sit with these pestilent mystics in a circle as they moaned and muttered their gibberish, and afterwards, I was again sickened as they scooped some curdled milk from a clay vat and began to slurp it greedily.  I witnessed rats and cockroaches climbing in and out of the vat at their leisure, grown fat on the spoiled sludge.  I located the head monk (no matter how many times I heard his name, it just sounded like "Nankoo Radoldo" to me)  and when I asked why they did not take more care to prevent the vermin from contaminating their food, he immediately squealed and stomped his feet in a little angry-dance and glared at me as if I had proposed something unspeakable.  "As part of the Way of Mundungu, we do NOT interfere with any creature living, in any way" he croaked, "for such is the path to worldliness and evil, oh yes!" As he spoke, I saw his brown, rotting teeth moving about loosely in his blackened gums, and from beneath each tooth a yellowish pus, like congealed mayonnaise, leaked in a disgusting fashion.  In fact, his entire jaw seemed to lurch about in his head.  The infection was so severe that his cartilage had totally degraded, leaving his mandibular bones floating free in his dissolving skull.  At one point his remaining teeth clacked together and the impact launched a dollop of pus into the air, and it arced towards my left eyeball.  I was able to swat it out of the air with my quick reflexes.  But there was little I could do about the stench of the place.  I left as soon as I was allowed, and watched with relief from the back of the Jeep as the hellish place was slowly swallowed by the greenery.

....so if you're really planning to vote for a Democrat, you should know that this is the world they want for all of us.

For all of us.

.
.

V: Point of Critique

Why yes, I did read it.  Do you want my honest opinion?  It needs work.  You're very much on the right track, you have a lot of clever dialogue and some very magnificent scenes, but... they're all in service of a typical Hero's Journey plot, which we've all grown tired of, I think.  It's boilerplate Joseph Campbell and it reduces all your inventive details into something flat and banal.  Do you want my advice?  Let me email you a few articles once I get back to my office.  There are other basic forms for a narrative of this sort that I feel you could use to create something truly beautiful.  For example, I'm particularly fond of the Revanche Outline, which you've no doubt seen in recent masterpieces like Dillashaw and The Little Rohingya, and also in some unimpeachable genre work like Elmo Gnaewick.  Revanche's essential theory is that the structure of a story is satisfying when it mirrors our subconscious development from birth to death.... its breaks the narrative into five interlocking "prime struggles" that offer the writer a perfect stage for his drama.  The first prime struggle is against a sibling figure, either an older oppressor or younger usurper; the second struggle is against the parental figure, which starts as benevolent but then turns authoritative once the sibling has been overcome; the protagonist then matures and faces the sexual opponent, a contrapositive figure that stands in contrast to their inherited values, whom they must either conquer, reconcile with, or incorporate into themselves.  The fourth prime struggle is against the Universe/Society, in which the protagonist finds their previous victories turned against them, their wishes denied by the ironic nature of reality itself.  This leads into the fifth struggle, the struggle against the Self, which can be the betrayal of the body by old age, the onset of insanity, or simply the reveal of one's true motives to oneself.  After these five struggles, the protagonist must be put to rest, having their life fully defined in a realistically heroic, non-cliched manner.  Given to episodic results?  Hardly.  The flexibility of this paradigm allows each artist to interweave the five prime struggles in an overlapping and nonlinear fashion, usually giving special emphasis to no more than two of them.  Three, at most.

Think it over carefully, because I believe utilizing this tool would help you forge a far, far better spine for your story than the one it has now.  And yes, I know that we're talking about a gritty reboot of Gomer Pyle here, and that the standards of the studio are not necessarily the same as ours; but as my student, I expect you to provide them with nothing but the utmost quality.  Else what are we doing this for?

.
.

VI: More than meets the Eye

Hey, dude.  You're my best friend, so I've decided that i want to tell you this... before I tell my brother, or anyone else in my family.

Okay, deep breath.  

I'm coming out as trans.

Yes, that's right.  I've lived my entire existence as a Transformer trapped in a man's body.  Realizing this and accepting it has been a lifelong journey for me.  It began, as you might expect, around 1986 when the animated Transformers movie was in theaters.  I saw it, like most boys our age.  But unlike most, I saw the robots battling there onscreen and I knew, I knew that's what I was on the inside.  The true me is a twenty-five foot tall, 75-ton metallic colossus, capable of turning into a vehicle, that must ingest Energon to function.  I feel a powerful sense of dysmorphia every time I get in my car to go to work; I should not be in a car, my mind screams, I should BE a car -- or a jet, preferably, since I really do identify more with the Decepticon side of things.  I might have a human body, but that is not me.  It's taken society a long time to come to terms with this reality, but we're finally at that point.

I know this must be confusing for you.  You've heard me badmouth and rail against the new Michael Bay films, right?  Many times.  I said horrible things.  The truth... the truth is that my seeming hatred of these films was a jealous reaction on my part.  I saw the mighty Transformers portrayed more realistically than ever, and I felt helpless and bitter that I was not one of them.  I was lashing out, some last resentful, jealous part of me that was still adjusting to the truth.  Needless to say, after mocking them, I bought them all, watched them many times, often while masturbating to excess.

Sadly, medical science is not yet at the point where it can help me transition as it does with those suffering from gender issues.  But I've reached out to many others in the trans-former community, and we keep each other abreast of the latest cybernetics research.  And we pray that someday, there will be a way, a way for us to become whole.

.
.

