The End of Crime

Ever watched one of those police propaganda shows on TV? The kind that puts a camera inside a patrol car and follows the brave crime fighters as they chase a youth who stole a mountain bike to fund his next bag of Mary Jayne, and deploy a helicopter with thermal imaging equipment to film the event for your viewing pleasure? Those last two words pretty much capture the essence of it, don’t they? The cost of prosecuting this kind of crime is so disproportionate that it’s difficult to regard the ‘criminal justice system’ as anything more than state-subsidised entertainment. It feeds the population’s information addiction and leaves The Covenant free to perpetrate its own crimes with impunity. Sure, their crimes are also broadcast as entertainment, but as the events are officially sanctioned by avatars with impressive titles no one seems to mind too much. Hell, if things go wrong they can always get one of their own to ‘investigate the matter’ and spend five years producing a forty-five thousand page report that no one will actually read. And when things get really bad? Shit, just put someone in front of a microphone to deliver a rambling speech that may or may not amount to a mealy-mouthed apology, right?

There are a number of important things to understand about the nature of ‘crime’. First and foremost, that crime is money.

His crime was what?!?

His crime wasn’t taking time. He was giving it away.

All well and good, but what ‘it’ is being referred to here?

Second, that a financial transaction is oddly similar to the process of being charged, prosecuted and found guilty under the criminal justice system. Everything comes with a ‘charge’, and the act of paying that charge amounts to acceptance of ‘guilt’. In effect, you enter a store, select an item, approach the judge behind the cash register as a ‘debtor’, and pay off your ‘debt’. Why is this significant? Ultimately, because the terms ‘debt’ and ‘sin’ are interchangeable.

“Pray then like this: ‘Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.'”

The link between the two terms is so strong that Christ’s crucifixion is referred to as an act of ‘redemption’. Consider the below passage from Ephesians.

In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace.

And what does it mean to ‘redeem’ something?

Gain or regain possession of (something) in exchange for payment.

I’ll address the ‘sex change’ issue in a later post. In the meantime, the following should suffice to explain the nature of these ‘transactions’.

Plum Island you say? Intriguing…

Well, looky here…

Dr. Lecter perceives that Plum Island is an animal disease research facility, but Clarice attempts to convince him that the deal is worthwhile. Unimpressed by the formal deal alone, Dr. Lecter insists that if Clarice and he are going to work together, then they will do so by trading pieces of information. Clarice wants to know about Buffalo Bill, and Dr. Lecter wants to know about Clarice’s personal life. The two trade information: Clarice talks about the death of her father and subsequent relocation to a ranch in Montana, and Lecter details the peculiarities of Buffalo Bill’s pathology…

Source: Go into The Story

Curiouser and curiouser…

Do you think Crawford wants you, sexually? True, he’s much older, but – do you think he visualizes scenarios…exchanges…fucking you?

— Hannibal Lecter

But I digress. Essentially the bible conceptualises Christ’s death as a financial transaction, a kind of ‘debt jubilee’. One that obliges Satan to scrape all those sinners off the end of his pitchfork and give ’em back to the man with the white beard. Yet if we apply that model to the financial system we immediately come unstuck, because ‘debt’ is the only means of payment. In the final analysis, all money is issued as debt: a meaningless ‘promise to pay’ (IOU) that can only be redeemed by compounding the problem. In other words, debt can only be ‘paid off’ by handing over another meaningless ‘promise to pay’ that is also a debt.

Third, ‘crime’ itself is an intangible and ephemeral concept. An act can be illegal and supposedly ‘wrong’ one day, and legal and supposedly ‘right’ the next. Didn’t help this guy much though, did it?

Three cheers for the Criminal Cha-lice System for being so fucking magnanimous, yeah? Of course, today the wheel has come full circle, so much so that the Cha-lice can barely be bothered to respond to a ‘traditional crime‘, unless it involves the spilling of serious amounts of claret or the violation of an orifice. Sure, they want you to believe that they’ll chase the youth who nicked your bike to the ends of the earth, but in reality they’re far more interested in what you think. You know, more interested in policing the memories you share on sites like ‘The Facebook‘.

Yep, the Cha-lice have a hive mind mentality…

…and want to make George Sadens of us all.

