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(The Jericho Project)


My friends, my followers, praise the Savior!  

Praise, praise the Savior... now today, my friends, I want to talk about something very important.  You see, it all started with this certain young man that we all know.  He was once a member of this flock but he doesn't come here much on Sunday mornings anymore.  I'm not going to name him and single him out but many of you know of whom I speak.  Anyway, I spoke with this young man recently, at his mother's house, and tried to get him to get back on the righteous path, praise the Savior!  And do you know what he told me?  He told me, Reverend Alljoy, I am having doubts -- doubts about my faith, doubts about the Gospels, about the divinity of the Christ, about the Church and the Message of the Third Revelation... and it near broke my heart, it near rent my heart in twain to hear this intelligent young man admit to these shameful doubts.  How can I convince him, I wondered?  How did this loss of faith come to pass?  And do you know what he told me, brothers and sisters, praise the Savior?  Praise, oh, yes!  He told me, Reverend, it's like this -- it seems, to me, he said, that the smartest and best people I know, all the other engineering students at the college, my professors, the people I admire most, are agnostics, even atheists.  None treasure the Gospels and the Message, very few of them attend a Sunday Service, and those that do so tend to do it in a lukewarm manner, halfheartedly, and only because a family member forces them to.  Praise the Savior.  The only people, this boy said, who come to the House of God every Sunday, and every Wednesday night, the most devout in their attendance and their belief, they tend to be, well, the "stupid" ones.  He hesitated to say it, but he said it.  He used that exact word, stupid.

It's terrible, it's terrible, my brothers and sisters, yes, praise the Savior, it is terrible.

But do you know what?

He is right.

He is right, praise the Savior.  I mean, let's be honest with ourselves, we're not the brighest bulbs in the drawer.  I'm no Einstein, I can admit it.  Heck, look at Doobie Cooner over there -- Doobie, stand up!  You, I'm gonna single out.  Yes, yes, wave to everyone, Doobie.  Now this is Doobie Cooner, you all know him, you know what he is.  Now Doobie -- okay, sit down, Doobie -- Doobie is as dumb as the day is long.  That's right.  Doobie's the sort of fellow who stares up at the sky when it rains with his mouth open, ain't he?  He sure is.  How far did you get in school, Doobie, the fourth grade?  What's that now?  The third?  See, folks, you see what I'm talking about.  Doobie Cooner never misses a Sunday, and he's as thick as a bag of wet hair, while this intelligent young man, who now only comes here on Christmas and Easter, he is a straight-A student and if he was any sharper, he'd cut himself.  That's the way it is.

So, my brothers and sisters, what does this mean?

What does it really mean?

Well, I will tell you.  Oh, praise the Savior.

There is a reason for this.  Oh, my yes.

Do you know what it is?

I do.

For I have thought and prayed long on this, and when I pray, I go deep inside, and not just inside the mind of God Almighty, but the mind of the Enemy, inside the mind of Satan the Deceiver.  Yes, I have touched his mind, deep in my prayers, praise the Savior, I have glimpsed his wicked mind and I have seen his designs.

Satan... is recruiting, as he always does.  He has his own church, deep in the Lake of Fire, and he has pews to fill just as the Lord does.  Praise, praise.  And who has Satan been recruiting lately?  Whom has he sought out to join the ranks of the damned these last few decades?  That's right, the smarties.  The eggheads, the professors, the scientists, the smooth talkers, the best and brightest of us...

...and why not?  Do you think the Fallen One needs any more lunkheads like Doobie Cooner taking up space in Hell?  No, no, sit down, Doobie, don't be afraid.  Praise the Savior.  He's not gonna get you here.  No, Satan doesn't want any more dummies, no sir.  He wants the smart ones, the engineering students like this young man whom Satan has caused to lose his faith so tragically.  He wants the high achievers, the college professors, and anyone with some fancy letters after their name -- can you look at the world today and doubt this inescapable truth?

You cannot.  

But why?

Why, I ask myself?  Why, I asked the Lord?

And the Lord, He gave me the answer.