VII: The Perfection

Ah, I remember well the day it began.  The lot of us were holding forth at the estate of Lord Cockram, we were sampling some spirits from his inexhaustible cellar and enjoying the chill of the approaching autumn and the twilight view of his gardens.  There were the usual six of us that night -- myself, Lord Cockram, Old Sir Golm, the clever Dr. Prunnett, William Charles, Esq., and the infamous young Ludimere Bryerhoff, the most recent addition to our informal salon.  We spoke of course of the affairs of the day, mostly concerning the inanity of Parliament and the prospects of the upcoming financial season.  But then as often happens when the liquor begins to kick, the talk turned to the fairer sex.  I noted once again the peculiar nature of our mixed company -- three of us were still young stallions always on the fox-hunt as it were, while the other three were hoary old elders, long married, and decades removed from the sport of wetting one's todger in whatever passed by.  It was a strange fellowship, true, but beneficial to all concerned.

And so we spoke, comparing the virtues and vices of the ladies we knew, as gentlemen do when none are around.  Our talk grew more and more frivolous, whereupon a fascinating concept began to emerge, prodded on mostly by young Ludimere Bryerhoff.

"...exactly, it is indeed a cruel bargain we face," I heard him say to Old Golm, "to have to choose between the two."

"What do you mean?" the elder inquired.

"Well, let's just look around at the choices.  Take, as a pure hypothetical, the natures of the women in our immediate environs.  We have Althaea, our gracious host's own daughter, and her maid, Tansy, who is descended from gypsys, Spaniards, and the like."

Here Lord Cockram furrowed his brow at the mention of his singular feminine issue, as one presumably would.

"...Althea, of course, is the very model of a well-bred English female.  Educated, demure, pious, well-versed in the womanly arts, and unfailingly attendant to the needs of men.  A fine wife for any man she would be.  But -- and be honest -- which one would you rather fornicate with?  Pale, polite, and scrawny Althaea, or the wild-eyed, voluptuous Tansy, vixen that she is?"

"Watch yourself, lad..." Cockram muttered through gritted teeth.

"Now, now, remember the Rule," Dr. Prunnett chuckled, (referring to our personal tradition that no topic was ever to be considered off-limits, and that none should take personal offense at any idea aired in the spirit of honest inquisition and debate.)

"...quite, and I beg the Lord's forgiveness.  But can you not accede my point?  When it comes to pure animal lust, the shapely maid is more desirable, despite the fact that she is brash, unlettered, and impudent?  Or perhaps because she is so?"

The circle of men slowly nodded in assent.

Bryerhoff continued, "So what a devil of a choice it is, when marrying!  So often, females fall into one category or the other; the virtuous and dull vs. the wanton and thrilling.  Most men choose to marry the former and rut in secret with the latter, it would seem?"

Some guilty looks in the circle at this, save for Dr. Prunnett, whom we all knew to be unfailingly pure and honest in all his affairs.

"The cause of this, of course, can be found in the emerging science of genetics.  You lot really should take the advice of the doctor and myself, and obtain copies of the new works by Mendel and Darwin.  Their research into the physical aspects of inherited traits is revolutionary, and will shape the entire world from here on out."

"Darwin, you say?  I've overheard the gist of his work, and its the common consensus in the University that he seeks, through this radical theories, to dethrone the Almighty Himself, and reduce man to little more than a clever ape only slightly removed by happenstance from the primeval muck..."

"...and I say to you, my dear man!  That may be.  But I claim that such metaphysical ramifications are quite besides the point; if these 'genes' exist, then the religious must incorporate them into their traditional model of the Universe regardless of the Deity; to ignore their reality is against all we hold dear."

"Hear, hear."

"I for one believe in their science unabashedly.  We see this phenomenon in dogs and horses, do we not?  The breeder has been utilizing the science of genes all the while, intuitively, unaware of the precise mechanisms of it, because it is undeniably real."

"Yes, but to compare men to the lower beasts..."

"...is entirely rational.  Men and beasts, whether we like it or not, are made of the same matter, the same organic systems, acting in purely rational and observable ways.  The spirit is another matter; the flesh that it finds itself clothed in, that is what our new knowledge pertains to.  Do any of you doubt it?  Why, if Cockram's pallid little Althaea were to, say, breed with a large Negro man..."

Here Lord Cockram sputtered, reddened, and bit back his words while glaring at Bryerhoff with undisguised animus.

"...then the offspring of such a coupling would be a child with tannish skin, with half of the Negro's vigor and half of the Englishwoman's intellect and mannerisms.  We understand reality enough to accept that this is so."

"Truth be told, those of such heritage are, despite their outcast status, are some of the hardiest and most balanced members of humanity, in my opinion.  Even in canines, mongrels have a vitality that surpasses that of the purebred..."

"Indeed, this is my case exactly!  Now, follow me here, if you were to take..." the young Bryerhoff spoke excitedly, before being interrupted by one of Old Golm's long-winded digressions.  (Which is unnecessary to the main thesis of this writing, and yet I feel it must be included for the sake of completion.)

"Ahhh yes, my boy, but you are, I think, placing too much emphasis on nature and neglecting the importance of nurture!  The souls of humanity are greatly malleable, in my experience.  Upbringing, upbringing, that can be paramount.  Let me tell you this; in all my years at Greywater, the Stewards would occasionally turn out the pockets of the surrounding countryside and cull the wilder folk who lurked hither and yon, the majority of which were pressed into our service.  Many were obstinate, ornery, and resistant to improvement.  Of all the Stewards I knew, there was one, the excellent Mssr. Erasmus Pogue, who affected great change upon the heathens.  He was a rare man, possessing raw strength and bodily vigor, but also a judicious and serene mind.  Pogue knew the correct balance between the lash and the chapel, the push and the pull between authority and camaraderie, that provided both structure and succor to the untrained mind. Miracles, he worked.  Miracles.  Why, I remember one young rat-faced Native cutpurse whom we named Bertram, found by Oscar hiding in the trunk of a stately oak, the sort of feral youth that any other man would abandon to his inherent vileness; but the stern tutelage of Erasmus Pogue improved him beyond my expectations.  By the end of his life, this Bertram was an elder butler, indistinguishable from any other civilized man, serving the guests of Greywater with impeccable grace and kindness.  Each Christmas, he would meet us at the door of the manor with glasses of brandy and tobacco, and we would..."

