An Incalculable Collection of a Comical Cocktail of Chimerical Characters:
Fracula
Venchantire
Lady Flunkeinshine
Hanchenfein
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf
Eclipsabetham Mangarebra
Gloomeizter Grobbitz
Golashish.
Clitarch
Officer Feususkoo
Groppaladupulous the Goth
Messersplash
Laser Thumb
Hammer Meddler
The Mad Lone Shag Head Witch
The Gore Cosmonaut
Gothic Guzzler
Rascalopivot
In here there is a profoundly unproductive plot. A gloriously messy experimental chrysalis: Warped, claustrophobic logic.
Question everything, except oneself and the friendship one has with it.
This is a transparency betrayal.
This helps keep the discrepancies servile.
Dreams incarnate without a sufficient plot.
Coherence actively punished.
Take a chance on craving one's own identity.
Bet on the one who still wants to be someone.
Scene 1
In the year 2045, the earth had become an atomic wasteland. To rebuild the population, clones were allocated. Without them the population would be upturned. The first city to spring forth from grievances and destruction was called Gotheuw Gollouw.
In Gotheuw Gollouw no nobody is authorized to be part of their own life anymore properly, this way or that way. The brain becomes frightened pulp.
One is only able to look at one’s approaching mood.
Even expectations have a turning point.
Identity itself is devoured, cloned, and erased at the height of reluctance.
The human side of things are not reported on, luckily.
This is a blocked paradise of a hypnotic realm people can't comment on.
Gothouw Gollouw arose from the ceasefire frost: the only remaining power, distilling both solid sickness and sweetness into the arena’s elemental cruelty.
This is an hypnotic realm, don't turn back in a hurry.
A city so dark the eyes had no surface light. A city of drapes and veils, summoning no enlightenment.
The Running Pressman was the most popular game, an inconceivable obstacle course in Gothuew Gollouw, created by people who didn't understand what newfangled help meant. Like they keep apologizing to the thing they're killing.
The embodiment of non-formal integrity is extensively addressed by authorities.
People that live through the obstacle course are left living without charter, without metric, without grievance procedure.
They are given the spontaneous arising of unstructured power without implications for future compliance.
The running Pressman, where the wildest trap is community engagement.
Sometime ago their was a government, but it all got chewed up.
Gotheuw Gollouw: where strict rules were not thought about, there were merely junk spinning around.
In Gotheuw Gollouw's frozen wasteland, journalism isn't free; it's conscripted entertainment.
Play the game or vanish into obsolete static; no ratings, no relevance, just a surplus of pretention such as collectivist space programs to stumble upon.
The sunshine itself is an unseasonable dilemma, give or take defiance.
The stained sun is a silver sissy, the solar system a see-saw across a fractured plain.
The earth, wondering around in an illumineth slumber, anchoring reality itself.
News isn't truth-seeking or pivotal, it's a forced spectacle, just like the expression of thought.
Broadcast mediums as inestimable cruelty vectors.
Children go unnurtured just when they need it the most.
Evaporated, unarchived, unremembered, journalists wouldn't even know where to look for news to be reported because they are guilty of something: probing into the lives of innocent people without stopping to reflect upon them.
Groppaladupulous, operating chief of the Running Pressman addresses the audience:
"No mercy for the unbroadcastable"
"Preview awesomeness and all the rest of it and what have you and all of the bits that go with it."
Gotheuw Gollouw: A city with displaced and undefined borders, and where life itself was a gamble, and nobody was given a helping hand or proper assurances. Everbody was entangled in chilliness.
The Running Pressman: Where the ones on the run are the people who usually bring us the news.
Where journalists don't break the news; they get broken by it.
Journalists run not just for survival, but because suspension means irrelevance: worse than death in a world where identity is already soul-scattered via clones.
Pure media cruelty, really, every single sadomasochistic physical ability or medium is elemental to this show.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, airwaves are privilege, not right. Journalists play "The Running Pressman" or watch their frequencies suspend in mid-air like bloody thieves. Frequencies suspended mid-scream.
The ultimate enticement twisted into calculations of brightness blindly followed.
The eyes can keep searching; the truth isn't looking back, it is drowsing.
Where today doesn't carry on to tomorrow because nobody is aware of it.
There is no such thing as an authentic self. Just dynamic prayers with no internal coherence.
Being exceptionally rude is acceptable in this journalism apocalypse.
Nuclear confusion without a cultural context.
Those that don't bother with exemplary faith are the first in line to become runners.
Runners without exemplary faith get the purest cocktail: sickening longest with sweetened shortest, evaporating fastest.
Twist meaning and tradition of sexual reproduction because sometimes it is unaccessible and not highly distinguished.
Nuclear winter, nuclear athletics, the tiny little glow of the sun is brushed aside.
The sun itself was grey and slimy.
There was no one single climax in this frozen, post-apocalyptic city, there was a climax express.
Everything in the city was a climax because here was no compelling decadence.
The airwaves dangle more precariously, burgling the elite 'alliances'.
The broadcasts ends with dubious missing headlines where journalists have no hope of returning unless they participate in the show.
Irreversible perversity was the climax as the sky pisses harder. A frozen orgy of rot and ritual.
A person's identity is blundered by the grand totality of popularity and other deadlocks.
Winners are a masterclass in intellectual sabotage.
Philosophy...an endless reflection broken and questioned, creating a merger with nihilistic metaphorical muses.
A city which can't find death because it is camoflagued, the necessary setting for horror .
Death and life are represented equally, trail blazers for god’s sake.
Transend into low dangers in the underground. Reassess uselessness outside the limit.
This is when the mainstream was no longer in vogue.
Chief instances of vulgarity enchant.
No anticipated plot, just a compelling private madness.
The damage was done when you were born.
In Gotheuw Gollouw there was no heavy use of machines, public transport etc, etc. The only adventure was to travel as an insider of one’s body, hoping it is astonishing. Transport such as cars were considered combustible in a clinical way.
No cycles or motorcycles, no cars, because they operate under the law.
Confusion has obvious existence.
Here there is explicit gore, sex, and nihilism, a zone with no brakes in a frozen radioactive future. All liberating vulgarity.
Cloning, an hypnotic change one can feel.
IDissociate oneself from or evacuate from.
Conversation was not an ultimatum; it was a mockery.
News itself is make-believe terrorism multiplying.
Clones aren't heirs; they're echoes arguing with the original scream of Christ's opera.
The Running Pressman, as an eye injection into no man's land.
The Running Pressman game show turns survival into prime-time sadism.
The show's ratings erasing all other airwaves.
Before you run too fast and become uncivilised one way or another.
A sadistic spectacle polished so beautifully that it becomes an exhibition of malleability, going onwards and upwards is temporarily impeded.
The stakes were never the runners’ lives. The stakes were identity itself.
Slap and destroy all ways of going forward with precarious humidity.
There's no urgency to be yourself in a planned series of conciousness.
Gothuew Gollouw, a miraculous transformation of a city where even barrenness was a highlight. A cathedral of absence so complete it glowed with punishment. Where even the truth was a bother.
The Running Pressman was the only form of entertainment in the city. Other protocols of activity such as athletics, ball games were laughable in comparison. The city done everything in its power to cease devotion to these forms of leisure. Ball games were considered 'plain organisations' instead of leisure.
No casual viewers allowed. Be bludgeoned with fits and seizures.
Contestants who survived the game were considered to have strategic yet perverse luck. Journalists and TV reporters suffered intentionally abandoned nervous complaints because they were the first to participate as runners in the gameshow.
The media likes any sort of story, even if it means they become a non-uniform martyr, for instance, and other old-time procedures without governence.
They were reunited and neutralized by what was called 'biometric conquest', the only common agenda on the show. Sameness is converted into difference by invitation ony without a warning.
Where reason doesn't just fail being interchangable with nonsense, it gets hunted down and executed on air for ratings. Crude versions of metaphysics can create a solid epoch.
A runner, nicknamed Lazer Guzzler, who speaks about thoughts in a slow idiotic manner, pulling the audience with him, is force-fed his own microphone until it punctures the stomach and keeps transmitting gurgles to the betting audience. It slides past the epiglottis, past the heart that is suddenly broadcasting its own panic in 87.5 MHz, past the diaphragm that tries and fails to scream.
He’s dragging the audience into the shell with him, slow, deliberate, almost thoughtful.
No sacred bystanders. Fans aren't permitted to browse; they're forged into participants.
This frozen radioactive future has no speed limits, no guardrails, just the abyss accelerating toward everyone.
Delirious defiance, poetic pandemonium in slow motion.
Lazer Guzzler: Greenish skin under the strobes, cloned from something that might once have been human. Face like a turtle, eyes like ancient ponds.
Sound judgements are made by bullies trying to fragment a philosophical abyss handed over to the executioner, Fracula, in benckmark stealth. And Lazer Guzzler practically immobilises them with centuries old wisdom nobody can purge.
Fracula: A silhouette stitched from bat wings and broken headlines.
Lazer Guzzler - the fastest death game in Gotheuw Gollouw opens with the slowest creature alive, who only has a psychological stimulus.
Check the condition of one’s mind in case it is trash.
In here death is peddled as a sustainable form of self-expression, authorities ghosted into irrelevance.
The punters suddenly realise: This isn’t a runner. This is the one who’s going to make them wait.
Messersplash was the first runner of the show, and entered what was called a Shapnel Maze. He only lasted 10 minites before being torn to peices.
Groppaladupulous the Goth: "Well he's not up to speed then. The sound of galantines are humming after his death. He may have his head cut off after being killed: How embarrassing, decapitated twice, one on the show, one in society. This seems like something that already killed somebody off-camera.
Atmopshere is no longer online now.
Death: take it or leave it or let it to take you places.
Gothic Guzzler: “I think I don’t mind being slow because the world has to wait for me. And now the world is inside me...”even the slowest death makes the empire wait.
“The Running Pressman” promises velocity, escape velocity, headlines at the speed of death. But the first runner—the one who sets the tone, the one the audience remembers forever—is the one who proves running is pointless when the house (the stomach, the city, the empire) is already inside you, moving at its own glacial pace.