Satan is building something.  Something more evil than we can imagine.  For you see, the realms beyond, Heaven and Hell, they were once as simple and natural as our world once was.  But as knowledge and technology have increased on Earth, so have they in the Beyond. The Realms are not static in nature but always increasing in complexity, you see.  Machines, computers, aircraft, rockets.... as these become known here, so they become known there, the knowledge of them carried into the hereafter by those who die and pass on.  In the last fifty years, the sinners who have gone to the Lake of Fire have brought their technical skills with them, have no doubt.  Do you think Satan makes no use of this learning?  He does, he does, my brothers and sisters, and he is putting that learning to use.  The discovery of modern military technology was the sweetest surprise that Satan has got in the last few centuries, yes sir.  So this is what was revealed to me; Satan is constructing a weapon, something decidedly mechanical in nature, deep in the bowels of his dark kingdom, to use against God, praise the Savior!  It is something like a missile, something like a laser, but more fearsome than any on Earth.  That smart young man, were he to die today, God forbid, would find himself forced to labor on this abomination.  This Infernal Device is nearing completion.  The more scientists and engineers that Satan causes to go astray, the more workers he has to complete it.  He is close, so close, to having a weapon powerful enough to... to strike the Earth, to strike Heaven, to damage or destroy both, perhaps, or to at least alter the balance of power in the firmanent forever.

It is terrible.  But it is happening.  It is nigh.

What do we do, my brothers and sisters, praise the Savior?

I know.  For the Lord revealed that to me as well.

My friends, we must stop him.  We, the members of the Lakeside Baptist Church of the Third Revelation.  That is our purpose.  When the Lord called our congregation together in the year 1834, this great purpose was already formed in his mind. You have seen the flyers in the common room, talking about the Jericho Project?  That is the Jericho Project, the mission to destroy the Devil's Weapon.  How?  Simple.  We must infiltrate Hell.  We must go undercover as damned souls.  We must sabotage it from within.  Now!  I will need volunteers, about five or six volunteers in total.  The best among us -- that rules you out, Doobie -- the five or six of us with the wits to achieve this task.  But how do we enter Hell?  Why, that is the easy part.  We shall gather, next Friday, which is All Hallow's Eve and the day most abhorrent to the Lord.  We will engage in the filthiest, most depraved homosexual acts we can imagine, and all the while we will be repenting our true faith, screaming obscenities, and denying the spirit of God.  And at the end of this disgusting orgy, we will take our lives.  These three high sins -- sodomy, blasphemy, and suicide -- done in close proximity to one another as to amplify their effects, will be more than enough to nullify our good works and send us on the express train to the lowest levels of Hades.

Then, we must make our way to the weak spots of the device -- the Lord has provided me with blueprints that indicate their locations clearly -- there are several that must be obliterated, simultaneously, to collapse the superstructure beyond any hope of repair. And we shall do just that, praise the Savior.  We shall direct his own hellfire at the crucial junctures, burn them with righteous fury.  The Lord has promised me that this plan cannot fail, so long as we have the courage and the faith to see it through... and if we do, we shall become the most exalted beings in all of Creation, for we will have saved not only the Earth, but all of Heaven itself, praise the Savior.  We shall have thrones next to that of the Almighty himself.

What, my brothers and sisters, could be more glorious?

PRAISE the SAVIOR!!!

[Note: On November 1st, 2014, the bodies of Rev. Nathan Alljoy, James Cowler, Hooper Higgins Sr., and Dorman "Doobie" Cooner were discovered in the common room of Lakeside Baptist Church.  All were nude and apparently died of close-range gunshot wounds in the cranial region.  Evidence of extensive sexual activity was present.  No statements from their fellow parishioners have been taken at this time.  Lakeside Baptist is expected to reopen on December 11th, under the stewardship of Rev. Snoal Kliegman, a resident of nearby Putnam Co.]

10-25-2014
6:42AM
Praise the Savior
Religion, one of the greatest follies ever to befall mankind.  They worship false idols, while the truth of Illuvatar and the Valar remains hidden to all but the truest scholars.

Take one of these modern faiths and live as it would demand?  It is madness. 
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"You been in the Shed, boy?  You been in there?"

"No, paw!" the little boy squealed, "I ain't been in there ever, since you said."

The father scowled as he towered over his shrinking son.  Playing cards and puzzle pieces crunched under his heavy boots.  "You sure, Addy?  You damn sure?"

"Damn sure, paw!  I ain't been!" Addy wailed.