(On second thought, I have decided to slightly curtail Old Golm's reminiscences, as my inkwell is threatening to run dry.  Suffice to say it ran on for several paragraphs more.)

"As I was saying," Bryerhoff began again, trying to get the conversation back on track, "such matters will be presupposed, when it is finally attempted."

"Attempted did you say?"

"Surely," Bryerhoff spoke, and he leaned back, swirled his drink about, and his words became lower and dreamier with a hint of boyish mischief about them.

"...surely, it will be done.  I'd be surprised if no one was doing it already -- the breeding of females to perfect them as a species, as a kind.  To take the best qualities and enhance them.  To combine the untamed physical traits that roil our blood and combine them with just enough civilized stock to create... perfection."

"Perfection?"

"Yes... imagine, my friends, a genus of women crafted to fulfill every womanly function.  Robust of body and full of health, with childbearing hips and bounteous bosom.  Demure, but not too demure, still with some of that primitive fire.  Intelligent enough to not wallow in folly and gossip -- but not too intelligent, of course.  We all have encountered one or two such women in our time, some fortunate product of natural accident... but what if you could increase their number through careful and judicious selection?  So that men the world over would no longer be subject to the cruel inequalities of chance?  Why should we not perfect the female, as we have perfected all else to our manly wills?"

"THAT MAID, TANSY?  I'VE FUCKED HER THREE TIMES.  ALMOST FOUR.  TITS LIKE MELONS AND WET AS A SPRING MORNING, I TELL YOU!" Old Cockram bellowed out, apropos of nothing.

Here, I confess, I fell into a bit of a stupor, and when I reemerged, it seems the conversation had developed further, with Bryerhoff and William Charles having taken their fantasy from the theoretical to the practical, and making what seemed to be some rather concrete plans.

"The peak breeding age, it seems to me, would be around fifteen years..."

"...meaning just over six generations per century..."

"...which if Mendel is correct..."

It went on from there.  I fell back into my alcoholic swoon at some point, and when I awakened the next morning, my head pounding, I struggled to transcribe all I could recollect.

And that is how it began.  A clandestine program involving the secluded and extensive property of Lord Cockram, and the invested wealth of many of England's wealthiest men.  It continued on, splendidly, until its existence was discovered by Scotland Yard in the year 2018.  I had died nearly a century before, having never received a Perfected Female of my own, despite Dr. Prunnett's assurances.  Scandal?  Yes, a terrible scandal ensued that brought much shame and consternation to the Crown. The name of Ludimere Bryerhoff, as well as those of his sons Ignatius and Osman, became particularly infamous for the great number of savage murders they committed over the course of their work.  But you should keep in mind, that if it were not for the Bryerhoff Program, many notable female celebrities that you may be fond of -- Salma Hayek, Emily Blunt, and Cindy Crawford, to name a few -- would have never existed at all.  Remember that, always.

Sir Elliott Turningham, formerly of Cornwall.
The Scrotecratic Dialogues III
...aka the Circle of Learned Men.

Where non-Gilbrod fragments go to fester in immortality.
Loading...
At first, Kendall Fudakan -- along with his younger sister, Yoshina -- resented the frequent and lengthy visits from their aged grandparents. They would stay for months on end sometimes. Their parents obligingly gave up their own bedroom to the elders and slept in the living room, which meant that all television and such ended when they went to sleep around 9:00 PM.  Even more disruptive was that his grandmother took over the kitchen and would brook no dissent; her pride as a  Japanese housewife was paramount.  She spent much of the day preparing traditional dishes, most of which were based on exotic seafood and spent hours to prepare.  She served octopus, mussels, endless bony fish and various types of raw sashimi, and the children found much of it to be rubbery, slimy, and unpleasant.  Kendall and Yoshina desperately hoarded some treasured snack food items that they would retrieve from under their beds and munch on in the night.  Unlike his sister, however, Kendall eventually acquired a taste for the rich and salty fare, and no longer did he have to force the chilly gelatinous chunks down his protesting throat out of politeness; he savored every bite.  This pleased his mother, knowing how much importance grandfather and grandmother placed on preserving their family traditions, and how they deplored the idea of their grandchildren becoming "spoiled and modern."  Grandmother would beam and reveal a rotting toothless smile when she saw Kendall devour the intestines of a steamed grouper or chomp into the boiled bodies of soft-shelled crabs.  Yoshina stared in disgust, and earned many a disapproving glare for her finicky nature.

But in time, even his grandmother's strongest delicacies were no longer sufficient to sate Kendall's changing palate.  He required more.  By the time he was a freshman in college, he could no longer stomach the American food that was all around.  Pizza?  Burgers?  Chips?  It was all bland pablum to him.  He yearned for the pure marine flavor rush.  It was in his DNA, he knew, passed down from the ages and reactivated.  So he would sneak out into the night and scavenge the dumpsters behind the harborside markets where his grandmother shopped.  He'd gather the rotting meats, the squid tentacles and various roes, the urchins, starfish, sea cucumbers and such, and take them back to his dorm room where he would greedily devour them with glee.  Often he waited until they had totally putrefied and were crawling with visible parasites.  It was all just more life to absorb.  After his roommate was awoken one too many times by loud slurping noises and the stink of fish, Kendall was forced to occupy a single dorm unit, which served his appetite well. Now he could properly age his food and cultivate the parasites to adulthood.  Soon the parasites took up residence inside Kendall's intestines, which brought him even more delight.  He was an ecosystem of life, they were his children and he was their god.  His lower body bloated with excess meat and gas.  Needless to say, his fellow students were curious at the bizarre changes overtaking their friend and slightly chagrined at the powerful blasts of squid-scented flatulence that began to erupt from his overworked tract.  But most of them got used to it and held no grudge.  Every time Kendall had to move his bowels, he'd stare in wonder at the various worms and squirming things that infested his waste.  Flush them away?  No! he cried to himself.  At great cost, he filled up his room with numerous aquariums, each one filled with a thriving colony spawned from one of his many violent defecations.  In time he augmented the aquariums with neon lights and other decorations.  The other students would gather in his room during their leisure hours, often drinking and smoking, and spend many joyful hours staring entranced at the complexity and beauty of these living gardens.  Some of them never got used to the smell, but endured it because the rewards of being one of Kendall's Chosen were too great.  Do not think that his diet consumed the whole of his life, no, Kendall remained an excellent student, a helpful friend, an avid gamer, and a reliable source of kind bud during this time.  