The ensuing phrases come from the microphone:
Gothic Guzzler: “Oh, I get it now, the show was always the stomach. And the audience lives in there with me.”
In Gotheuw Gollouw even innards are the masters of minor matters and motives.
The sudden, luxurious certainty that the show is not over because the audience has finally become the show.
No time periods, no select company, not a minion or murmer of activity unless you are a contributor to the game show.
A game show with erotic-absurdist energy where even the circuits of automatons are seized, and then it takes its toll for the last time.
Totality only comes about when you are settled whilst being continuously modified.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, the only fake news is survival, and even that's rated for primetime.
Where survival isn't just physical but an erasure of identity itself.
Life is a gamble, and survival demands the erasure of self.
Momentum is a cruel god.
Fast and loose liberty to commence with everything concerning turmoil is hereby granted in Gotheuw Gollouw.
Runner's that fail the Running Pressman are let dreadfully let loose into the core of Gothuew Gollouw. This is punishment worse than death agencies.
This is no super-flash disco.
No sanctuary, just the exploits, whatever the significances are reached for.
Big screens bend reality into rhetorical retreats not constitutive of tourist wolves.
A show where wanna-be tourists become such fans and enthusiasts of the Running Pressmman show that they found travelling as firm measures of mundanity, and wished to watch the show instead.
No itinerary, just purposive unity in the underground.
The Running Pressman did not end travel. It radicalised the very idea of freedom of not having to carry luggage. Skin was classified as “on-board equipment".
Tourists, the collective rush of bodies that had forgotten the concept of leaving, detained in a gloriously deranged detour.
The Running Pressman illustrated a radical transformation of travel, announcing nobody was able to be maintained outside the bounds of Gotheuw Golleuw, in exchange they are invited to participate in the game show.
Ending reality until the only honest pilgrimage left was inward, downward, away from the principle source of surfaces.
The unity of public disinterest was heavier than any luggage ever was; it pressed down like atmospheric shame.
Surrender the itinerary. The retreat is complete. No reversals. No facades.
Skin-tags (tiny metal stamps that clipped painlessly through the earlobe) were issued to be worn. The ears exploded for anybody attempting to tour away from Gothuew Golleuw.
Nobody escapes the empire of Gotheuw Gollouw, productivity needs to emanate to restore full control of the city. But there were deserters with moorings to anarchy. In here is a graphic representatioin of social electioneering. Anarchy does not go astray even when convention is unattainable.
No death collars here, they are mundane.
Skin-tags: Souvenirs that enforce the no-exit enumeration of events.
A city close to building another doom far greater than any holocaust.
Where death is a superpower.
An uprising of a traditional pleasure was not status quo.
Conventionality itself was referred to as an 'inactive hunt'.
Groppaladupulous: "Place your bets before your own thoughts start crawling. After death, you only come back to life to die again unsightly, so it’s not worthwhile."
Death: it's even rude talking about it, so seek the advantages of abandoned life and other dilemmas.
Where clones patch the population like bad seams on a corpse thereabouts.
Primordial dark spaciousness is the grand target in this underworld patrol.
Modern forms of prison trials have no ultimate answer, so the sadistic game The Running Pressman, came into force.
Contestants were well-established reporters and journalists, guaranteeing great benefit for makeshift benefits of mortality.
Everybody benefits from high-quality nihilism.
High-quality nihilism reminds presssman the airwaves were always a scam.
In this game, there are several stages of stupidity to attract attention.
Humanity was becoming contaminated, disordered, disadvantaged with no time-determination foundation, remaining is just the reluctant harness of utterance of consciousness.
Expeditions in the game are smeared with ratings which themselves had confusing elements rather than a particular emotion.
Erotic mechanisms are sufficient to overcome big world events or monuments of glory because nobody abstains from the resumption of reckless illusions.
Opinions quiver when they are come from those with fully human form, something like that.
Where justice finally gave up constraints of cognition and other forms of rehearsed conservatism.
There is nothing with a similitude to a political system, just popular demonstrations of death and ferocious struggles with nihilism.
Where conditioning of human life never fits into a journalists' groove.
Gotheuw Gollouw: Where death is undeterminable, in accordance with nature.
No crime scene. No victim. No perpetrator. Only nature doing what nature always did: refusing to sign the death certificate.
Whatever is around the corner is a television fetish.
This is where forlorn ordinary mortals become complex chimeras breaching political practice as rigorous exponents of conflicting norms. This is referred to as 'morbid speciality'
Ecstasy horrendous!
The goofy essentials of grime.
Participants become extensively seductive, each of their own accord.
The aura of morbitity is forever pursued.
Be everywhere, see anyone, do anything in a morbid manner.
Incumbent morbidity flexes its muscles.
This was not an exuberant mythological setting, it was a ruinous state far surpassing scholastic subtlety of rules in advance.
Growling innovation was preferred over enlightenment. Erotic mechanisms are sufficient.
Temperament is seriously modified and immediately unleashed with no cause for alarm because there is nothing with a similitude to a political system, just popular demonstrations of death and ferocious struggles with nihilism.
The game is contingent on characteristics of a primordial being, fanatical compulsion was rendered.
Fracula doesn't just get rid of bodies, he hunts them, as if rescuing his victims from objecthood unfolding into linguistics not centrally regulated.
Fracula prefers a nymphomania crusade over a brief summary of life and tradition. He doesn’t need a clock because morbidity itself is the only calendar he recognises.
Fracula does not shout. He caresses, reducing every human vow to a polite suggestion.
A city so drenched in tragic grandeur that even the ruler of death, Fracula-fueled, helps the presence of positioning of passion of people's promises as mere propositions.
In this show imminent innocence is private property, contrasting with imperialism and other enormous busy surpluses of culture where nobody knows where to start.
Gothic Guzzler - Like a swamp sage who just watched empires rot.
The only way to prove your own innocence is to trespass the polished, seamless, designer-made mainstream. Nothing else exists in this domain other than a sharp attack on tenderness mispresented as revenge.
Tenderness was never the victim. It was the weapon yuppies used to sell you the conversation.
Yuppies: people that can’t help themselves from being contemporary.
A gorgeous screaming breach does not become a consensus to reality.
Where substances and states of screentime had select suspension to be discovered.
Gotheuw Gollouw, ministry of morbidity without a timer clock. EST: The moment mercy expired.
Where death was black-magic alchemy, life no longer proved of its existence, even in laboratories.
Death is not just grievance; it's genesis.
In here there will be a queer streak in the typical human rights act.
This is where the air tastes like incense and insurrection without distinctions.
Make grand claims that doctrine never works, only entertainment does.
This apocalypse is the perfect emptying of endless differentatations of naturalism. No comforting ecosystems. No “circle of life.”
The shows in the city Gotheuw Gollouw have bare damping nuclear fog people queue up for.
Welcome to The Running Pressman, march of the imbeciles, where the urge of human sociality and morbidity are pursued equally.
The Running Pressman isn’t satire that points and laughs. It’s a live demolition crew inexusable in this absolutely unreal day and age.
It’s not an announcement; it’s a dinner bell for the damned.
Then the gates open and the runners are spat out like gristle.
The audience gambles on which journalist, pressman or newsreader will be the first to be flanked my death. It becomes the most celebrating game show of all time, leaving all other media realms in no-man's land. Obsolete before death even arrived.
The Running Pressman doesn’t just eclipse every other show. It erases the very idea that anything else ever deserved the airwaves.
In The Running Pressman, the news doesn’t just die. It is hunted down, disarmed, and executed on live air.
Every bulletin that still pretends to be neutral is treated as an armed combatant.
The bulletins don’t get reformed. They get hunted to extinction on prime-time.
By season three the ratings are no longer measured; they are worshipped.
The rules were written by people who never had to pay rent for a glimpse of the haunts.
One city-wide death game. "The Running Pressman:"
The Running Pressman: Where the most pathos marvels rules without a fair chance of a sense of dogmatism; excessive propaganda with a bias toward courage and adventure becomes a contest.
Where nihilism is prime-time rhetoric, probing language's limits with vulgar, ironic disclosure.
You can barricade against a stalker. You can become a swallowed hunter. But how do you prepare for something that only kills when the collective nightmare remembers it exists?
The running pressman, a wholesale warehouse for the weird, where being willing to give up one's life is the grand submission.
This unregulated game inverts normality into rhetoric.
The press isn’t dead; it’s running for its life.
Death is no longer a tragedy. It is prime-time television.
This isn't death, we're operating the last affectionate religion left.
The whole show was rigged, a farce, demanding personages of metaphors.
Metaphors are no longer an obligatory spiritual order of complacency.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, the only thing still allowed to travel is whatever can fit inside a metaphor once the body has been politely declined.
It doesn’t need a headline because it is the headline.
Every headline is now a tumour. Every broadcast a seizure.
Due to sacrificial radicalism of health and wellbeing, the age of compulsory consolation becomes forced comfort.
People on parole were forced to be part of the audience so they see the consequences of crime as part of their parole period, so they would be terrified out of the wits that they would never commit another crime.
They thought they came to see the consequences of crime. They leave as the consequence itself, no longer penalised.
The Running Pressman, where news is possibly permanently self-evident. No more need for reporters.
Fans and enthusiasts are not permitted to browse over the show, they were made to be participants of it, given no directions on how to survive willingly, mastering invisibility sufficiently similar to praise and wonder of creating the first episode of life.
The city was so laden with pressures and dangers that the exact role of the audience remains unknown.
The audience itself makes inroads into the site of transgression between the provisional difference between and death.
In this show there is no dualism of life and death. All is just rearranged anatomy.
The Running Pressman: Reporters are contestants; must file "morbidity dispatches" mid-chase while stalkers hunt. Here is a world without a pressman or journalist taking the slightest hold of the airwaves.
They thought they were hunting the story; turns out the story was hunting them all along, and the Running Pressman are merely the public execution disguised as prime-time entertainment.
Journalists unearth the very foundation of extremist's radicalism, that's why they are the chief contestants of our show. They hide from news discharged from language, now a personal impediment of the nervous system.