The father started at the parroted curse word and thought he was being mocked.  His rage rose, subsided, and then rose again as he stared at the quivering child.  But the boy was fortunate; the sound of his mother's car came from the driveway, she was back from the Piggly-Wiggly with his cousins.  They would have some treats for him, and he'd escaped a brutal lick from his father.  His father had few rules, and the only one he enforced with absolute authority was -- no one enters the Shed, except him and those who had permission -- which meant Addy's cousin Coddy, Uncle Amus, and pretty much no one else on Earth.

They had waffles, tea, instant sausages, and strawberry milk for dinner that night.  After most of the family dropped off to sleep, Addy and Coddy snuck out to the living room and stealthily turned on the family television.  They were playing some Lone Ranger and Flash Gordon reruns after midnight these days, which were far more tempting than sleep to boys their age.  Good as gold, as Coddy said.  Can't pass it up.  Coddy was nodding drowsily and nearly asleep on the couch when Addy lightly punched his arm and whispered, "Coddy... what does my paw keep in the Shed?  I gotta know, I promise I won't tell, not ever."

Coddy looked furtive.  "Nuthin', Addy.  Nuthin'."

"C'mon!  It's gotta be somethin'!  He keeps it locked, all the winders are boarded, and he keeps yellin' at me..."

"It ain't nuthin', Addy, nothing interesting anyway.  Juss' forget about it.  I'm goingta bed now.  This's a rerun anways."

Addy sat there in the darkness and felt hurt.  Coddy was only three years older than him, why would his paw trust him more than his own son?  It didn't add up.  It was then that Addy realized he would have to take matters into his own hands.

It didn't happen until well over three months later.  The first part of Addy's plan was to act as if he had no interest in the Shed, refusing to even look at it as he passed it by in the yard.  He feigned an interest in motorcars, asking his father endless questions about drivers and engines that he'd picked up by reading the racing magazines at Pop's newsstand.  As far as his father knew, the boy's interest was totally consumed by this new hobby.  Meanwhile, while they slept, Addy constructed a makeshift ladder (out of several broken ladders from the trash yard) and slowly loosening one of the ceiling planks that would allow him to peep into the Shed from above....

...one night, while everyone else was asleep, he climbed on top of the Shed, pried the board aside, and tried to look -- but it was far too dark to see anything inside.

The next night, he tried again and lowered a candle into the darkness inside the Shed, but its light was too feeble to offer much illumination, and all he saw was a patch of floor and part of a wooden crate.  

That weekend, he could resist no longer.  His paw, Uncle Amus, and Coddy repeated the same Saturday night ritual that Addy knew so well -- they would, one by one, nonchalantly take leave from the family table and mosey towards the Shed,  as if merely going on a leisurely stroll.  Addy marked the look on his mother's face whenever one left -- she was aware of whatever occurred in the Shed, and looked none too pleased about it.  

All of them were gone.  They were inside it, and would be for a couple of hours at least.  

"I'm going to bed, maw," Addy yawned.  

"So early?" she inquired.

"Yup, I'm bushed," he yawned theatrically.

Into bed.  Out the window.  Around the edge of the property.  Ladder retrieved from hiding place.  Up the ladder, silent as a scullery cat the boy moved.

The lights were on inside.  Addy removed the board, moving it as slowly as humanly possible, easing it aside at a snail's pace.  Finally, he saw...

...his paw was tending to a large copper tub that was attached to some other containers by some tubing.  Unce Amus was filling up some Mason jars with a clear liquid, and dropping a couple of maraschino cherries into each one before sealing it.  Coddy was wrapping them in wax paper and placing them in crates, and nailing each one up with extreme care.

Addy realized it was a still.  They was moonshinin'?  Addy felt a tremendous sense of disappointment.  For months, he'd nursed visions of secret wives, pirate doubloons, fugitive slaves, caged zoo animals, stockpiles of guns and artillery.... but no, his paw was just runnin' moonshine, same as half the men in the county.  Addy knew all about the illegal liquor and it didn't interest him a whit.  He'd heard all about it from the older boys who fished in the creek, just as he'd heard about cigarettes, and the wacky tobaccy that the hippies smoked out West, and the "F-word," and the "C-word," and a little about the birds and the bees... he felt suddenly excluded, untrusted.  He could be in there helping like Coddy was.  Why did they treat him like a baby?  He was only three years younger...