And one day, Kendall, he would become the Bio-King.  He would initiate the Feast of the Seas. This is but the beginning of his story.  

And what of Yoshina? Did she escape this fate?  Partially.  But twenty years later, as the Bio-King's reign threatened the stability of the world, she was forced to return to Beach City to confront the thing that had been her brother.  Even though he had much changed she still recognized the boy behind the sharp snapping beak and whipping tentacles. Their parents and grandparents had long ago been absorbed and integrated into his carapace, but she knew that he could never hurt her, she knew, and this proved to be his ultimate downfall.
Kendall's Chosen
Ah, a random story.  It is reminiscent of the old days, when things were written rapidly and thought was not necessary.  Ahh, the old days.
Loading...
(A Curious Event in the year 2015)

Marc sat down next to the kid
in greasy dung his buttocks slid
they laughed and ate some Frosted Flakes
while drawing pics of pooping drakes.


Marc knew it was going to happen.  Well, not for sure that day, but sometime that week, after reading those four short lines that John had sent him in a recent email -- a poignant reminder of the glory days.  It had been too long.  He hadn't written any rhymes in quite some time and his muse felt blocked -- constipated, one might say.  There was too much interference from his lousy job, the bustle of daily chores, vet visits, the demands of his artistic "career" -- his present life was a far cry from the the old Council days when the madness would just flow like sweet honey from his intoxicated brain.  Especially when he busted out the lines with Tim, his special friend.  With Tim there was a certain ritual that worked like an arcane magic, a way to let the purest thoughts take over and eliminate any and all static within his brain...

...and so there he found himself, in a random aisle of his local Kroger around 9:15 in the morning.  Not the big Kroger on Memorial Boulevard, the smaller one in Georgetown Square.  It was one of those aisles that he almost never went down, the one with syrup, flour, boullion, and all that other crap.  Perfect.  If it was a more familiar aisle, it might have caused blips of static.  He might have seen an item that he needed at home -- sponges, eggs, coffee -- and his weary conscious mind would have awakened again, and the static would not clear.  He'd chased it away with five shots of cheap vodka and a 40-oz. of Icehouse beer.  It must not be allowed to return.

At last he felt ready.  Marc loosened his belt and let his work slacks drop to the linoleum.  Then he squatted, strained, and began to evacuate his bowels on the floor, oh yes, the floor of the store.  The stench was right.  The overhead light was bright.  He hunched over his worn notebook, uncapped his pen, and still squatting, still steadily releasing feces in a gurgling blast, he began to madly scribble the first words that entered his drunken and deranged mind...

You can try all night to generate your own light
but in the end you just might
need a lantern or lamp to show your ass the way
off the couch and back to the highway on-ramp
so you can get the fuck on to
your shitty job in the city
and suck on your boss's knob
while wishing it was a titty.
Here, kitty-kitty, have some catnip, it'll send you on a decent trip
check the deep telemetry
investigate the recent blips
on the plasma screen, what could they possibly mean?
Asthma.  Chasms.  Charlie Sheen
in a battle to death with Mr. Clean
truly
what does it all mean?

Shut the grid down, spark the aforementioned lamp
we are facing the specter of total collapse
some redneck out in the audience claps
at the thought, and plans to hoard the supplies he's bought
oh yes, his family will be up to their eyeballs
in macaroni and cheese, and drinking highballs
in the fallout shelter
while all else goes helter-skelter
and the liberals that once ruled his life,
their flesh will sweat and swelter in the ruin and rot
their misguided policies caused.
Will you find a safe financial haven
and save the AIDS-infested maiden,
or will you watch the world perish from the comfort of your couch, saying
I just want to see the cookie crumble and the ball bounce?
And then just keep on bitching, moaning and whining
until you grow so old that you don't even mind dying
and your soul is reincarnated into, like, a bear or a deer
and you're shot by some drunken hunting assholes smashed on beer
and smoking cigarettes and placing bets on who can put a bullet in your brain
even though its pouring down rain in some forest in eastern Maine?

The Beast feels no pain.  
Effluvial drain and the fluorescent rain.
Miconazole and Tolnaftate,
Clobetasol, Terbinafine Hydrochloride
Oh yes, it's been a worthwhile ride.

Barack Obama?
Failure-ama.

George Bush
Orange kush.

Kim Jong-Un
Looney Toon.

Netanyahu
Wretched Jew.

Mitt Romney
shit on me.

Chris Christie
sipped whiskey
briskly.


Bill Cosby.
    Ill, probably.

Jerry Sandusky.
Hairy and musky.

Mark Hamill.
Hark, mammal!

Darth Vader
in the park later.

Donald Trump, he
won't kiss your mother, she's frumpy.