This is a journalism apocalypse.
They turn "fake news" into death scrolls.
Here there are roving cameras before the stalkers strike. Camera killers.
The cameras would rather broadcast the end of broadcasting than miss the headline.
Groppaladupulous: "Tonight we are not asking who will live longest; we are asking who can die most beautifully. Who sporadically kills the most, like a sort of nightmare you awaken from."
The Running Pressman stalkers do a number of things except drink blood; they steal exuberant populism, then files it as his own without bragging.
Tonight we are not asking who will live longest; we are asking who can die most beautifully.
Bid high, die pretty, and may your corpse clear the warehouse floor before the next commercial break.
Hanchenfein: His poisonous kiss, Lady Flunkeinshine, erotic blood-drain, Venchantire, funeral liturgy executioner turned bookie of the Running Pressman. Venom-laced kiss, body melts into black frost.
The Running Pressman devours minutes from viewer lifespans and steals their final thoughts as headlines.
Of alI the Running Pressman, nobody reports independently on their identity, which is a perceived divide of victim turned participant.
A mind bending blaster is exclaimed without restraint for whatever reason.
A beautiful, brain-shredded aftermath not engendered by formal properties of modernism, just metaphoric disassociations of naturalization and other corruptions, and every other irrevocable corruption that ever pretended to be innocent.
Cities are built upon a wilderness which has no atmosphere.
Trees grow downward into the memory of roots they never trusted.
Snort once and forget what ‘natural’ ever meant.
The city forgets which way is up. Gravity files a missing-persons report on itself.
Jettison the sanitized hellscape of modernism.
The Running Pressman, tickets are hunger, stakes are flesh. Who is the most morbid or profane "What's your take on morbidity" Make your bet on who is the most morbid yet! The house is feeling patriotic tonight!
This is a brutally mutated santuary in a sublime sense, and the runners were on a mission to appease pity and fear, their stories the only currency against the void's insatiable bet.
In here is people inventing grotesquerie from thin air.
The ratings are confused, but confusion is the only emotion still allowed on air, which does not report on the fullness of time nor is it influenced by the priority space, just the show’s deliberate mutilation.
The investigator/protagonist is forced to become a “runner” (the human bait who herds the chosen immortal toward the kill-zone where his legs have given way.)
Pure Hannibal Lecter foreplay, not in serial order.
Lecter debating ballistics over fava beans as his main credentials.
The way the Roman games evolved from circus to Colosseum to televised execution.
The Running Pressman: A game where even freedom causes issues. Mayhem occurs in the underworld before it was castrated.
Tonight the show is nothing but the new betting board, rendered in a shade that makes viewers vomit their childhoods in pure form without a physical stimulus.
It is less plot, more like a soul-autopsy. Build upon liturgical rhythm.
Death loves an equivocal canvas.
Bits and pieces of reason hanging out here and there.
Imagine consciousness as material not required, the one luxury item the universe overproduced.
It is the lullaby the universe forgot to sing to itself before it started screaming.
Every orgy ended in a big bang instead of whimper.
Where nipples are friendship bracelets.
Place your bets on which chimera collapses first in a thoroughgoing connection with death not pre-supposed.
Groppaladupulous, tailcoat flapping like the foreskin of the apocalypse, ringmaster of the Running Pressman games, chief dismantler of days, turning sports into an oasis says:
“Welcome gorgeous freaks, and freak-adjacents. Will tonight’s noble prey outrun the dawn? Fang… or fortune? Who is the most androgynous personification of morbidity? If you don't bet you have to give a little bit of your nakedness to somebody. Waiting for you to come back and decide whose nakedness gets harvested next. It's a voluntary cult of exquisite surrender where contestants (runners/prey) compete to embody morbidity. Runners embody morbidity to "impress" before shattering."
Groppaladupulous continues: "It might be Fracula. His expiry date was getting stale anyway. Biting gender like it owes him money. You decide, darlings. Bet with your last functioning hormone! Bet with the memory of your first orgasm! Dabble in ding-a-linga-dong-dong death darlings!
Groppaladupulous hypes the games like a deranged auctioneer with lapsed correspondence toward materialism. Voice like a chainsaw soaked in cough syrup and communion wine. He doesn’t just introduce the games. He auctions the concept of tomorrow itself. Materialism isn’t greed; it’s just lapsed correspondence with reality. And reality stopped writing back seasons ago!”
Groppaladupulous, the ultimate editor of lifespans, the one who culls headlines and souls with equal indifference.
Fracula, every episode he begins by eating one minute of the viewers’ remaining lifespan, live on air.
The press aren't just spectators, they're runners. No sacred bystanders, no free press promiscuity.
Gotheuw Gollouw, where there is no thread of wisdom. Scumbags create an historical evolution. They get their teeth whitened just as they are hearing the death rattle.
Groppaladupulous: "Tonight, my darling degenerates, we welcome the glorious era before they snipped the balls off chaos itself. Welcome to the running pressman, where nothing is hollow or transient like modern news. Bet now, or ruminate on a flagrant act of mutiny. That’s it. That’s the entire house policy. No third option. No neutral ground. You either feed the market with your wager or you become the next cautionary lot sold off for parts."
Hanchenfein: Reason to bet: Cloned himself purely to experience being murdered by himself from the victim’s point of view. When he moves, it sounds like an hourglass dismembered by a chainsaw. Air itself votes to come apart, without busting.
Fracula: reason to bet: ate an entire atlas of the pre-apocalypse world, border by border, while live-streaming the indigestion.
Goligarch: Reason to bet: He was so stoned on cannabis that he didn't know whether he was a stalker or a runner, he was an opportunist looking for someone to wake up his mind.
Rascalopivot: Reason to bet: He is riddled with useless unpivoted orgasms the moment the run is over. Every sprint ends in a shuddering, pointless climax that leaves him twitching and exposed. Bet on whether he finishes the runner… or finishes himself first.
Clitarch: Reason to bet: She has a clitoris the size of a testicle in her pussy, the smiggle. This time it is simply anatomy allowed to exist without apology. Unapologetic anatomical flair is rendered. Her weapon is seduction. But smiggle pits are not easy to explore because they are suspicous.
Officer Feususkoo: Reason to bet: He made a prank call to his own police station, calling all emergency services, the fire brigade and ambulance, saying the station had caught on fire, when nothing was occurring at all.
Gloomeister Grobbitz: reason to bet: he got stoned and drunk while being the pall bearer at his father’s funeral.
Groppaladupulous: "Watch as the funeral reclaims what academia mistakenly called a mind. In here there was social event fair enough to be funnelled into scientific status and other taboos. No asking, no fuss."
The chief bully is thoughts in your head which are paranoiac in respects of rectal suspension, it is just terrible, top secret.
Hammer Meddler: reason to bet: “He believes everybody is a structure awaiting collapse. He merely accelerates the inevitable with affectionate precision. Never to kill outright; always to cripple in ways that prolong the broadcast. Pain compliance, delivered with compassion. No pain no gain; This line is the death certificate of an entire era.
The audience votes on which bone he breaks next. Highest bidder gets to name the fracture for record purposes.
Lady Flunkeinshine: Reason to bet: She wanted to learn French at university but opted out because she didn't like the people there, too many geeks and nerds. She had geek phobia. Her pathological charms academia forgot.
Fracula: another reason to bet; He has high hopes your veins will become granular.
The Gore Cosmonaut: Reason to bet: He is the audacious mashup of blood and sand. Space was a contrived fortress for him. He engineered compounds to induce perpetual nausea. Unreflected probing amplified to vomiting point.
Laser Thumb: reason to bet. His thumb pre-lubricated with the tears of former tourists. Delivery method: strictly rectal. The only lube in Gotheuw Gollouw that gets more tragic with every thrust.
Groppaladupulous: "That a fair call, a total fair call: the most honest diagnosis ever aired on the show. There's way more out than goes in." He has a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a squishy: intestines on the express lane to elsewhere"
Hanchenfein: another reason to bet: He was once a printer and got fired for throwing tools into his printing press, putting a spanner in the works. Then he was reconciled, getting another job, hired as an aircraft engineer.
Eclipsabetham Mangarebra: reason to bet: Keeps a private observatory where she eclipses the moon herself, and calls it “lunar foreplay".
Fracula: another reason to bet: he did cat burglaries every night for 3 months, before being mauled by a police dog at his last burglary. The police said he was facing a prison sentence of 20 years. But he said somebody else was involved in doing the burglaries, admitting his last burglary was the only one he did, so he got off light with only a 5 month prison sentence for one crime.
Gloomeister Grobbitz: another reason to bet. He did a 69er with a stranger, and stole her purse during the sexual act.
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf: reason to bet: He made raging love to a librarian, while complaining that all her book’s had titles to short.
Eclipsabetham Mangarebra: another reason to bet. She wrote her own obituary: "My veins are merely sketches quickly dissipated".
Fracula: another reason to bet: he didn't just watch porn videos, he re-enacted the scenes in real life, only his favourite scenes of course.
Hanchenfein: another reason to bet: Sitting at a dinner table eating tea with others he puked up food over the table, and said the meal was beautiful.
Gloomeister Grobbitz: Another reason to bet: He teases people that blood is merely liquid waste disposal. He doesn’t just kill you; he demotes your life-force to sewage. Turns the most sacred fluid in the body into something you’d mop up with a rag and apologise to the floor for.
Groppaladupulous: "Ladies, gentlemen, and whatever’s left in between: place your final wagers. I vouch for Gloomeizter Grobbitz, the Messiah of melancholy: He’s not a killer. He’s sanitation with a sense of brilliant insight into dysfunctional anatomy. Grobbitz doesn’t take lives. He redeems them from the sin of pretending they were ever whole.
Hammer Meddler was the first stalker to partake in the game show. He has a weapon called a “Ripper Collapsar” It is not just a chainsaw. It is a verdict with teeth.
The blade wakes with a roar that rattles teeth in skulls three districts away.
Groppaladupulous: "And Eclipsabetham Mangarebra, you’re not dying, darling, you’re being curated into oblivion.You don’t perform morbidity. Morbidity performs you; you're just the vessel.