Addy watched a while longer, then decided to go to bed for real.  This was boring.  He was slowly moving the loose board back into position when things inside the Shed changed.  The work seemed to come to a halt.  Amus began to fidget, while Coddy was staring at the wall, as if hypnotized.

"Alright, now," his Paw began, "alright, now, it's time.  Come and get it, come and get it, boy, fresh meat on the bone, yessir..."

To Addy's shock, Coddy and Amus began removing their clothes.  They did so hurriedly, but uncomfortably.  Addy's father undid his overalls, and before Addy knew it, his... his thing, his dong doodle, was flapping loose.  It was larger and hairier than Addy could have imagined.  Below it, his father's balls hung low like those of a hog.  His thing began to grow and stand up in a way that Addy's never had, and then he was approaching Coddy, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders, turned him around, slapped his rump...

Several things happened at once.  Amus looked upwards for whatever reason, and saw Addy's eyes peeking through the roof.  A yelp of rage, shouts of surprise and anger, Addy thrashed in fear and stood up, fell, stood again... and then the boards he was standing on gave way, he was falling, then was caught in the broken boards, he was being stabbed by splinters and torn by rusty nails, then falling again, a thud, starbursts in his vision, more screams and hollers...

"YOU LITTLE SON OF A WHORE HOW MANY TIMES I TOLE YOU..."

"STOP!  STOP!  LOOK OUT!"

"GODDAMNIT BOY YOU GONNA..."

Addy never saw the still tip over.  He felt only a tremendous shock as the boiling corn mash slurry cascaded onto his face.  The pain was like nothing he'd ever felt.  He remembered the episode where Ming the Merciless threatened to lower Flash into an active volcano, it must have felt like this, like this, oh god the pain, the pain...

Addy clawed at his face, and felt his flesh melt and slough off in globs.  He screamed like the damned.  Then, the blackness claimed him and he knew no more.

Weeks passed.

Many weeks passed, as if in dreams.

He knew only darkness, darkness came like the setting of the sun, and that was all.  In the darkness, slow creatures moved, sloshing through his nightmares.
.
.


The boy in room 201-A had undergone such a change since he'd been brought in, the nurses all said.  At first he'd been nearly comatose throughout the treatments which was not surprising given the incredible extent of his burns.  Once he awoke, he cried, and cried, and wanted his mother.  She was there most of the time.  His weeping jags were interrupted by fits of screeching, and more than one nurse began to slowly realize that his terrors seemed to strike whenever his father entered the room, which was infrequently... and then, as he healed, he became quiet.  Too quiet, one might say.

One night, a pretty nurse named Frannie Dalton was tending to him, delicately changing the bandages that still swaddled his face like the Mummy.  You ever seen that movie, Frannie asked him.  The boy nodded.  You see the old one or the new one?  The old one was better...

He would only stare.  He lay propped up in the bed, his arms at his side, his small fists clenching the bedsheets.  What little of his face she could see was set, stonelike.  He appeared deep in thought, more serious than any boy his age had a right to be.

Frannie cleared her throat.  "I want you to know, Addy, that you're still going to have a normal life, when this is all over, I promise..."

"No, I won't."  His words were still partially garbled by the hideous, melted flaps of flesh that hadn't yet been repaired.

"Now sweetie..."

"You don't understand.  I don't want a normal life."

"Sweetie, everyone wants a normal..."

"I don't," he interrupted.  

His head swiveled slowly and he looked at her with haunted eyes.  A fire burned in them.

"I don't want to be normal.  I want to be powerful.  I'm going to run things... I'm going to become a man that runs things.  I won't let him hurt me anymore.  I won't let him hurt Coddy.  I don't want to be Flash... I want to be Ming.  The Merciless.  I want to be (the boss governor senator president overlord king god) the one lowering people into the Volcano.  Not me.  It will never be me again, do you hear me?  Do you?!"

"Sweetie, don't yell, you'll tear the skin..."

His mouth worked furiously as the bandages began to slip off, and his squelching lips looked strangely beaklike underneath his flattened nostrils... Frannie couldn't help it, she remembed the tortoise.  When she was four years old, her grandfather had taken her to the zoo and held her up to the tortoise in his habitat until her tiny young face was inches from his prehistoric one.  She screamed, and her grandfather had laughed.  See that ol' turtlepuss, Frannie?  You want to make friends with ol' turtlepuss? Oh, he gonna eat you, Frannie, you wanna be in ol' turtlepuss's belly?  Hee hee hee!  He'll gobble you up!  He held her too close and the tortoise opened his mouth to nip at her...