I remember, yes I remember that back in class
the only thing you could ever pass
was an enormous amount of gas
and then you'd go to lunch with the other lunks
and demand expensive canned ham
from the lunchladies instead of the cheap Spam
the rest of us were eating.
In the end it was self-defeating
because
you soon forgot why all this is occurring
some girl with a PLUR tattoo says all the lines are blurring
and you want to see her naked on your bed and purring
but your tribal rival has her in his tent like
Khal Drogo
king of the dudes
stronger than the Ultimate Warrior and Ravishing Rick Rude
larger than a gym rat bloated on anabolic horse steroids
devouring his pizza before it gets cold to avoid the Noid.
So do as Drogo does, dominate all in your way
until you're cut by an underling, killed by infection
brought back by some bitch who might be a witch
at the cost of the life of your unborn son in the womb
of your wife you impregnated the last time you had an erection.

That's the attitude you need
to get a hot girlfriend who isn't hooked on speed.

Sarah Palin
parasailin'
on an alien world
and making out with a Raelian girl
where was Bristol?  Sucking the other end
of her boyfriend's pistol.
Shit, still?
I mean the bitch never stops
like the Witch King on Weathertop
stabbing hobbits as they scramble off
into the brambles while the Dunedain
waves a torch and brings the pain
because
Narsil was still shards in the sheath
not yet the blade it would become.
Anyway i'd bash and beat
those hobbits into mincemeat
until a voice from the trees
distracts me with rhymes about Attercop.
Attercop
Don't you stop!
Don't stop now, Shaun and Ed
urges the jukebox in the Winchester, as they battle hordes of the dead
while David is carried away in the flood and disemboweled
Ed doesn't make it make it but Shaun escapes and needs only a towel
to wipe the blood from his hands as he conquers
this Zombieland.

If you're just tired of life
go run out and buy
"Let's Get Killed: A Beginner's Guide to Suicide"
and learn some self-destructive skills
and teach them to some first graders for cheap thrills while the Durst haters
and former Korn fans get drunk on cheap swill and snort bath salts until their brains rot
and they take turns tearing all each others' face off.

Hold it. Fold it. Drop your next turd.
Edwin Green demands to be heard.

Edwin Green stood triumphant on the dancefloor
at long last he'd learned how to get down
so he breakdanced, as he moved from town to town
past the lands of Anryms and Engre Val
shining like Lucifer before the fall
while grabbing his sack and clutching his balls
some tried to capture him, but always they missed him
as he moved in and out of the ecosystem
only stopping to rest when his energies felt low
on the stoop of a Tennessee bungalow
Is he sleeping on the front porch?
No, he's knocking down the damn door
and filching all the beer from the fridge
such risks one takes, living up on the ridge...
And Edwin took whatever else his fancy spied
he'd been a nihilist since Sid and Nancy died
and had been ill at ease since back in the day
He raved "I make women moist, and turn men gay!"
which was not strictly true, you must understand
he'd not been on a date in ten years
and couldn't talk to a woman without twelve beers.
Yet none were alive to hear his oaths, his boasts;
he knew his Reign of Jive must extend to both coasts
so Edwin danced on, the redneck corpses strewn haphazardly
and as far as we know the bastard is still free.

And with that
we're back in the shack
Hey, how many bucks do you have in your slacks?
Buy your kids McRibs (because they're back)
wait, you can't afford it?  'Coz you're black
Is that a big deal?  Do you think I fear you?  
well
n__ger I hear you
n__ger I hear you
n__ger I hear you


...Marc's flow was interrupted as he was pulled backwards by strong hands.  His buttocks slid across the floor and left a rancid smear of light-brown feces.  He was being dragged out of the store and into the parking lot.  His mind was still absorbed in his work, words still surfacing and linking in his mind.  Noo!  Where was his pen?  The paper?  He had to record them as they came, else they'd be lost forever.  He flailed and scrambled for the tools he needed.  But then his hands were behind him, restrained.  Someone was talking.  Loud angry words.  Some laughter.  His vision finally refocused on the real world and the backs of the burly police officers in the front seat.  One of them was holding his infinitely precious notebook and reading his latest masterpiece... when he got to the final lines, Marc realized that the officer was African-American and therefore likely to be offended by the forbidden word he'd used.  The man was scowling, so that was apparently the case, and all doubt was removed when he turned around, raised his taser, and blasted Marc in the chest with 50,000 volts of electricity.  Marc screamed but did not lose control of his bowels as everything that had been within them was still festering in that aisle, the one he never went down, the one with syrup, flour, boullion, and all that other crap...

To be continued.
Marc's Adventures I: The Poetry Break
What, what is this?  The beginning of a wondrous new adventure for one of the original three heroes?  As always, a fate is uncertain...
Loading...
Book III: The Journey to Shadozar
Chapter 19: The Train of Thought



Calvin Kingwood could only stare with his mouth hanging open.  This was, unquestionably, the strangest thing he'd seen since coming to Venternia.  Beside him, Professor Gandledore positively beamed with relief as the clouds of the Endless Sky parted and there appeared a locomotive train, the old-fashioned sort that Calvin had never seen in his actual life -- well, he'd seen them on television, perhaps, but this one was entirely real!  As the mammoth train zoomed by them, he could see that it was fancier than any real train by far. Its sleek surface was a dark purple and glimmered like obsidian, and every surface was embossed with golden filigree.  The wondrous apparition did a few loop-the-loops in the air before screeching to a stop before a platform that had just appeared in the empty air of the chasm before them.  It was of a magnificent make similar to the Train itself, all oak and solid gray brick with pearl-encrusted bannisters.  Could his mind really have summoned this marvel, Calvin asked himself?

"Splendid, my boy!" Gandledore cheered, "I knew you could do it!"

"This is..."

"Why, this is the legendary Train of Thought, my boy, what else should it be?" the wise old man grinned.  "If you have to reach the other end of Venternia, as we must, it's by far the quickest way to travel -- much faster than hitching a ride on a wild Bugslog, I can tell you that!"