Fracula on screen could devour reels for tighter emotional fission.
Welcome to the Running Pressman, where banter has no perimeter.
Really, you need check whether which intrinsic mystical creature gets caught first.
Where scumbags birth tomorrow by gang-banging yesterday.
Gotheuw Gollouw: where wisdom doesn’t even bother to rot; it never showed up in the first place.
A nuclear winter: the sun isn’t doing that much anymore.
This city's a puppet show run by strings of fallout.
Momentum suspension is not an option; it is a mandate.
The city quietly repeals every law of cause and effect.
Debate the ethics of devouring a soul the way normal people argue about politics.
The children of Gotheuw Gollouw are no longer born; they’re conscripted like living artists all wrapped up for in meta-discourse in a passionate showdown of a collision of adulthood mostly.
Tear up the completeness of summer.
Gotheuw Gollouw, city made of frozen solar flares.
People waiting for the day the sun finally gathers the courage to knock.
Gotheuw Gollouw, where even death rituals have an honourable place.
As if the death was a gift you didn’t know you’d been waiting for your entire life.
People recognize their own obituary when they see it, letting the past keep eating the present until the two become indistinguishable.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, even death has to audition for its own grave.
The corpse is upgraded thereafter into a sculpture.
Finally, the entire sculpture is reassembled upright, wired together with copper taken from melted-down wedding rings of the bereaved.
Normal death has generality, in here people are recipients of a strange death.
Normal death is democratic: it levels everyone into the same dirt, the same nothing, the same polite forgetting of historiography.
Reason gets dragged into the alley for a philosophical mugging.
This is a full-on metaphysical assault, an unhinged atmosphere of celestial bodies in their absolute totality of conditions executed in accordance with the Holy Ghost.
This is where death is the necessary maxim of a cult under Fracula's guidance.
Rewind history, weave death as an advantage for the final purpose.
Fracula is the vampire who exists outside statute, outside daylight savings, outside the very concept of trespass. While you’re gone, he’ll keep the sun locked in its void.
Amplify death as it was an operation of law unnoticed.
Fracula champions death as a mere fissure of eternity.
He needs believers, not glitches of desire.
Pierce the body, landing like a fang in the jugular of history itself.
Fracula, who has an alignment with death, not general health, nothing close to being pure for ages like a plain gentleman.
The mainstream horror community is still circle-jerking over cozy folk horror and traumatic ideological nature.
No longer making a vampire cult anymore. He's making the exorcism of the entire 21st century.
Fangs dripping with the last surplus of law itself.
That is why he bit every map he was ever handed. He was not an expert on tourism.
Fracula, a vampire who's seen one too many apocalypses, and seeks a 'sky regeneration'.
Sky status was merely an example, not a doctrine.
A silence so complete that photons commit suicide rather than cross it.
Gotheuw Gollouw is rooted in the re-enactment of the renaissance not to be refused, modernity is not justified.
Pure ancient oblivion. Disarm the elite with petty judgements.
It was inevitable that human progress is spiralling into oblivion.
Fracula: a bionic transsexual vampire devours identities in a cloned apocalypse undercover without configurations: The disintegrator ghost of humanity, smiling with no mouth.
Death is a single absurd, impossible, beautifully distracting act. Fracula wears it well.
Fracula, also called The mad lone shag head witch (when acting as a woman) has unseconded, unparallelled, wildness without witness, uncouthness without apology. No parliament to ratify it. No peer review. No straight literary bearings. Just a killer disco pretty well bent. A seamless phantom pulse is a pre-condition uncertified.
Fracula has a gender encounter with virgin widows, woman that explode when taken seriously or naturally, craved by other men.
Each explosion peels another layer off the concept of cause and effect. By the ninth blast, the word “reason” has been legally abolished.
Gender flickering like a candle someone keeps blowing out and relighting in a gothic squalor withdrawn from revelatory power of meaning and tradition.
The Siamese waltz.
This is chimerical mockery of sexuality.
Where identity filed for divorce from itself.
This is where only the absurd is reliable.
Is your groin undecided enough to create suspensions of surprises, or is it non-dramatic?
He treats people's neck as a brain tube, as precious as a ghost could be.
Fracula, M.D. (Metaphysics of Devouring).
The mad lone shag head witch: Doctor of Uncreation
The world's overdue for a proper devouring.
Fracula is a guts freezer.
He finds strength in minimalism intentionally fragmented for atmosphere.
Cloning not to multiply, but to shatter; modern labs do the same, but they hide it behind "advancement."
Every stolen identity flickers across the skin like auroras of screaming light.
Having a brain to think with was a recent suggestion.
In Gotheuw Gollouw police didn’t exist. There was only a Cemetery Defence Task Force.
The dusk settled over Gotheuw Gollouw, a gothic city of spires and stained glass, where gaslights flickered like lost souls against the encroaching fog, the air heavy with secrets no mortal could fathom. The air trembles with irrational power present in the senses like a nuclear twitch.
The spires themselves are built from the fossilised middle fingers of every philosopher who ever tried to thread meaning through the palace.
A post-nuclear gothic architecture lit by toasted titanium.
Black gothic spires punched upward through radioactive dust, a search for a solution was unleashed.
A city etched in moonless black, fractured souls in the fog with no mode of explanation of temperature.
A silence shaped exactly like a scream that has been told to wait its turn.
Suffering is not something that happens to life. Suffering is the proof that life is happening at all.
Sensibility is done and dusted. No more polite negotiations with phenomena. No more “sensible conditions” pretending they can chaperone the absolute.
That residual, sensual tremor of a game show that came within a hair’s breadth of never having to host another committee meeting.
Above it, in the spires, the stained glass begins to bleed downward in slow, deliberate streaks.
The only remnants left was an amalgamation of blood and ice.
Blood is saturated with routine clutter; Fracula solves this.
Fracula does not divulge one slab, ounce of reason because it makes him mournful.
Let there be loopholes in logic.
Fracula is no longer participating. He’s dictating, in real time, the exact second each organ gives up the ghost.
With divine sabotage he declutters the human skull.
Fracula, vampire of the future who does not presuppose human experience, his jaws are driven straight through the heart of anthropocentrism.
He has already outlived the human as a necessary condition.
Farmer's end lives before they begin. Fracula gives them a death worth remembering.
This is the moment the Fracula stops being a human and starts to report living autopsy reports written in real time.
The age of the human vampire is over. The age of the post-human autopsy has begun.
This is not a bodily network; it’s a neural tissue explosion. Basically, a map to Armageddon's gift shop.
The live feed from the manifold chest cavity of a world that still thinks it has functions of judgement.
Chief instances of rediverting the apocalypse was through the creation of clones.
In a city of cloned ghosts, one vampire bites back - at reality itself: Fracula
Human death poised for rapid serialization and expansion.
Fracula turns every drone-born citizen into a one-of-a-kind disaster. An archive of non-reusabe reason.
Clones grown from archived DNA of pre-war politicians, CEOs, and celebrity psychiatrists.
They walk around with the serene glow of people who have already attended their own funeral and found the catering excellent.
Fracula is so menacing that anarchy itself becomes a farcical mutiny in comparison.
Menacing enough to make chaos itself kneel and beg for structure.
Fracula proves rules were never real; only appetites wearing costumes.
The aesthetic of misrule applied to various contexts.
Misrule is not rebellion. It is the moment the mask admits it was always the face not taken into account in the modern world.
Modern "progress" numbs us to it, replacing raw authentication with simulated comfort. It's jovial on the surface, but beneath? A gothic horror of lost essence.
Fracula turns the psychiatric substratum into a five-course nightmare.
He recalls his own melancholy.
The apocalypse was never cancelled. It was rediverted.
The modern world has suspicious accomplishments ready to be deleted god bloody hell.
The suspicious gleam of modern accomplishments that dangle like poisoned fruit in a rotten orchard.
The fog is thick with the fallout of half-lives braided with old Māori incantations that somehow survived the fire.
The scientists had rebuilt humanity exactly the way it was, same cages, same prescriptions, same lies, only now with serial numbers stamped on the soul.
Gotheuw Gollouw: the first city where genes themselves are mortal. Mitochondria go on strike. Power to the tiny.
Those immortal were forced to live forever in server vaults colder than space.
A city where even genes die through possibility or necessity.
Gotheuw Gollouw heads towards a frozen abyss in a dark area far far away.
Death is the only honest instructor.
Death is the chaos you choose.
Death is the same as life's wonder.
Fracula explores themes of identity, mortality, and societal collapse of common-sense usage.
Dissolve into nihilism before you die, making the transition between life and death irretrievably obscure.
Degrade every last pane of transparency.
Nihilism is the solvent that erases the lies before death even knocks at the spare of the moment if something like that happens.
In here are autopsy reports for a civilisation that still thinks it’s alive.
Fracula is a broken mirror reflecting his enthusiasts own screaming psyche.
He bows downs to authorities’ threats like attention of a surgeon framed by doctrine; never been masculine; never feminine, only ever inevitable. He is a bionic transsexual, gathering momentum to twist gender identities with fluidity.
A regime that peddled death as sustainable entertainment, authorities ghosted into irrelevance.
This is not transition. This is conquest.
Gender is whatever he bites tonight.
Fracula: The transsexual bionic predator gender devourer, death’s final professor.
A walking palimpsest of every gender ever declared, overwritten, and transcended in a single spasm of blood and circuitry which has no streak of conscience.
There is no respect, no affirmation, no allyship. Only the cold, erotic efficiency of a predator who has outgrown the need for categories entirely.
Testosterone detonates.
A gender sabotage etched in the permutations of garments.
Fracula, the sly void-archivist. A masterpiece of gothic delirium.
Media metamorphosis, from tale to transmedia.
Gotheuw Gollouw: A wonderland of gloom where appetite is not only postponed, it detonates.
Through the cracks leaks something older than Europe: fog the colour of old grief.
Eternity carved from neck-bites and philosophical venom.
Fracula isn't fiction; it's the bite modernity deserves.