The room seemed darker.  Frannie could hear tortoises, she could hear them waddling and splashing in the halls... their ponderous bodies dragging through the darkened corridors of Peachtree General.  Their dumpy shadows fell over the room... oh, god, the tortoises, why did the boy look so much like the tortoise... Frannie wanted to scream, to run...

"Addy, please..."

"And don't call me that.  That's a baby's name..."

He reached up and grabbed her uniform by the lapels, and she was frightened at the strength of his small grip.

"My name is Addison Mitchell McConnell, Jr.  Call me that.  Call me that!"

10-10-2014
4:17AM
The Volcanoes of North Georgia
A tale, is it true?  None can say.  Well, only one can say....
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The following is a harrowing tale, and despite its incredible nature, I swear to any reading that it is entirely factual.  My time is limited, so I shall be necessarily brief and trim this account of any extraneous detail, which is much against my authorial nature.  Such is my haste during this remarkable episode.

I came to this state following the events of the autumn of 1916, while reclining at ease in the parlor of a certain prosperous Inn and brew-house in the charming suburb of Parnum, an area I frequent although I own no property there.  A boy entered and handed me a paper, which upon reading I learnt was a communication from Phineas Smedley, a friend of my father's with whom I was lightly acquainted.  My family and his had not called upon one another in many years, after the death of his sainted mother, the incarceration of his distraught father, and the gradual lessening of his fame as a painter.  In truth, he had become rather unpopular and even disreputable to some, and our erstwhile bond was hardly enough to make me willing to bridge the social chasm, although I like to imagine that I would have done so for most of my other, truer friends.  So it was with some surprise when I read the missive, and saw that old Phineas had heard I was in the area -- how, I know not -- and entreated me to "house-sit" his property for a length of time while he was called away to Millhaven on some sort of business "most urgent."

"I would be most grateful, my dear Runcombe," he croaked as he gave me a rapid perusal of his property, which was expansive but somewhat ill-maintained, "I have no one else in my employ at present, save for some grooms and stable-boys, and I do not trust them any more than I would a Spaniard; they steal from me, I am sure," he muttered bitterly as we marched past the stables where his hounds and horses were kept.

"But what of old Dalkins?" I inquired, referring to his family's longtime head butler.

"Dead.  Last winter.  Consumption." Smedley replied.

"Tragic," said I, and "verily" he replied, "for I can find no replacement of his calibur at such a wage as he demanded."

I had expected that we should then take tea together and perhaps spend an hour or so at conversation in order to renew our familiarity, but to my surprise (and slight chagrin) it was not twenty minutes hence that Smedley summoned his valet, grabbed some scant luggage, and made to leave.  I had no time to relate the particulars of my own current doings and, to say, elaborate on the length of time that I might be able spend on his property, and how I might be called away under certain possible circumstances.  No, not a spot of that; he hurled his key-ring into my hands, drew close, and with eyes narrowed left me with these words:

"Alright, this should do.  I have locked many of the interior doors, for there will be no need for you to enter them, Runcombe... you should be perfectly comfortable, I expect, making use of the main halls, the master-bedroom, the study, and the kitchen areas.  And I make this final request -- do not, under any circumstances, attempt to enter my upstairs studio.  I cannot impress upon you the gravity of this!  I have almost finished my latest work, it could even be my master-piece... yes, yes, it is nearly done -- is it done?  No, not quite so, and as you are aware, I cannot bear to have anyone, even a friend, see my work until I am certain of its completion.  Very well, I am off..."

Ah, yes.  Here I admired the man despite all; no matter what knocks and setbacks he had suffered since the Primrose Summer when his fame was at its peak, he never seemed to suffer any loss of confidence in his skill, and he regarded his ignominy as entirely the fault of an ignorant and superficial public, one gulled into believing all sort of scandal and rumormongering about him; and that his reputation would recover, undoubtedly, once certain critics had been exposed as frauds and drummed from the scene.  He had been in this mode for some twenty years, always promising that his next work, oh yes, his next work would be the one to return him to prominence.  