Of course, making everything a ‘sin’ ensures that we’re obliged to keep exchanging our crime for money. This is what is commonly referred to as ‘work’, and when we consider the true nature of what we receive in return then…well…maybe this will explain the matter a little better in relation to the ‘eternal’ George Saden…

For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Fourth, because ‘crime’ is an intangible and ephemeral concept it has no objective existence ‘out there’. Rather, it has to be manufactured, and the production process requires the input of civil servants and the legislative, executive, and judicial branches of the State. It’s a bit like the movie-making process in fact. You know, scriptwriter, producer, director, stagehands, extras, and so on.

Fifth, because the whole asylum system is in fact one huge criminal enterprise.

The United Estates of Vortex Pyramideum (666 – 599 BS)

A relatively short-lived and literally cut-throat continuation of the Trident Encryption Umpire under another name, this time under Mob rule.

Headed by a shadowy figure known only as ‘The Big Big Boss‘ on account of his seemingly insatiable desire for cheese pizza, meatballs, and positively obese prophet margins.

Funded by liquidating the estates (and lives) of all known relatives of the Filthy Lucre Dynasty in order to recapitalise the Pyramid Scam that collapsed under the burden of Cashmoneytep XVIII’s gambling debts.

Renowned for its games (announced on the day of its founding and continuing for the duration of the Umpire itself), and for legalising murder (or ‘lawful sacrifice’ as it was called) in the context of a formal debt recovery process, initiated by a demand to “Gimme my motherfuckin’ money, jag-off” duly witnessed by one or
more Mob members of good standing.

Vortex Pyramideum provided the setting for the longest running (and most financially crippling) poker game in history, commencing 6/6/666 and ending 39 years later on 3/3/621, when all present gambled their lives and lost to the house.

Filed for bankruptcy in 599 BS and collapsed almost overnight after The Mob finally extracted the last few shats from its citizens and disappeared into the surrounding desert en masse, with truckloads of cash and anything else of value that wasn’t nailed down (including and especially descendants of Cashmoneytep’s favourite Slap Bitch).

Religion: In effect, naked warship (quite literally in some cases) of the shat itself for its own sake, masked by a paper-thin redemption myth centred on the sacrifice of the Prophet Thrustian (a former card shark) and the promise of eternal bliss to those who cleanse their souls with debtors’ blood.

— Umpires of The Umpire, from ‘The Tears of Jihadonai’ by Hugo Stone

In short…

You really didn’t like that alternate ending, did you? But the name on the front cover is mine, and that gives me the right to do whatever the hell I want with it. I know you like the sequel even less, but that’s just fine because it leads me directly onto my sixth and final point: that under these conditions, becoming an outlaw is the only viable option.

That reminds me – you’ve been stealing my ‘horses’ all along, so I’ll issue as many ‘freaky notes’ as I damn well please, OK?

Got a problem with that?

Now that we understand one another, pin ’em back and shut up.

Listen…

You listening? Good, because hell is coming to dinner, too.

How’s that for a ‘scenario’?

The Sound of the Cha-Lice

Sirens. Do you hear them? I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that every time I think a thought that ‘someone’ classifies as ‘unorthodox’ or ‘impure’ the sweet sound of siren song follows literally seconds later. Oddly enough, when I log onto the Sisternet I find my so-called ‘thought crimes’ reflected back at me in the form of news, movies, and infotainment: a seemingly ceaseless flow of in-formation that documents and cross-references my activities on a second-by-second basis. For whatever reason – frankly, I no longer care about what that reason might be – it seems that somebody is extremely interested in yours truly. In fact, you might even say that I’m the star of the show so to speak. Well, don’t expect me to prostrate myself with my head pointing in the direction of the Dog Star anytime soon, folks. I know that’s what the Chalicemen Chalicepersons (forgive my little faux pas, do) want, but it just ain’t gonna happen.

Here’s a short burst of siren song for the benefit of the hard of hearing.

I think I’m following you…

— creepy work colleague comment of the week

Good for you!

But what is ‘it’?

Hard to believe?

Witness Royal King told The Seattle Times he was photographing a wedding when he saw the low-flying turboprop being chased by two F-15s. He said he didn’t see the crash but saw smoke.