Calvin noticed that the smoke which billowed forth from the Train's smokestack was not the noxious fume of coal, but a light-umber fog that smelled pleasantly of cinnamon and fresh apples.  His favorite scent.  Before he could relate this to Gandledore, the old man answered as if he was reading the boy's mind.

"Remember, the Train of Thought looks, and sounds, and yes, even smells entirely unique to the person what summons it," he explained.  "To me, it resembles a great mechanical dragon and smells of the sea.  To you, I imagine it is rather different?"

"A bit, yes" Calvin admitted.  

"...as it must.  Now, we must board.  Be brave, young Calvin."

As if responding to his very thoughts, a gangplank lowered from the first car and landed on the platform with a soft thud.  Calvin thought he glimpsed a ghostly conductor beckoning him to enter, and shuddered.  Other pale faces seemed to hover in the windows of the car, but they vanished when he tried to look at them.

"I must warn you, my boy, that as spectacular and helpful as the Train of Thought can be, it is not without its own particular peril.  For it is, as its name implies, a vessel composed entirely of your thoughts.  If you dare to ride it, you must be strong, not of body, but of spirit, for anything you think of can become real, quite real, so long as you are within range of its chimes."

"Anything?"

"Anything, I am afraid.  If you are not prepared, many bad things can happen.  Are you sure you are up to it?" Gandledore asked gravely.

"I... I think so," Calvin stuttered.  "I mean, it's the only way.  We have to get to Shadozar if I'm going to rescue Princess Azalea from the Wrathlord, right?"

"Well, there's always another way, but this is the best way, I think..." Gandledore mused in his usual whimsical manner.

"Then... yes, I'm ready.  I've come too far to turn back now!" Calvin decided.

"Splendid!"

As soon as they were on board, the gangplank raised behind them and the engine began to chug.  The whistle blew a deafening blast, louder than a war trumpet, Calvin thought.  And they were off, speeding through the starry night sky at the speed of...

"...at the speed of thought," Gandledore mused yet again.

Onwards the great train steamed, in need of no track as it made its course through the clouds.  Calvin looked out the porthole-windows, spellbound, as the star-hermits waved and flickered from their distant abodes.  Great flocks of night gulls and the occasional moonbat flapped placidly alongside them.  Soon, Calvin began to feel a bit shut in, cooped up as they were inside the car.  He briefly wished that he could feel the wind on his face and -- lo!  It suddenly became so.  The car's walls and ceiling vanished, and both Calvin and Professor Gandledore were standing on little more than a moving platform, with nothing between them and the infinite sky than a narrow railing.

"Whoa! Intense!" Calvin shouted.

"Ah, but didn't I warn you?' Gandledore gently chided.  "If you ride the Train of Thought with adventure on your mind rather than safety, then that is precisely what you shall have."

After the initial shock wore off, Calvin thrilled at the feel of the rushing wind and the crisp coldness of the evening.  He drew away from Gandledore and stood near the edge, and gazed West-East, fancying that he could already see the great black towers of Shadozar on the horizon.

"How long will it take to get there, Professor?" he asked Gandledore.

"Ah, now that is the thing, young Calvin, the very thing.  There are no limits to the Train's speed or range.  If you are in the proper frame of thought, then the journey is as swift as a garden sparrow returning to the nest.  But if one harbors doubts, well... there are stories of foolish men who have boarded the Train and spent many years dithering about endlessly in their worry.  They say that some have never left..."

Calvin thought back to the ghostly faces he'd glimpsed, and grew afraid.

"...myself included, mind you!  Why, I once boarded the Train as a grave young man with too many troubles on my mind, and by the time I reached my destination, so many seasons had passed in the meantime that my robe and scarf were quite out-of-style, and tame griffons had replaced unicorns as the primary mode of transportation in Venternia, imagine my surprise!"

Calvin smiled weakly.

"So in truth, we'd be there already, if that was what your mind truly desired... instead, we are speeding along happily and yet going nowhere in particular, and shall continue to do so, until you make up your mind to change that."

Calvin blinked.  He started to protest, but the words caught in his throat.  It was true, he admitted to himself.  He certainly wanted to see Azalea again, but the memory of his last meeting with the Wrathlord still burned fresh in his mind.  The Wrathlord, so confident in his dark power had simply laughed evilly at him, saying that such a "whelp" was not worth his time.  Instead, he had waved his wand casually and summoned...

"Ware your thoughts, young Calvin!" Gandledore barked, but it was too late.

"BUR-LUR-LUR-LUR!!!  I am the greedy Grumble Bee, you'll be sore if you stumble across me!"  

And there, hovering menacingly in the darkness, was the great fat Grumble Bee, the Wrathlord's most cherished and deadly pet.  He was still haunted by the memory of their first encounter, in which he'd shrank and hid from the frightful beast while others rushed to his aid.  It wasn't my fault, Calvin insisted to himself, I had just come to Venternia and didn't know... if only I'd been stronger like the Lion Knights, or possessing magic and wits like Gandledore, it would have been different...

"BUR-LUR-LUR-LUR-LUR!!!  I SEE YOU THERE, LITTLE BOY-THING, PREPARE YOURSELF TO FEEL MY STING!"

Just as it had back in the Lost Forest, the Grumble Bee launched its great furry body at Calvin, its fearsome stinger poised to strike and dripping with venom.  Calvin and Gandledore dove in separate directions, barely avoiding the monster.

"No!  Not you again!" Calvin bellowed, "I had enough of you the first time!"