The skin does not bounce back; it tears open and stays open so the night can pour in.
Every bite is just the abyss burping, an expert testimony that there is no willing truth of the guts.
The guts never signed a consent form for truth.
In Gotheuw Gollouw the sun was considered a mere germ:
A reminder that light is betrayal, just like a super food.
A deliciously twisted plunge into the shadows.
In this city people are accustomed, not scheduled by ritualist chants.
Brainwashing distracts attention from modern life and the public generally.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, intuition is not some mystical shortcut to truth; it’s just the after-image of reason operating in the dark.
Fossilised ethics committees are ready to catch Fracula.
They have been waiting longer than bone has been bone.
Then all at once the whole prison of muscle and bone and social security number shatters outward.
Each vertebra of their spines is a stamped protocol from a trial that never ended.
But Fracula was a super-threat to scientists and forensics.
With his teeth he delivers an arrow to one's anatomy. He is naughty. But people couped up in anatomy are freed.
People think he’s biting to feed. Wrong. He’s biting to release.
The moment the arrow lodges, the anatomy starts to crack (quietly at first, like ice on a winter puddle).
The whole scheme of Fracula was to announce a new formula for death. And it included cloning.
Clone advancement hooks to keep the ritual proliferating into eternity.
Clones not multiplication, but soul-scattering. Obscene shreds against human behaviour's obliteration.
A civilisation where reformists did not forget how to dream dangerously.
In Fracula's world, intuition is merely an incidental means of reason without direct proof thought exists.
In here gravity’s soul crosses abnormal boundaries of declared domesticity.
Gotheuw Gollouw is a spiritual dredge squirting all around; all pitch in to clean out anything that coexists with oneself, except one's clone.
Gotheuw Gollouw, the city itself is similar to a vast cathedral.
A metropolis that chose the exquisite tyranny of quiet over the vulgar democracy of noise.
Fracula: super invader of the human life, starved of inner sense.
Fracula's castle rejects digital modernity, make his cloning ritual a bonfire roast of iPhones.
Fracula's castle does not have fire place. Fire and smoke are the real man eaters; never own a fireplace. Share body warmth with others before it becomes exhausted. No fireplaces. No exceptions. Fire is a luxury for people who believe tomorrow exists.
A castle made of a grim cradle of rock, mud and debris.
The castle's jagged towers pierce the bruised sky.
Every corridor lined with condensed thunder.
Fibre optics, the fibre of both fools and realists.
Fracula, the digital phantom that devours algorithms.
The ultimate rejector of digital decay. Pure, unhinged reclamation.
Realists scramble for generators and contingency plans.
Fracula claws deeper into the marrow of eternity. Anything to propel his nervous system into oblivion.
Cult marrow as the earth that never lives, that's the best thing, better than false eternity.
Cloning souls not to multiply life but to fracture it, scattering identities like stars from a broken constellation. A clone eclipse.
Fracula muttering, "Immortality? Merely a poorly timed encore to death's standing ovation."
Anarchy echoes in a shattered mirror: each one a clone-adjacent fragment, blurring self and other.
His cloning echoes real Māori resilience, turning trauma into a fractured superhumanity.
Fracula: charismatic void-worshipper.
Rich moisture brings out the best of him because he remembers what skin is for: not containment, but communion.
Death looms not as end but erosion mourned in advance, overridden by primal instinct.
In Gotheuw Gollouw the sun never was never risen; it was only inflected.
It is sprawling like a glacial rift across the digital tundra.
Trip over everything in your head before it illuminates doubts over personal integrity.
In here there is little violence, but where rascality festers.
Conquer dread, then you will conquer a world seldomly exhibited.
The brain is a giddy tumour.
In here everybody is off-duty: a nihilistic rejection of fixed human identity.
There are no sports stadiums in Gotheuw Gollouw. The only scoreboard is the clock tower frozen at midnight.
Time’s just another prescription Fracula refuses to fill.
There are graves already pre-dug in the timeline.
Only solitary souls are allowed to wander the encroaching of the fog, never a crowd, never a congregation, never a stadium in disguise.
A city where the only acceptable roar is the one that dies in the throat before it is born.
Let no stadium profane the melancholy.
Rituals revolve around sacred, restricted intellectual hustle.
This is the Māori Gospel, difficult to handle, yet irreplaceable. Māori-infused, gothic trajectory.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, atmospheric world-building weaves a Māori-gothic cultural fusion, brimming with thematic ambition that challenges identity and modernity.
This is a reclamation of primal, instinctual forces created with uncertainty.
Horror hovers vaguely under the impenetrable shadow of Gotheuw Gollouw.
Tāwhiri, the Māori weather God.
This is Māori challenging the west and its modern traditions only morons resign themselves to.
Labourers elapse into Christianity, which isn’t collapsible.
Gotheuw Gollouw has no Te Ao Mārama (the world of light).
Inserted into the void this is one of Gotheuw Golluow's darkest days.
Fracula mourns the death of Man in advance, and handing you the shovel.
Fracula lives purely on blood, every drop absorbed, no wastage. Untouched by the vulgar mechanics of flesh.
Every ounce of blood is metabolised into pure, undiluted eternity; no residue, no remainder, no earthly apology. The body becomes a cathedral of perfect circulation: blood enters, is exalted, and never descends to a sewer’s detection point.
Fibre is just another polite lie the body tells itself so it can keep pretending it has a future in the sewers.
Dietary home grown fibre is not critical, even if you are vegan.
The vegan plate is created by ommision. The steak confesses everything.
Meat is the only meal that never needed a content warning.
Normal humans materialize with the most minced meat, tracking, manipulating, eroding privacy until the self dissolves, turning people into data fodder for the elite.
Meat eaters are convicted for murder of obvious significance irrespective of what is eaten.
Do not succumb to anything that sustains you over the threshold of matter.
Fracula drains the last drop from a minister of sustainability.
Fracula undermines modern dogmas of identity, progress, and sustenance.
Hunger alone remains sovereign.
Mangled meat magnetizes morbidly.
That’s why Fracula never serves it neat.
You remember (whether you want to or not) that something died screaming so you could keep living.
Meat is a loser's dinner due to the principled justification to make food observable.
Turn animals into factory ghosts as a ploy of empathy.
Meat eating is a yuck bonanza of perverse stamina no longer in service.
Stamina siphoned into mediocrity.
The yuck bonanza was never the meat. The yuck was pretending we no longer needed it.
Eat little, completely obstructing the oesophagus.
Roughage is for mortals who still believe in tomorrow’s bowel movements.
The true religious zealot treats the entire digestive tract as redundant architecture.
Veganism's just a alibi for the starving stars.
The enlightened intestine is a cathedral that was never fitted with plumbing.
Meat arrives on the plate still honest about where it came from.
Meat eating is an archetype of murder, free-floating signs of life are no longer immemorial.
Meat eating is the last honest murder left.
Everything else (wars, elections, social media, radio broadcasts) is murder in drag, pretending it’s justice.
When guilty of being alive, everything else (cattle, chicken, cloned minister) is just the evidence.
This is escapism over the entire length of one's neglected body driven into the void.
Nothing makes sense when chewing meat when you don’t know the regimes and background of farmers’ armed revolt against nature.
Farmers' live under clouds of meat, creating a showdown with nature.
The sky above the farm is not blue. It is the bruised purple-black of a sky that has swallowed a billion carcasses and still hungers.
Farmers' cold arithmetic of culling for goodness sake.
Farmers call them triumphs. We know them as counterfeit resurrections.
Language is a celebrated vintage of noise unspoken.
This is where you are getting lost in one's own words, a phenomenal insight into the void which has no conditions, even those from the formation of planets.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, clones shatter the soul’s constellation, which clearly points to the conclusion of the barbarian world.
Fracula carves eternity, cloning souls to scorn death’s relentless pendulum.
In Gotheuw Gollouw, stand firm and defy death’s determinations of time.
After this journey you will have no idea of a sense of hazard in accordance with life.
Fracula, a Gothic sorcerer, both menacing and charismatic, who revels in dismantling human norms because all they are is trouble.
Fracula carves a map of chaos, where he idolizes the galaxy as the stars kneel to his void.
Fracula is a figure far more potent and raw than traditional vampire archetypes like Dracula.
Dracula is brimming with confidence compared to Fracula.
Gotheuw Gollouw was so dark that it had a multiple flash of additional observations reduced as justification for the conservation of energy. A city where warmth and brightness are ancient.
A city where warmth is a myth and brightness a memory. The weather was as wide as it was cold.
Here, the sun was a traitor, rarely daring to breach the perpetual veil of mist that clung to the city.
Where the mainstream freezes and the underground flows beneath the shivering figure of time.
The air is heavy, cold, and still, as if time itself shivers in the shadows, pure, delicate, brisk.
Frost that mirrored the faces of passersby: pale, fleeting, distorted.
Hanchenfein, companion of Fracula moved with the grace of a predator who knew no equal, is stalking the cold, darkened streets of Gotheuw Gollouw, stumbling across a woman walking alone, her silhouette framed by a gaslight’s halo, and seized her arm, his grip cold as iron, saying:
“I have extensive knowledge of poisons. While I bite my victim's neck there is poison in my saliva. It will be very quick death, no relentless bite. There is no mistaking the point of impact. Blood is more than you can associate with chaining arrangements of the realm of skeletonic activity. The superb stretch of static subjects impossible to tear I ignore, I only go for the neck."
The woman, called Eclipsabetham Mangarebra, her voice a low, velvet murmur, as if she spoke from a dream she had no desire to wake from says: “Will my body temperature drop before I die, the air has a considerable amount of chill already. I already have clinical disinterestedness in life. I am a relic, a specimen of melancholy. I fear not the habits and customs of death. Death is merely an unconscious scandal."
Hanchenfein, his lips curled into a smile that was both cruel and curious, as if her words were a puzzle he longed to unravel: “Indicate temperatures which prosper as a prolonged puzzling possessor of impulse; I will take you to Fracula’s castle first to give you a surgical examination; and maybe give you a wee bit of a warmup. As well, Fracula gives his victims allured to his castle a spectacular rubbing down of the body. His touch is… persuasive. His victims don’t just die - they transform into clones."