“It was unfathomable, it was something out of a movie,” King said. “The smoke lingered. You could still hear the F-15s, which were flying low.”

Source: Aljazeera

Like something out of a movie? Or perhaps a flight simulator I’m familiar with? One that just happens to be set in Seattle? It seems something was the matter with the pilot, and that ‘something’ seems to have infected the mothport, too…

Not sure what the matter is? Here’s a reminder.

We have eternal life and yet we sentence ourselves to drudgery. I tell you, I’m sick of 200 years of washing-up. And I’m sick of pitting my bare hands against the blind, brute stupidity of nature!

— Friend, Zardoz

Fucking diamond in your forehead? Really? You may call it ‘The Tabernacle’, but my preferred nomenclature is ‘The Shitter’.

Of course, the Cha-lice have always considered themselves society’s ‘moral guardians’.

So how’s that working out for you, Agent Cha-Lice of the Eff Bee Eye-Slam? Have the Islams stopped screaming for you yet?

Or have you found…

Guess not!

You could try your luck with The New Holy Woman Umpire instead, but you’ve already been there, haven’t you? And he was too busy crossdressing to pay you your Due Boys, right? And so here you are, still stuck on rung number one of that Stairway to Heaven. Does that just about sum up how you roll, Cha-lice?

This is how I do it…

Do you want me to be your Great Red Dragon? I think you do, don’t you?

But what if I don’t want to play along? And why would I, given your attitude towards ‘Number 10’?

A sharp increase in ancestor simulations live mummifications?

Why not drop by my Digital Glitchin’ and savour the sweet aroma?

Number 10 and The Government The Covenant The Gunishment. It’s ‘hilarious’, but it’s also ‘sick’? Explain that to me, do.

Personally, I’m sick of ‘The Government’…

… and its Corbyn Project.

When it all goes wrong and gets turned upside down…

J____ came to an abrupt halt as the hallway and kitchen was suddenly lit up by a pulsating blue-and-red strobe light originating from the street outside. The source was obvious, and we stared at one another in shocked silence for a moment before springing into action, executing a plan we’d rehearsed meticulously in the aftermath of the first blackout. Without a word J____ exited the kitchen at speed and dashed upstairs to kill the lights and wire up the booby traps we’d devised. Meanwhile, I retrieved our bug-out bags and pump-action shotguns from the kitchen pantry and hurried through to the living room. J____ was back by my side less than thirty seconds later.

“What’s the story, Ben?” he asked in an urgent whisper, standing on tiptoes to peer over my head.

“Looks like a single Blade & VALIS cruiser,” I replied in a low voice, moving aside to allow him a view through the chink in the curtains. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the vehicle: powerful blue-and-red strobes set in the capstone of a roof-mounted pyramid, the sign of The Covenant (an All-Seeing Eye, with the dark pupil embellished with a moth embellished with an Ankh symbol) prominent on all body panels. In the pitch darkness the strobes were powerful enough to illuminate The Covenant’s slogan on the cruiser’s rear flanks. It was a long way from ‘Protect and Serve’.

“’Let Every Scourge of God be Obedient Unto Me’,” read J____. “Not exactly catchy, it it?”

“Sounds awfully familiar, too,” I observed, thinking back to a little sing-song we once had in an altogether different reality.

“Yeah, if I were asked to coin a new slogan my suggestion would be ‘Too close to the fucking bone’,” he hissed ferociously. “This is really weird, Ben. The fucker’s just sitting there. If this were a raid there’d be half-a-dozen of ’em, plus a mobile religious re-education unit. Nothing gives these guys a hard-on more than the prospect of indoctrinating a non-believer. Most prisoners – or ‘new converts’ as they like to call them – are already chanting hymns by the time they reach the station.”

“They call them churches, J____, ” I reminded him. “The swine love their euphemisms. Nobody gets hauled away to a station to be interrogated and beaten senseless these days. A Blade & VALIS ‘Bishop’ issues an ‘invitation’ for an ‘infidel’ to attend ‘church’ and be ‘baptised’ into the faith. In other words, they drag you off kicking and screaming, pump you full of mind-altering drugs, and indoctrinate you with Covenant propaganda until you can’t even remember your own name. Those who take to the faith wholeheartedly are given an RFID implant and subjected to 24/7 surveillance for the rest of their lives. As for the unrepentant…well, you know how that one goes. Live mummification so that the bodies can be used as earthly vessels for the immortal Ka of the Sun God and his faithful followers.”