Calvin looked around frantically for a weapon or trick to use to distract the gigantic bee, but but finding nothing, he looked to Gandledore and noticed that the spry old wizard was back on his feet, shaking his head with chagrin.  He gave Calvin a reproving stare, and suddenly the boy realized what a fool he was being.  Of course, the Grumble Bee wasn't actually here, it was all part of the Train's magic.  He could take care of it easily if only he could keep his wits about him.  Calvin briefly pondered blasting the Bee with an imaginary cannon or skewering it with a volley of Lion Knight lances, but that could get messy.  Without meaning to, he thought of the one person who could always handle these sorts of situations with ease, and wished that he was there with him....

"Calvin!  Dear chap!  Are you lost?  Need ye a map?"

And there stood Kapella the wood-elf, just as Calvin remembered him, standing less than half Calvin's height but brimming with confidence and power.  Calvin grinned, knowing exactly what was going to happen next...

Kapella spun on his bare whiskery feet and faced the Bee, who was preparing for another lunge.  

"A bee that grumbles, such a sight, Kapella shall soon put him to rights!" the little elf cheered.  The Grumble Bee burbled with rage and dove at him, but Kapella was far too quick.  He whirled about with that nimbleness that only woodland Elves possess, spinning like a dervish, and with every movement his magic shifted the winds which blew the monster quite off his course.  The Bee was flung out into the ethers on a great gust, then recovered his bearing and roared back towards the Train.  But by then, Kapella's magic windstorm was blowing with gale force and the three of them were standing in the eye of a whirlwind which buffeted the Bee about helplessly.

"BURR-LURR-LURR, LET ME GO!  MAKE THESE AWFUL WINDS NOT BLOW!"

The Bee flapped his wings and buzzed with furious anger, but the wind was too strong.  With a final twist of his little finger, Kapella blew a gust so mighty that the Bee was launched skyward towards one of the distant stars.  His final "BURR-LURR" vanished on the winds.  

"Let the hermits deal with that one, O yes, they shall have some fun!" Kapella chucked.  Then he turned and looked at Calvin and Gandledore, his eyes twinkling.  

"So, old friends, what adventure are we on now?  Tell me what, and where, and how!"

For a brief second, Calvin almost believed that dear little Kapella was alive again, but was again admonished by a stern look from Gandledore.  He sighed, feeling a dull ache in his heart.

"Kapella..."

"Goodness, Calvin, why so glum?  Am I not your favorite chum?"

Calvin hung his head and stammered, for the next words he had to say were the hardest of his life.

"You are, Kapella, I mean... you were.  It's hard to explain, but... you're not really here.  You're just a.... a memory.  A great memory, but a memory nonetheless.  You... you died, Kapella.  You died, saving us all at the Spiderweb Bridge..."

"Me, Kapella, dead and gone?  Calvin, lad, you must be wrong!"

"I'm not, Kapella.  But I think I know why I wished you here, and not just to deal with that monster.  I wished you here because I never got the chance to say good-bye to you.  But I'm doing that now.  I have to say good-bye and... let you go.  So you can move on.  So we both can..."

The little elf looked in confusion to Gandledore, who looked even glummer than Calvin, if that was possible.

"But I..." Kapella began, before he fell silent.  He smiled the saddest smile you could ever imagine on the face of a merry wood-elf as he began to slowly fade from their sight, growing transparent in the night air.

"Good-bye, then, Calvin my friend, we'll meet again at the Very End..."

"I hope so," Calvin whispered, as two fat tears rolled down his cheeks.  Beside him, Gandledore was snuffling loudly and blowing into his handkerchief.

"That was worthy of him, lad," the wizard finally spoke.  "And I must say, you surprised me there.  The old you -- by which I mean, the younger you, funny how that works -- would not have been able to let him go.  You've grown up, my boy, you really have."

"I suppose so," Calvin agreed, thinking that if his heart had to hurt this much, growing up was a pretty lousy thing in many ways.  They stood there, mostly mute, for several minutes.  The Train of Thought was still zooming effortlessly through the dark purple sky, its eternal power not the least bit disturbed by their trials.  However, the boy noted that the very world about it had begun to change, reacting to his bottomless grief.  He saw great stormclouds rolling in from the horizon, dark and threatening.  They blocked out the light of the star-hermits, and soon muffled peals of thunder began to rumble in the distance.  The wind grew colder and stronger...

Gandledore placed a friendly hand on his shoulder, and a bit of warmth stirred in his heart.  Calvin glared up at the oncoming storm, having finally learned his lesson.  

"No... the Bee and Kapella were enough.  I won't let this happen.  I have to find the strength.  I think I understand now, Professor Gandledore.  I used to think that strength was all about muscles and swords, like the Lion Knights.  But I think I finally understand.  In Venternia, true strength comes from here," he said tapping his chest, "and here" pointing to his temple.  "True strength is in the heart and the mind."  

Gandledore beamed with pride.  "Quite right, lad.  Quite right."

"We're almost there.  We're almost at Shadozar..."

Gandledore interrupted, "quite so, Calvin, but if I might make a request... this old man needs just a moment more to collect his wits before we enter that dread realm.  We will be known to the Wrathlord as soon as we depart the train and set one foot into his land.  Let us... let us have just one more happy memory before we do that.  Just one more memory.  I leave it to you!" he cried, motioning to the sky which was already beginning to clear. Rays of golden sunlight began to filter through the dissipating cloudbanks, heralding the dawn of what might be their final day...

"Happy... memory... happy thoughts... " Calvin mumbled, "after all this, can I still just be the happy kid I once was?  What would make me happier than anything?"

He closed his eyes and thought.

The only clouds in the sky were now fluffy and pillowlike.  They surrounded the train, so thick that Calvin reached out and ran his finger through one as if it were a pudding.  Something simple, something happy, something good, he thought to himself.  And from these clouds, women began to emerge.  Not just women, but women more beautiful than nearly any that Calvin had ever seen.  They were slender of waist, but their curves were perfectly voluptuous.  And they wore nothing at all, save for a slight sheen of moisture from their cloudy nests.