Here, reader, I make a confession.  Were this a proper autobiography, something intended for the public or for antiquity, I would use all the art and verve I possess to obscure the truth of what happened next.  I would say that I had every intention of honoring Smedley's request, that I spent days being devoured from within by the worm Curiosity and only relented to the temptation after putting up a heroic resistance... but since I have not the time for such machination, I shall admit instead that I merely waited until he was gone, allowed for such an interval to pass that I was certain he would not return, and then skipped gaily with the keys bouncing at my side to the forbidden studio to cheekily sneak a peek at his work.  

Such was my nature.  I felt that the imposition he'd placed upon me, combined with his brusqueness, fully justified such a harmless trespass.

However, after several minutes of fumbling it came apparent that none of the keys on the ring fitted the portal in question; I attempted each several times.  I'd been foiled, and gave it up as an unworthy endeavor.  I turned and made to leave, and with a start I saw that one of the servants -- a porky and grubby kitchen boy -- had espied me at my subterfuge and was grinning heartily at my dishonest prying.  I flushed and considered striking the slovenly urchin when he -- in the middle of cramming a dirty finger into his nostril to extricate a globby bogey -- shrugged and said "ye wantin' in there, master?  He keeps the cog t'that 'un 'idden in his chambers, he do, offin' in tha' old wardrobe, 'ee does."

He waddled noisily away, and even though I was no longer especially curious about the painting itself, I spent over an hour in search of the concealed secondary key.  As we all know, tasks that bother and confound us are often the ones that most ensnare our fancy, and release it only once they are cracked, even if the actual reward is meager.

With the key at last in hand, I returned to the studio, somewhat grumbly and bilious, and to my grudging satisfaction, entered it to gaze upon Smedley's potential "master-piece."

Dear reader, the shock.  The immensity of the shock was without precedent.

The first thing that struck me was that the work was not confined to an easel, but instead took up the entirely of the northmost wall -- it was a mural some fifty feet wide and twenty feet tall, vast in every aspect.  It portrayed a hellish landscape, something akin to the works of Bosch or Blake, but far more realistic and detailed than anything those masters ever attempted.  It showed mountains of reddish ore, a dark and foreboding sky, chasms, rivers, and precipices lit by a crepuscular light.  The skill on display was fantastic, and for just an instant I lost all doubt in Smedley's faculties, for he had clearly developed into a painter more able than nearly any other I could name.  Even the ceiling of the Sistine would look puny compared to this towering panorama....

...but then I noticed the true subject of the work, and my soul shrank in terror, and every slight upon Smedley's sanity echoed in my ears.  For amidst this alien vista there slithered a ghastly pair of leviathans such has never been seen upon the good Earth; creatures that could never be produced from the mind of a judicious God but only from the diseased brain of a Bedlamite.  Their bloated bodies were long, somewhat insectile, but supported by furry limbs like those of a deformed ibex, studded with curved horns, and sprouting whiplike tentacles and growths of a nature I cannot accurately describe.  The two insidious beings seemed to be attacking one another, the gaping maw of one dripping with ichor...

...I wanted to flee, I tell you.  But I could not.  Too striking was the image, too great was my aversion to its subjects, and too intriguing was the flawless execution.  I grabbed a three-legged stool and placed it underneath me and thus spent the greater part of the next hour in nauseated contemplation.  At times I thought to leave, to erase the image from my mind with a veritable marathon of strong drink, although I knew already this would prove fruitless.  So long I stayed that the sun outside began to set, and I procured several oil lamps so that I could continue my vigil.  After lighting the last one I was overcome by the urge to fling it at the mural and burn it to cinders even at the cost of destroying the rest of the property.  Yes, that was what must be done... I would blame the rotund servant boy for the incident, of course... I reared back to hurl the lamp when my eyes were shocked anew -- the painting, I tell you, appeared to move... the thoraxes of the hideous beasts undulated, the slimy sheen glistened in that damnable light.... I gazed deeper into the landscape, deeper, deeper...

...I suppose I dropped the lamp, but I do not know.  For when next I took stock of my senses, all was confusion.  My body was not my own; I had become massive and unwieldy, my every instinct struggling to cope with unfamiliar sensation.  I thrashed and flailed, and when my spasms abated, I began to realize the terrible reality.  Dear reader, I was inside the hated painting!  And I had ceased to be human at all.  I had, unaccountably, been transmogrified and my soul was now housed within the lesser of the two monsters; the acrid landscape had become utterly real.  I could smell the scorched soil, hear the roar of the roiling ocean, and feel the sting of the poisonous atmosphere... I fought against this reality, fought against it as anyone would, imagining that I had suffered a mental breakdown, a psychotic fugue, for such things cannot happen... alas, after several minutes, I had no choice but to accept the truth.  

Even stranger, I could see, with my new massive eyes, a ghostly image of Smedley's studio.  It hovered in the air, barely perceptible, a window to my own world.  I lurched towards it frantically, trying to propel my new body through it, supposing that I might return... but all for naught. I raised a black talon and it passed through the image, which was fading, fading, like a dream.  The last thing I glimpsed of it was the portly figure of the servant-boy, who had entered the studio and was glaring at the painting -- at me -- with gleeful malice.  Could he see me?  Could he know what had transpired?  I tried to scream but found I had no voice, at least, none that I knew how to use.

I then became aware of the other being like myself, the other colossal abomination in the painting.  It was bearing down on me aggressively, slavering and making harsh chittering sounds.  I thought of defending myself, but then... oh, how to explain... my mind was clouded with a languidness, an unaccountable desire to submit... and then, even though I believed my capacity for anguish and astonishment had been exhausted by the events thus far, this was not so.

For I realized it was not feeding time.  It was mating season.

Curse you, Phineas Smedley.  Curse you.


10-5-2014
7:14AM
Phineas Smedley's Master-Piece
The third mention of the elusive Phineas Smedley within the Council.  At last, he appears on stage, and we get an inkling of why the Chinese would pay so much for one of his late works.  Truly, this is momentous....
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Well you can tell by the way I abuse my cock,
I'm a lonely man, no one to fuck.
Fappin' loud, all women shorn,
I've been slappin' round
since I was born.
And now it's all right.  It's not gay.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
the jerkin' time's effect on man.


Whether you're a yanker or whether you're a spanker
you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Feel your balls tighten, your day's about to brighten
when you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, hah, oh, uh, sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, oh, ha, wow, sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!

-oh, we blow-

Well now I splooge low and I spurt high,
and if I can't get up, I really try.
Got the jizz like resin on my shoes.
I'm a jackin' man just like Howard Hughes.
You know it's alright.  It's not gay.
I'll live to skeet another day.
We can try to understand
the jerkin' time's effect on man.


Whether you're a yanker or whether you're a spanker
you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Feel your balls tighten, your day's about to brighten
when you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, hah, oh, uh, sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, oh, ha, wow, sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!

-aaaaaaaahh-

Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me.
She's gonna dump me, yeah.
Date's goin' nowhere.  I'll have to pump it, yeah.
I'm sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!


Well, you can tell by the sorrow on my face
that I live alone, a rented place.
Pizza rolls, the beer is warm, my internet connection
brings me porn.
Now others watch it once a day,
but it rarely ever leaves my gaze.
And now I hope you understand
the reasons for my hairy hands.


Whether you're a yanker or whether you're a spanker
you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Feel your balls tighten, your day's about to brighten
when you're sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, hah, oh, uh, sprayin' the jizz, sprayin' the jizz.
Ah, oh, ha, wow, sprayin' the jiiiiiizz!


Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me.
She's gonna dump me, yeah.
Date's goin' nowhere.  I'll have to pump it, yeah.
I'm sprayin' the jiiiiiiiiiiizz!


Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me.
She's gonna dump me, yeah.


-Uuhaa uaaahhh uaahh aaahh!-


Date's goin' nowhere.  I'll have to pump it, yeah.
I'm sprayin' the jiiiiiiiiiiizz!


Date's goin' nowhere.  She's gonna dump me, yeah.
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

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:iconacaciathorn:
Acaciathorn Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you so much for the donation! :hug:
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:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2014
You are most welcome.  
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:iconelusivegnome:
ElusiveGnome Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2011
look, some quality! *watch
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:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2011
Thank you, sir. We treasure our humble works, and are pleased when others do so.
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: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?
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: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.
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:iconststreet:
ststreet Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2009
Thanks.
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:iconargo602:
Argo602 Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2009
Thanks for the watch!
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