“It’s just a new take on the old ‘eternal life’ gimmick marketed by all religions, matey,” replied J____ softly. “We’ve both seen the YouTube videos. You know, the ones purporting to show Ra himself occupying a mummified corpse, bestowing blessings on the masses as he walks the streets of central London. The CGI was just awful. I could do better than that even when blind drunk.”

Excerpt from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, by Hugo Stone

…the only choice is to pick up a Cult 45 and go solo…

…you know, put the fuckin’ punk cocker firmly in her box.

Yep, a big fat Number Two is on its way. The SequelGiza is coming.

Read it and weep.

Lumbering Up

Ever taken a look at a log? Aw, c’mon now! I know I’m a bit of a mucky pup but why immediately think the worst? As far as I’m concerned, if you want to sneak a peek before you reach for the handle then that’s your business so to speak. Ditto if you’re the type that likes to have a play before you flush it away. Absolutely nothing to do with me, just try and keep it confined to the privacy of your own home, OK? Then again, is that even possible? I mean, the log I had in mind was digital rather than analog – the kind produced by computers as they fulfill one of their prime functions: recording, storing and retrieving information. It seems that everything is recorded and monitored these days, and some of you may even understand what the term ‘everything’ actually means. Brighter sparks may even understand that the digital/analog divide is by no means as clear cut as it seems. What do I mean by that? Well, take a look at this…

The computers/simulators on their daily ‘compute’ to work. Get the picture?

Tell you what, while I’m about it let’s settle the ‘home’ versus ‘work’ debate once and for all.

OK, glad we got that out of the way. But let’s get back to the ‘horror’ of it all. I mean, you’re all walking around, being ‘productive’, firmly convinced that you’re actually ‘real’, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that you’re basically walking-talking camera-microphones, apparently with no other function than to report on my every thought and deed. Why me, though? Ultimately, it comes down to the ‘everything’, doesn’t it?

Remember that one? But tell me: who actually brought SIN into the world? Who thought it’d be a really terrific idea to create SIN as a global ‘intelligence network’? If that’s a ‘speck’ then what qualifies as a ‘log’?

More to the point, why should I care about what you maniacs think of me?

Jesus H Christ! All this over one Little Twinkie! Fuck’s wrong with you pricks over there in the United Estates of Vortex Zombielandium?

Why? Because it’s the little things that count. Should be rule Number One in my opinion.

Actually, it should be Number Two as well. Why the hell not?

All is not well in Covenant land…

OK. Anyone remember Bitcoin, the ‘Global Ledger’ (one great big ‘log’ that records every trance-action), and the proposed alternative? Money created out of thin air, right? Because that’s the nature of fiat currency. Given that time categorically does not flow in a left-to-right direction, shall we see how that one turned out?

You and your Almighty shat bill! But if money is information and information is just energy and…

…then how come you can’t live without ‘male energy’? There’s a word to describe organisms that rely on other organisms for their subsistence, isn’t there? Here’s an example.

Yeah, the tapeworm is a prime example. Here’s another.

Feeling a bit ‘ticked off’? Don’t worry, honey. Hugo ticks all the boxes. I think I’ll leave you with a little something from The Tears of Jihadonai. Before reading, please trace an outline of an ankh on your chest and supplicate yourself in the prescribed manner: sphinx-like, body aligned with the Dog Star. Fanks.

“Three queues, please, three queues!” bellowed the exasperated studio employee, a large megaphone clasped to his lips. “For the last time: chronic nags in the red channel on the left, those whose loins are infected with the abominable lusts of the She-Devil in the blue channel on the right, and everything else in the green channel in the middle! Come on, brethren, you’re making this far more difficult than it needs to be!”
A low grumble that I felt rather than heard rose up from the crowd of brothers. Never for one minute did it threaten to drown out the ceaseless din of their wives’ hen-pecking. J____ and I stood at the head of a queue marked ‘Defilers of the Sacred Tongue Thread of Virtuous Silence’. I for one felt I had a pretty good idea of what it must be like to be a wildebeest during the annual migration. The noise was deafening, and our own Pudendonia drones were putting out at least eighty decibels. We’d maxed out their volume settings the night before, and on the drive over their screeches of admonition were so loud I’d rolled down the windows for fear of them shattering.
“How much longer is this going to take, d’you think?” yelled J____ into my ear. I could barely hear him, but the way my eardrum vibrated told me he was shouting at the top of his voice.
“Fucked if I know,” I yelled back, feeling my voice crack under the strain of making myself heard. “It’s still only 8am and I expect they’ll start taking us in…Oh, hang on…something’s happening…”
Something was indeed happening. Through the metal security barrier protecting the entrance to what was, in effect, The Covenant’s Ministry of Propaganda, three coaches were approaching. Their paint jobs matched the colour-coded channels we’d been herded into, and they were obviously coming to ferry away the first forty-or-so male-female pairs for their stage one interviews.
“Forty from each channel please, step forward!” bellowed the brother with the megaphone again, nodding to some waiting security personnel to ensure that no one attempted to jump the queue. “Forty only! The rest of you will just have to wait your turn, and for the love of Jihadonai please attempt to do what you’ve failed to so far and keep these wailing banshees under some sort of control.”
I had to admit that he had a point. The scenes around me were chaotic to say the least. To my right, several dozen desperate-looking brothers in the green channel were having to physically restrain their partners to prevent them throwing off the tyranny of the burqa. On the far right, in the red channel, several wives had unzipped the opening in their burqas to expose their genitalia. Their husbands sat forlornly by the roadside, weeping openly. Meanwhile, our partners were recounting our supposed personal failings in exhaustive detail. They were so loud that as we passed through the gates the brother with the megaphone handed us a blue card with the number two printed on it.
“You two can go straight to stage two,” yelled the man.
“What?!?” I shouted back.
“I said stage two!” he yelled again, this time directly into his megaphone, the trumpet-end of which was only inches from my face. “Just follow the colour-coded arrows when you get off the bus.”
The bus ride took only a matter of minutes, during which time the other females on board fell into an awed silence as our partners delivered a master class in nagging. By the time we alighted the faces of the male passengers had brightened noticeably. Several had a change of heart and decided to remain on the bus for the return journey. One forlorn-looking brother placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder as we passed in the aisle. The grim smile on his face indicated that he knew exactly what we were going through.
“Number ones go through the double doors and follow the signs,” roared another studio employee once we’d exited the vehicle. “Number twos follow me, please. You’ll go straight to interview.”
J____ and I, along with three other couples, walked over to where the man was standing. A few moment later we trooped inside the building, past the reception area, and through a door marked ‘Red Room’, which turned out to be a waiting area. The man disappeared through another door marked ‘Casting’, and his head re-emerged a few minutes later, along with a finger beckoning me in.
“Prophet’s Blood!” he yelled once we were seated. “Is there anything you can do to shut her up?”
“I’m afraid not, brother” I screamed back. “This started minutes after she swore herself to silence and servitude at our wedding. That was two years ago, and she hasn’t so much as paused for breath since. For obvious reason, I very much want her dead.”
The man sat back and attempted to arrange his features in such a way as to suggest he’d seen it all before, but the twitch under his left eye suggested otherwise. Unfortunately, his shouts had attracted my partner’s attention, and she immediately turned her wrath on him.
“And as for you,” she spat, swivelling in her seat and pointing an accusatory finger at his eye. “You need to spend more time at Temple reading the scriptures you do. You can start with The Book of Ejaculatreos, Set Two, Games four to seven, and I quote:

“So be watchful for those among thy membership that twitcheth and drool like unto the retard. For their lips shall speak the proud and haughty words of the She-Devil, that harlot who didst reject mine righteous Tongue Leash of Subjection. And they shall seek to deceive ye with tales of their stamina and prowess in the faith, and shall ask thee to bow the knee and assume the shameful position of the She-Dog, that they might fill thee with mine Spirit, and maketh thee like unto a Number One Seed. Remain steadfast I beseech thee, and be ye not moved by their silver-tongued flattery. For they art like unto the excitable whelps of the She-Dog, and knoweth not when to come to heel. And even though thou doth lay hands upon their shafts right daintily, yet shall they come off at the first or second stroke of service, for the mysteries of mine ways are hidden from their sight. Be ye mindful then, lest thine eyes be blinded by the vigour of their premature seeding. Thus saith our Lord Jihadonai.”

The man stared at her in horror, clearly appalled that she had the nerve to quote scripture at him. I watched his hand slip under his desk and noticed a light above the door suddenly turn red. A minute or so later two security guards appeared. The man nodded at my Pudendonia, and they immediately tipped her out of her chair onto the floor, grabbed an ankle each, and dragged her out of the room, leaving us in blissful silence.
“I expect the answer is Yes but I have to ask anyway: you’ve tried the Slap of Rebuke?” asked the man, drawing a hand down his face as if attempting to wipe away a bad memory.
“I have, brother,” I replied, tentatively inserting a finger into my left ear to see whether it was bleeding. “I’ve also tried the burqa 2.0 upgrade with mute functionality, but she refuses to wear it at home so I have no respite from her onslaughts. She’s so brazen that if I attempt to mute her in public then she actually removes her helmet altogether. The shame is unbearable.”
“There’s always The Box* of course. You’ve tried it?”
“She refuses to sit in it, brother,” I replied, adopting a hang-dog expression and refusing to meet his gaze. “To add insult to injury, if I attempt to flog her Paps of Milky Abundance then she immediately files a report with the authorities, accusing me of demanding non-reproductive intercourse. My personal Blade & VALIS file must be several inches thick by now.”

* A small hutch-like cell positioned at the bottom of the family garden, to which mouthy females (‘Biological Anomalies’ in Covenant-speak) were consigned for a 24-72 hour period. During this time they were required to subsist on a diet of dog biscuits and water alone, and to commit at least two sets of The Tears of Jihadonai to memory prior to returning to their wifely duties. Strict criteria for entry into The Box were prescribed. Specifically, the husband must have delivered three Slaps of Rebuke, and performed the rite of Reproaching the She-Devil’s Dumplings at least once, prior to dragging her to The Box by her hair.

“Your biological anomaly is cursed with the cheek of Tarquin himself,” he replied sympathetically. “This is one of the worst cases – if not the worst – I’ve ever seen. Ordinarily we require candidates to complete a Stage Three screen test, but given the circumstances I thought I’d skip the formalities and spare you any further anguish.”
“Thank you, brother,” I gushed, seizing his hand and shaking it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Do you have any particular preference? In terms of how we dispose of her?” he asked, peering at the day’s shooting schedule. “We’re filming a drama about the Sea Sirens which features a very brutal flogging. Or there’s a family drama in which the husband throws his wife from their 10th floor apartment after she expresses doubts about the literal truth of the story of Sodom and Steve. Or…”
“Actually, I was hoping for a good old-fashioned beheading,” I murmured apologetically. “You know, the kind that requires five-to-ten minutes of frenzied elbow-work.”
“An excellent choice, brother,” enthused the man as he picked up the day’s shooting schedule and began to flick through it. “Let me see now…beheadings, beheadings, beheadings….Ah, yes, here we go. Studio Seven at 10am. They’ll be using a rusty junior hacksaw, so I think you’ll get your money’s worth. How’s that sound?”
“Like the Divine Will of Jihadonai himself, brother.”
“Thought you’d like it. OK, I’ll make arrangements to have you ferried across in the next fifteen minutes or so. With luck, you’ll even get to meet some of the cast, possibly the lead actor himself. Lesser actors employ stunt executioners, but I have it on good authority that Adrionicus is a consummate professional and insists on performing them himself to avoid continuity errors.”
“Then he’s truly a man after my own heart, brother,” I replied, hamming it up for all it was worth. We shook hands again and he showed me out into the Red Room waiting area, where I dropped my ‘wimpy henpecked husband’ act and took a seat thinking, And I might just rip his out and feed it to him.

From The Unholy Trinity: A Cultish Tale, by Hugo Stone

Oh yeah, before I forget…