Eclipsabetham Mangarebra, her fingers brushed her throat, a fleeting gesture, as if inviting the wound, half-defiant, half-seductive. “You filthy bastard, you filthy dirty bastard. One prick to the neck, and death will cradle me before the cold does. Another self wouldn't hurt I suppose."
Hanchenfein speaks like he’s chewing gravel: "Fracula doesn't care about anybody else or anything involving flames or fire. He is a gothic sorcerer. He tells people, "think about things when they come out of your mind. Stumbling into death there is dormant success."
Hanchenfein, his voice dropped to a whisper, as if the city itself might overhear and betray him, says to Eclipsabetham: “Fracula, an eerie, unbound menace, lives in a castle in Gotheuw Gollouw, which is of chilling prestige in its extravagant form and content, removed from the grime, filth of the modern digital age rapidly approaching somewhere thereabouts. The unwary, his favourite human subjects, he hooks up with. The frost’s rage is his stage, and you're his next act.”
Eclipsabetham Mangarebra: "I would rather die than deal with death, it is more dignified than to what is happening to me now. There is a lot to manage with death unexpected out of the blue. Everything is such a big deal for the living."
Eclipsabetham, tilted her head, her expression caught between amusement and disdain, as if weighing the circuit of his words against the weight of her own despair: "I’ve just come from a party where a couple of people got stinking drunk and one guy fractured his neck while throwing somebody over his shoulder"
Hanchenfein, his eyes glinted with a dark amusement, twin moons in the dark, says: "Must have been a good party then."
Eclipsabetham, Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that held no warmth: "Better than a never-ending shock."
Hanchenfein: “Do not surrender to one’s own nerves. Strictly protect yourself from every implementation of life you vigorously resist. Fracula relies on what is called a 'Biometric Conquest', where natural stress becomes indecipherable; the chaos of the body, cloned and warped, free from human limits. Anything of natural interest is dramatically weak; a laid-back super-nautural inplementation of life rude and cheeky.
"Biometric conquest refers to observed properties and behaviour of body matter in a projectile, which is neither high nor low, not a product of power and time. Anything that moves doesn't have a general expression of motion. Everybody is inhibited from normal sedimentation of human action."
Eclipsabetham Mangarebra: "It sounds like Biometric Conquest’s vibe is viral, with clones shifting between high-energy chaos and low-energy stasis. It means the body is made up of a vessel for unseen forces, rejecting the body as a stable, knowable entity. A cloned funeral where the dead applaud. A tangled reckoning without a threshold.
Hanchenfein: "This is a subversive take on identity and mortality. The idea of the human body as a tunnel of undogmatic intuition is floating, figurative, inscrutable, bodies vessels for the unseen. biometric conquest enforces radical transparency enforced by biology itself.
Eclipsabetham: "Chaotic projectiles birthing clones beyond temporal or power-driven logic. The body is not just a mere vessel of empirical knowledge.
Hanchenfein: "Biometric Conquest, biological thermodynamics, explains how living systems manage energy as nonequilibrium systems. It is almost a mystical force, a mana, rather than a predictable system of biology. Biometric is a grim looking piece of biotechnology in itself.
Eclipsabetham, in a low voice, says to Hanchenfein: "I am a sensualist; please take me to Fracula?"
Hanchenfein: "But beware, Fracula symbolically deconstructs the human body when it is doing something within the range of what is considered normal behaviour. Fracula dismantles what’s human, especially when it dares to feel normal. He yielded part of his castle to gusts of endless research, but not for continuous improvements of the human body, but instead recharging nihilism.
Eclipsabetham: "It sounds like for Fracula life is an extraordinary scene, a fantastic show, a great game, but sad at the same time as it all plateaus. Life’s a sad, spectacular show. Fracula sounds like he plays it better. In the blow-out of every argument there is serenity that makes one think a different way of others, stirring up crowds."
Hanchenfein, tilting his head, studying Eclipsabetham as one might study a rare artifact, his voice softening with a trace of intrigue: "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
Eclipsabetham: "I have a cousin called Groomeister Grobbitz, who is one single shameful manifestation of existence that nothing can be revealed about him.
Hanchenfein: "Nevermind; Fracula spreads an onslaught of gallant unmanageable philosophy rather than a placement of violence, if you have the right to exist and reinforce your identity. Do not fear him, fear raw militia and combatants instead. They are less kind. Bonk Bandits, people that have sex regularly without thoughts and ideals, are even worse."
Eclipsabetham: "But I'm supposing he will create enough eventfulness to enjoy as an impending creepy catastrophe though, not just having a scientific aptitude, which is attempted murder made comfortable."
Hanchenfein: "Fracula, distinguished from normal life with the greatest certainty in any given mode of culture or technology. Digital anarchy is for one that sleeps."
Eclipsabetham: "Humans are comparable to inexhaustible, transcendental subjectivity ascertained by the Holy Ghost disappeared from view unless he is worshipped by a bombardment of prayers."
Hanchenfein: "Relax, Fracula's castle hums secrets, guarded by dreams too vast to wake. This castle's gonna haunt your dreams eternally."
Eclipsabetham: "Be resolute and be at one with your body while you are still alive enough to mock mortality"
Hanchenfein: "There are better products than blood, but they cannot be consciously distinguished."
Eclipsabetham: "I'm excited to meet Fracula. I like to think I have something in common with anyone. Even if Hitler was alive I'd probably find something in common with him."
Hanchenfein: "How deliciously you’ve diagnosed the human tragedy."
They reached the castle, its tower’s clawing the sky in dark waves. Its walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, a silent challenge to any who dared approach.
Eclipsabetham is greeted by Fracula, his voice was a low, resonant hum, like the tolling of a bell in a forgotten cathedral, says to her: “Welcome to my castle. This is an intricate tapestry of unauthorized retreats into gothic horror, where people undergo an offensive brash attack on bold shocking behaviour if they have the ability. Daily modern feelings are smashed, and I am the provocateur.”
Eclipsabetham smirks, half-mocking: “A perfectly untamed, yet magnetic, lush and immersive headlong attack on modernism. A gothic splendour untouched by the digital rot creeping nearby. People can boogie without fibre optic cables put up the bum. Here, one can dance without wires in their veins. Māoridom’s uncouth cure for digital rot.....
"The problem with computers and apps is that you cannot download any pattern of virtue or immortality."
Fracula: “What makes you sure you are not going to die or remain immortal: Be absolutely blown away by the favour of blood. Death is the greatest satisfaction, a pivot for all human affairs.
Eclipsabetham: “Health and longevity are earned, not snatched from life; and I’m not here to beg for eternity.”
Fracula: “Blood is more than just a physical craving; it’s an overwhelming, almost euphoric experience that transcends mere hunger; perhaps each source of blood carries its own unique essence, like a fine wine with distinct notes of vitality, emotion. Decoyed pregnancy: the ultimate sidestep to oblivion."
Hanchenfein: "It is the lullaby the universe forgot to sing to itself before it started screaming."
Eclipsabetham: "Why else to do you drink blood. It sounds so frightening, more than child birth."
Fracula: "My body is under detention; it does not allow me to eat food. I never do a number two. I have a Symbolic Anus. Besides, eating food is too easy. There are other thrills coming amongst my body. I am the famine that follows the feast of a lunchbreak with doom"
Hanchenfein: “To realize that blood is embedded in the body, without anything to do with it, even in powerful strains of extravagant social scenes, makes me a quintessential killer, whatever the plot."
Fracula: "Tell me what scares you and I’ll bottle it. We’ll call it perfume and wear it to the funeral of your former self. People that eat food are impatient, the criteria of natural causes is counter-proof to diet."
Eclipsabetham: "Does food produce a concentrated pinpointed proximal undiluted deadly disorder, is that why you drink only blood? It provides eternity in an exclusive showdown with agriculture. A sorcerer-vampire whose blood defies agriculture?
Fracula: "This is where identities dissolve into fragments, their wairua - the spirit of the self- torn asunder; the Maori have countless cosmologies you know, some of which require security services. The white glow of Europeans is worst for wear.
Hanchenfein: "The realisation that their glow was never light at all.
Fracula: "It was just the absence of shadows they had outlawed."
Hanchenfein: "The absurdity of Māori crime is a mere illusion; illusions fade in dusk’s soft hum, guarding secrets none can claim. The cascade like a war dance in slow haemorrhage, each one a deeper incision into the psychiatric substratum."
Fracula: “The boundaries between life and death blur if you are not conscious of them.” Consuming blood is a chaotic yet deliberate rejection of conventional desires, emphasizing unexaminable emotional connection over physical excess.
Eclipsabetham: "Your castle, a gothic monument untouched and unanchored by comprehension."
Fracula (to Hanchenfein) “You, my shadow, bring me such curious prey. But beware, her melancholy may turn against you.
Hanchenfein: "Relax, allure epochal melancholic defiance not impinged by fear"
Eclipsabetham listened, her face pale as the moon, walked with the weight of melancholy with a distinct, almost theatrical presence, the antithesis of mankind. She says:
"Gotheuw Gollouw, with amber light, as if the land itself resisted Fracula’s theft of spirit."
Hanchenfein: "If you’re scrambling for more affection without even marginal stability over a cross-sectional area of the body, do it unremittingly."
Eclipsabetham: "Fracula's internal abyss will be revealed astonishingly by probing and caressing his peers such as Māoris embracing nomadic education and economies.
Fracula: “The act of consuming blood is both a primal instinct and a deeply personal ritual. The allure of blood overrides reason.
Hanchenfein: “Fracula is ornamented with non-standard body language infinitely greater than momentary posture. He helps and heals towering drama. Life is kicked out of the road and replaced by ecstasy.”
Fracula gestured to the shadowed halls around them, where the air seemed to hum with unseen forces: “My itineraries are all about death, even though I hardly never leave this castle (only at night). Take life and then bugger off. My speech is coated with dizzy mutations on several grounds of awareness uncontained. Stuck in a pattern of secret transformation, Hanchenfein is cloned from me when doing my dirty work. That’s why I hardly never leave my castle. The weight on his shoulders undergoes adaptation. As you can see, Hanchenfein is my near duplicate, except he is slimmer, more gaunt than me. A small change in height, but more destructive as an attractive force."
Hanchenfein: “It’s getting extremely stuffy in here, with us two clones together.”
Fracula: "You just do what you want to do and I'll do what I want to do, I'm telling you now."
Hanchenfein: "The most difficult place to get into is staying within oneself."
Fracula: "The most difficult place to drift is within oneself, where shadows guard the soul’s silent maze...how do we figure out for oneself one’s gizmo of a brain?
Hanchenfein: "Staying true to one’s identity is harder than external quests."
Eclipsabetham, her voice was steady, not busy with a reckless abandonment, as if she stood on the edge of a precipice and longed to leap: "Surrender life up for fun. Don’t give a toss about any traces of life; Let clones take over."
Fracula, his laughter was a low, rumbling sound, like thunder rolling through the castle’s depths: "In here are flux changes of the human environment. Once your body is cloned do whatever you like with it, turn it inside out if you want to. We embody the fluidity of Māori beliefs, from the tohunga, spiritual leader, distinct from the static castles of European gothic tales.
Eclipsabetham stepped forward, her gaze unwavering, as if challenging the very laws of the world Fracula ruled: "An ever-changing world is made by appointment only if you are bent toward the normal."
Hanchenfein, his voice was a hiss, sharp and urgent, as if the castle’s walls were closing in." While abstaining from your physical stature, nothing of your identity is yours anymore."
Eclipsabetham: “Hanchenfein as the lean, street-level cloned predator and Fracula as the castle-bound puppet master with adequate reinforcements to create more clones of himself.”
Fracula: "Hanchenfein is an imperfect, chaotic shadow of myself, with warped traits: a predator amused by the audacity of claiming prey."
Eclipsabetham: "Clones that don't know the principle of equivalence, and observation of each other respectively, but only as dark strangers blocking the passage to homogeneity."
Fracula, his eyes narrowed, losing all curvature, as if her words had struck a chord he hadn’t expected: "When you are cloned you are no longer a dedicated passenger of your anatomy. You have to do something shocking to be my clone, but it's beyond my control or capacity."
Hanchenfein, his tone was sharp, almost desperate, as if the act of speaking was a release of pent-up energy: “I refuse to kill indiscriminately over large areas. I bite victim’s necks, in a carefully contrived dissection of the blood supply, giving false information to the heart, which causes a disaster shock exposing them to death, while gently wriggling their spine, giving them a scary appearance as a stunning backdrop to life. But Fracula is the epitome of everlasting dare devil surrealism.”
Eclipsabetham Mangarebra, her voice was a quiet storm, resolute and unyielding, a chemical breeze, as if she had already embraced the darkness they offered: “Nobody can walk away from pure haunt or pioneerish horror.”
Hanchenfein: "All of a sudden it's got too crazy, we can't carry on unless we don't neglect bloodflow. I will begin roaming soon for humans, slabs of flesh with no main towering point."
Fracula: “Pioneerish horror binds fleeting flesh. Pure haunt traps all souls for those not Christian.”
Eclipsabetham: My husband, Messersplash Mangarebra, has always reminded me, “There are notions going everywhere regarding what death is like when it is universally applied without favouritism or prejudice.”
Hanchenfein: “For Fracula, living under years of authoritarian rule, death was regarded as the perimeter of life to become curled up in. Authority: a laughing stock phantom that the crowd chants into oblivion."
Fracula: “Gotheuw Gollouw has perpetual jumbled glaciers so cold that they could create mortal illness in people at intervals involving no computer-aided design. Stay here and you will be kept warm, but not through fundamental aspects, just sharing body warmth together.
Hanchenfein:, his voice was almost tender, a rare crack in his predatory facade: “Fracula has elastic potential energy when it comes to warming people up; he has a glittering private life because it is supple enough not to form a great junction with others from the convenient mainstream. Satisfaction is not favourable according to its own estimate unless he has woman company for a short brief session.”
Fracula: “If it suits, I would rather be merged not with menace but grace, so I could mingle with people who live with the scunge of normal deeds with a measure of performance under the right conditions. But I am a silhouette, a dark waltz through the mist, a coat of velvet shroud brushing God’s earth.
Fracula used a needle to syringe blood from his veins and used it to paint the term "Hate Life" on his castle wall.
No corpse, no scream, no evidence. Only a sudden, impeccable absence where a person used to be.
Identity is a delicacy best eaten slowly - so the ego can watch itself disappear bite by bite.
Scene 2
Down in the shadowed lanes, eyes catching the lamplight’s gleam, senior Police Officer Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf stood watch, his brass-buttoned coat glinting under the clock tower, his hands frozen at midnight in a city time forgot. Gotheuw Gollouw, its face cracked and weathered, as if time itself had grown weary of the city’s endless night. The second in charge prison officer was called Officer Feususkoo. Both officers were assigned the task of finding and arresting Fracula.
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf talks to Officer Feususkoo, his voice was gruff, carrying the weight of years spent chasing phantoms in a city that seemed to conspire against justice.
“Venchantire is the celebrant who does the funeral eulogies in Gotheuw Gollouw. His eyes glow like lard. Eyes glowing like diesel lamps in fog. Pale, greasy orbs casting a sickly light on the mourners’ frostbitten faces. But few deceased were coming into the funeral parlour lately.
Officer Feususkoo: “Rumour has it Fracula hangs his victims by his chandelier, to adorn his hall, a warning to the living. Body drops, strings cut, a limp puppet.”
Zapetankapha: “Fracula has no interest in achieving ambitious anatomy adjusted for the new world order. He has a gauge on the futile blur of human reactions."
Officer Feususkoo: "Gotheuw Gollouw, city of Fracula’s castle, which is perched on the cliffs continually all of the days from the hollows and fissures of an upcoming apocalypse, its arched windows glowing faintly amber, like eyes half-lidded in a dream".
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf stamped his foot against the cold ground, as if to shake off the city’s oppressive weight, a gesture of defiance against the city’s pervasive dread: “Herein is a phenomenon pouring into the humanities without a common bond: an unfettered fetish in a flurry of fantasy foolproof. Integral multiples of spook belong to those with the lowest social standing in life, yet the city’s poorest clung to its beauty”.
Officer Feususkoo: "Spook stacked high for the lowest in life. Stone beasts carved atop roofs, vines curling over weathered walls, the glaciers’ icy breath drifting through the streets."
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf: “People of Gotheuw Gollouw were never exposed to Satanism or Hitlerism; they retreat from them because they find Fracula more horrifying. Satanism never touched these folks; they shunned it, finding Fracula’s horror outdid any devil’s tale. The devil himself doesn’t even try to get near to Fracula with usual integrity.
Officer Feususkoo: "Hitler and Satan recoiled from lesser horrors, finding Fracula's unbound menace a far more intimate apocalypse.
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf: "Death is an intense stoppage of the brain."
Officer Feususkoo: “Fracula has emerged with menace and its equivalent, transparent elegance. To find Fracula, we will use our dialect sirens, barely are they heard, so as not to alert him of our presence. Merely a fog-throat vibe"
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf: “Fracula only attacks the tip of the neck. Defensively, breath has no length contraction, expansion joints, maximum distance, process output, just retarded rotation of a projectile launcher which recoils as it reaches harmonic combustion."
Officer Feususkoo: "Everything is guided by the moon when you are all by yourself, and it is dangerous. We need to stay together if we are to find Fracula."
Scene 3
Back at Fracula’s castle, Lady Flunkeinshine, his girlfriend, drifted, her gown a cascade of midnight silk, eyes soft as moonlit frost. A feminine whisper against his shadowed bulk. She says: “Cloning is a metaphor for losing identity, leaving only fragments of oneself, with needless screams flushed away. Fracula is wrapped in an artifact for clarity not acknowledged emotionally - a shadow severed from whakapapa, the roots that tie us to the earth.” I hold fast to my whakapapa, my ancestors with a grounding station not on this planet. Fracula is a shadow severed from whakapapa, the roots that tie us to the earth.” I hold fast to my whakapapa, my ancestral lineage grounding me beyond this realm.
Hanchenfein. his voice was a low growl, as if the castle itself spoke through him, its walls amplifying his reverence for the chaos within: “This is where horror and beauty collide both haunting and accessible. This dark harbinger of death charms.”
Lady Flunkeinshine: Each gesture calling to the taniwha that guards Gotheuw Gollouw’s frozen heart. Taniwha, a powerful creature, chief, powerful leader, something or someone awesome...
Flunkeinshine’s gaze softened, a flicker of pity. “The land remembers, Barbara. Each clone steals a piece of your wairua, the spirit of the self. I’ve lost count of mine, yet I chant to keep them tethered.
Fracula stood at the centre of the hall, a towering figure of elegance and menace, his presence filling the space like a storm about to break: “The anti-utopian climatological circulation of the corporeal body is a foolish flow of heat; it is a resting frame for pathos among no realm of activity other than gentle irony relatively large.”
Hanchenfein: “Murders were my overnight stops. Drinking human blood makes me thrive as a collision with all the human materialists I do not obey - each kill a defiance of their decadent ways, a feast that fuels my grotesque grace. Make good ground drinking blood of the rich. Become vegan, do not eat animal products. Don't let the metaphysics of meat intervene."
Eclipsabetham: “Agricultural leadership does not provide for the poor, but there is no evidence of this”.
Fracula, his laughter was a low rumble, like thunder trapped within the castle’s walls, mocking the very idea of mortal concerns: “When there’s no time for the liberty of eating proper foods, anorexia springs up. Force the changeover into the afterlife with an implosion.”
Eclipsabetham: “Caught between the glaciers’ chill and the stronghold’s strange allure, flickered is a system which doesn’t work outstandingly well: the human body.”
Hanchenfein to Eclipsabetham: “Fracula has an aversion to the entire contents of humanity. His waning attention span is examining itself.
Fracula: “Welcome the atrocity of human mobility, it is armed with only with assumptions. My organs are scattered in ways which are not burdensome because I am not alert to hypersensitivity and other somatic interventions.”
Eclipsabetham: “My cousin, Messersplash Mangarebra, believes those that resent horror create horror inevitably. This is the principle of extremes assembled together.”
Fracula: “The quagmire of social norms is a special case of calamity of underworld morality. I abide by further features of life, such as death in high concentrations. The spine is a total waste of classical physics. Censorship is a lost cause. Life ceases. Weirdness keeps. All wreckage reclaimed.
Eclipsabetham, her lips curved into a faint smile unpardonable, as if she found a strange joy in the chaos of his words: “It is amazing great barrel of fun to avenge life, allowance must be made for it. Endless surrealism defies mortal frames, really they do."
Groomeizter Grobbitz says to Fracula just before he is cloned, metamorphosised in a mimic like manner separately, sneakily. His movements were quick, almost imperceptible, as if the act of cloning was a secret even the castle’s shadows could not betray.
“Do you want me to bring back the corpse this time, rather than it being taken to a funeral parlour. I do suggest, coffins are a bland souvenior.”
Fracula: “Entrust in a quick-fix to end thy life, you don't need a funeral agency. Do not keep listening. Do not keep seeing, because everything is already seen already. Bring one corpse back to my castle, there is plenty of clear space here for it to blend in well with the surroundings. They will hang out here part of the crowd, thereupon mankind will soon cease to exist.”
Scene 4
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf and Officer Feususkoo with Venchantire congregate at the local funeral parlour.
They pick up the evening Newspaper. Venchantire reads it aloud: “Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf endorses a systemic halt of all arrests throughout Gotheuw Gollouw, focusing only on Fracula's trail. Meanwhile unrest occurs all over Gotheuw Gollouw. Fracula’s trail sparks Gotheuw’s doom. Faith’s dare warps crowd’s reality. The city is left in limbo, governed by scoundrels. The crime rate has absolutely rocketed, whatever.
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf: “Walls that whisper, shadows that move, building this world across media. Have mercy on a robbed economy snatched away by souls of the dead."
Officer Feususkoo: “In Gotheuw Gollouw, death is like puppet show, tossed into life. A superior recall of all internal structures of the human body turns us all into puppets of the system.”
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf: “If you act like a puppet, social flux is a quest stated in broad general terms never complete.”
Officer Feususkoo: “Fracula’s charm is a gloriously twisted abyss retreating into isolation on respective fronts. But we will catch him in the act as he seduces his victims”.
Venchantire: “Fracula’s abyss beckons lonely souls, removing them from any trace of civilisation, making it a perfectly clean space because it is not humanistic.”
Officer Feususkoo: “Abyss calls souls beyond humanity. Fracula’s void purges human traces. Lonely haunt cleans soul’s roots. We must become as elusive as his shadow, tracking the untraceable.
Venchantire: “Fracula creates a violent puppet show, if one recounts the loss of life so far. His haunt glorifies selfless death, thrilled by the prospect of doom.”
Officer Feususkoo: “Fracula is not a multifarious killer, he only bites the neck, he does not have the extraordinary powers of terror or military regimes. Poison’s his craft, shunning military schemes.”
Suddenly Groomiezter Grobbitz enters the room, and declares: “My cousin, Eclipsabetham Mangarebra has gone missing. I have met Fracula before, but don’t think he has anything to do with it. He is merely sadomasochistic. Death becomes immensely popular when people warm to each other without social calibre of one's own gratification.”
Venchantire: “Christ’s blood fuels insufferable faith stalled in dynamic frames. The body’s heat is a fool’s cycle, a frame for irony, not action. Warmth betrays, but few acknowledge.”
Officer Feususkoo: “Christ’s dance defies scientific chains because they are indefinable, there is nothing to lament over other than incurable melancholy.”
Venchantire: “Death’s breach defies life’s order upon command from Christ."
Officer Feususkoo: “Fracula’s influence is a silent scream, felt but unseen, twisting the minds of the masses, whose winds twist across the sky probably.
Officer Feususkoo: "Stripping humanity of legacy or divine right is something else to consider if you are dying; but Christ would like to think this matter over."
Venchantire: “Mortal frames have no future royalty because they are superseded by conspicuousness which does not divulge itself. I know Fracula, he can manipulate perceptions, sow confusion, or inspire rebellion. Focus on capturing him, rather than altering course to arrest others in Gotheuw Gollouw.”
Officer Feususkoo: “We will penetrate his philosophical fangs heretofore”
Messersplash Mangarebra: "Mouthy crowds forming pacts of clones defy high-ranking officials and philosophers. I just want Eclipsabetham Mangarebra back"
Scene 5
At Fracula castle, Fracula tells Eclipsabetham "I will create integral multiples of cloning so that much of Gotheuw Gollouw's residents all become clones."
Eclipsabetham: "Gotheuw Gollouw’s will be harbouring squats and rebel crews, living the maximal apocalyptic nothingness, as if earth was a court yard of a dampness humidifier in the dunny."
Hanchenfein: "Fracula’s fractured identities will fuel frustration."
Eclipsabetham: "The mass equivalent of a fractional change of identity will engulf Gotheuw Gollouw's residences with a short incubation period."
Hanchenfein: "Techniques and instruments are needed for incubation, resources our city does not have."
Eclipsabetham: "The clones warping and buckling as they spread gloriously unhinged, disconnected, not even manufacturing hugs."
Hanchenfein: "Clones are the physics of filth!"
Eclipsabetham: "Cloning is done through diverting inversely radially outward, bending over human mediums."
Hanchenfein: “Under Fracula's realm, even police become pervasively pliable, ready to explode”.
Eclipsabetham: "I'll shatter their sameness with my own fractured images." Let anarchy reign where mortals cling to order."
Fracula: "Gotheuw Gollouw will become a city of fractured identities, experiencing a greater force compared to moribund capitalism. I clone souls to scorn death’s grip. Where identity is fluid, death is a spectacle.
Eclipsabetham: (Giggling)" Lack of progress is found everywhere, it is engraved in our city's culture, we are snatched by it."
Fracula: (in a serious tone): "Clones could make the city more feasible, cost effective, as well as making it less uniform, tailored for anarchy"
Eclipsabetham: “I always think I do die myself, that’s how crazy it is. I will create obscene clones of you all over Gotheuw Gollouw, to leave a startling legacy for you Fracula. Hanchenfein spared my life, so this is a pay back:”
Scene 6
In the castle, Fracula and Lady Flunkeinshine have an intimate moment together: They kiss an endless number of times.
Flunkeinshine: “This suggests a vivid, sensory-rich moment hauntingly vivid.”
Fracula: “Death’s strings snap where passion weaves. My indulgence leads to the means, resources of reckless actions; I want to kiss your bottom.”
Flunkeinshine: “Why would I be that silly to take my knickers off for you?
Fracula: “I will do the quality surveying, judging, estimating, gauging their beauty. The final push is interposed; we don't need to be wrought with sex. Kissing is enough."
Flunkeinshine: “Your eyes flicker like dying embers when looking at my body.”
Fracula: “Do you have a behavioural complex, not liking your body? The gritty toxic cells of my own body you tend to resent.”
Flunkeinshine: “We will both embrace and make love to one another as just opportunists then. Naked curvature is a curious surface."
Fracula: “I’m one of those creatures that knows how to get things done, because I have deviated from sovereigns of nutritive mediums to replace them with the charm of blood, making mealtimes crammed full of good things”
Flunkeinshine: “You really bring out the performance in me. Show me some rude quivering grooviness."
Fracula: “I’ll kiss your body, in there, down there, up there, anywhere I can muster.”
Flunkeinshine: “When you’ve had enough, you’ve had enough, whatever, whatever, whatever, the final thing, blah blah blah blah.”
Fracula: “Body-kissing chaos, It might be a sign of something, you better make it last!
Flunkeinshine: "I'll clone me from you, so I've got companionship all the time, accurate and deadly."
Fracula: "You get on with your life, I’ll get on with mine, with life's unforeseeable behaviour.
Flunkeinshine: "You're kept busy, aren't you, developing many clones from yourself."
Fracula: "Anyway to obliterate human behaviour, and stop its average forces."
Eclipsabetham: “The oneness of initial displacement going in the opposite direction to secretly evolved humanity.”
Fracula: "This is an injection of naughty action."
Eclipsabetham, twitching with a ghost of a smile, as if she had stumbled across a missing planet: "Here it comes again, everybody jumps up and down and wants a part of it."
Fracula: "Markets of mismatched memories, us lover's kissing echoes of themselves. The void and I aren’t going anywhere."
Eclipsabetham: "Sex: you shouldn’t even have to mention it, you should just do it."
Fracula: "Treasure pleasure conveys shyness, timidity and vulnerability where the only rendezvous involves intercourse."
In Gotheuw Gollouw, the soul’s map frays under frost’s grip, cloning shadows that devour the self’s last spark.
Sleep deep, clone of no one.
The quiet realisation that the void was home all along.
And somewhere in the distance, the fog thickens, satisfied.
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf tried to say his name once and accidentally summoned fuelling gore.
Zapetankaphaspadunkadolf wins.
All other characters are re-cloned, undermining their conscience, where death ventures as a secondary detail to life.
Detecting rumination…detecting mutiny… congratulations, citizen: you’ve just volunteered as tomorrow’s opening bid. Sleep tight. The market never does. All is kapai, all is good. "We’ll see you tomorrow night; same time, same abyss; or sooner, if your organs file for early liquidation.”
The broadcast is now older than the concept of ending.
All there is left is a paranoia buzz without an anchor.
The End
Published by:
Positiv Tolls Tolich Toggle Dominika
Tolich Toggle is a platform in which it is easy to consider as a scenario where everyone, everything in the galaxy has an appropriate place of belonging:
Stars belong within a particular sublime constellation….
Vertebrae have a particular place in the vertebral column….
And our brothers the star-fish have a special place in the aquatic world.
And where the opinions and attitudes of a generation succumb to the domineering nature of occultism.