The boy opened his eyes and grinned.

"I say..." Gandledore began, at last lost for words.

The clouds increased and so did the number of naked women emerging from them.  There were thousands of them now, preening and teasing the two travelers with flirtatious glances as they rubbed their lovely bodies with their hands, discovering their soft flesh for the first time.  Gandledore's eyes widened as he gaped at the increasing variety -- most were blonde, with light almond skin, but as more and more appeared, there came women of all colors, from dark walnut brown to as white as snow, and wearing different exotic hairstyles, some adorned with jewelry, others not, but all identical in their luscious perfection.

"I.... err... yes... unclothed maidens... perfectly reasonable, for a boy your age, I shouldn't wonder..." Gandledore stammered at the endless parade of nubile bodies around them.

Calvin gaped in wonder.  "Gandledore, why didn't I think of this right at first?  Gosh, I'm dumb!" Calvin laughed.  "This is wonderful!"

"Yes, I suppose, but..."

By now there were so many nude women in the clouds that the sky could barely be seen.  They were a literal ocean of moist, sleek skin.  Calvin cocked his head to the side playfully, and the imaginary women began to notice and pet one another.  Their mouths opened and they began to kiss, and caress, and fondle each other, and themselves with increasing urgency, writhing together while moaning and giggling with girlish abandon.  

"Yes," Calvin whispered in ecstasy, his quivering with emotion, "yes."

Gandledore looked increasingly uncomfortable but was still shocked into silence.  He saw that several of the women in fact strongly resembled Princess Azalea, and he blushed deep red.  At last the mass of nakedness spilled onto the platform of the Train itself, hundreds of tumbling, squirming, laughing women, glistening in the sun.  

"Calvin!" Gandledore bellowed, "this is enough!  Stop!"

"I don't think I can, Professor!  I don't think I can!  Ha haa!" the boy shouted gleefully as the women seized upon him and tore his clothing to shreds, their pink tongues seeking every inch of his pale skin, their painted nails grasping his hair.  Their moaning and gasping increased.  They were possessed of a frightening hunger and wriggled desperately towards the boy, as if he were the one thing that could satisfy them.  Calvin was soon buried in them, buried in a sea of bodies.

"I say!  I say!" Gandledore bellowed again as he was likewise enveloped.  The wizard was surrounded on all sides by naked flesh, although none of the women seemed to notice his existence.  Through the throng, he heard Calvin's voice.  "Don't worry, we'll still get to Shadozar, Gandledore!  Ahhh...!  But after this!  After this!"

Gandledore struggled for air, seeking to find an empty pocket in the throng, and wondered how long this Train ride would turn out to be.  

"On second thought, forget the Wrathlord!" he heard Calvin laugh, "I'm staying here forever!  Wooo!"  

Gandledore could barely hear him through the mass of bodies that surrounded him on all sides.  He tried to scream, but his mouth was filled with unidentifiable flesh and a mass of chestnut hair.  He could only whimper and battle for breath as he desperately tried to avoid being crushed to death by Calvin's seemingly infinite harem.  

.
.

In the end, they did not stay there forever.  The two travelers did eventually reach Shadozar and defeat the Wrathlord to save all of Venternia  But their friendship was never quite the same after the Train of Thought -- but that, dear reader, is a story for another day.
Venternia Chronicles
At last!  The long-awaited companion piece to Cybertronic Star League 1987, featuring the welcome return of Calvin Kingwood, our daring young hero.  What adventures await him in the faraway magical realm of Venternia?
Loading...
Welcome, dear friends.

We are the Council of Gandalf.  Long ago, when the earth was younger, we gathered around the sacred flame, partaking of the holy herbs of knowledge.  Far we traveled with the aid of these herbs that we kept in a jar...

...in our many mystical journeys we brought back much knowledge, and many amazing stories of long-forgotten legends and vast vistas unknown to mortal man.  We wrote them with ink on paper, sacred texts that were treasured above all else.  Long these tomes sat in secret, known to only a select few.

But now the world is changing.  Times of change and strife are upon us.  The winds and waters are changing, becoming strange.  It is in these times that the hidden knowledge must come to light, to offer guidance and wisdom to all who seek it.

We are the Council.  

Learn our knowledge and find your way in this world.

Peace and Love.

-- Gandalf.

deviantID

CouncilofGandalf
The Wisdom of The Council
United States
Current Residence: A hideously stable geosynchronous orbit.
Favourite genre of music: Electronic.
Favourite photographer: Tom Bombadil.
Favourite style of art: Surrealist.
Operating System: Old Toby.
MP3 player of choice: The harpers of Elrond.
Shell of choice: Just an old blue hat.
Wallpaper of choice: That which pleases me.
Skin of choice: Old and leathery.
Favourite cartoon character: Smaug the Mighty.
Personal Quote: "Through the time, i see the minds, hear the voices of the world..."
Interests

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconacaciathorn:
Acaciathorn Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you so much for the donation! :hug:
Reply
:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2014
You are most welcome.  
Reply
:iconelusivegnome:
ElusiveGnome Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2011
look, some quality! *watch
Reply
:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2011
Thank you, sir. We treasure our humble works, and are pleased when others do so.
Reply
:iconststreet:
ststreet Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2009
I have a question if you don't mind.

It's a bit stupid, but how do you make the font go back to normal after you put it in italics like this? Is there a certain way?
Reply
:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2009
Well, yes, i use html tags. I use < i> to start the italics, and < /i> to stop the italics. Of course, those tags have spaces so they'll show up in this note. Normally, they have no spaces.
Reply
:iconststreet:
ststreet Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2009
Thanks.
Reply
:iconargo602:
Argo602 Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2009
Thanks for the watch!
Reply
Add a Comment: