Saturday, October 03, 2015

Hip Hop Dedication Verse

Suppy, big brother, yo, what's the deal?
I hope you're doing aiight
I'm just doin' my thing, living day to day life
You taught me the whole game, now we play alike
You taught me how to win, shoot guns, movin' wind
A lot of shit still going on, sets is holding on
My heart is ripped off so I keep your name at rep
Sittin' there, sippin' Hen, just smokin' on em sens
My album is finished in, four, fifth, forfeiting it
Tryin to get my mind right
Get my life back on the right track
Walkin' in streets dressed in all black, sockin' sacks
We see our own death coming, and it's no turning back
Long as I see this way, thing's ill will be turning up
The world told me “Slow down, Chyll," but Tyrant's good
I get on my mic and rock, like someday you'll talk back
Where we're speakin' of God, when facing hard frustrations
And in solid dedication, help form up the Rap Foundation
Thank You Hip Hop

-lil cease & Tyrant

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Three Guidelines of Life

Make the community happy.
Stay away from other people.
Let yourself enjoy the world.

Pets, Kindred Spirituality

In the past two years I have adopted two stray cats, and helped taken care of my old standard poodle.  Late this summer, turning autumn, and into the early parts of the fall, I have found a self-reflection.
Between the clinging skin steaming sweat to our body, in which the blood pumps the warmth of love, and in the entire global circulation of winds across the plains of earth, to night's watching eyes, skies dotted bright through the darkness, and segued against the residual static between the suns of the living solar systems there is a kind of effect on the human mind of natural concurrence, imperfect longing to belong in a universe that was built to reject us.  Partially responsible for our faith in these religions of mankind, and then as well for the artistic regression from creativity and self- expression of social anxiety as a young boy, into the illusions of memories lost in older ages.  The basis of numbers as a factual informative unit as to the telling of our experiences, strengths and weakness, and eventually the outcome of our perpetual survivalist's tragedy in midst of the ever flowing ebb doing of the same wax and wane as our moon's muse's to the seas mighty fallen grave.  The eventual density integrated by us, in time lines of history, mere instinctive hereditary tradition, or divine intervention for purpose of the betterment of our culture and humanity?  Or yet still, is it all for the commune to a higher sense, and are we all only teachers of manifest destiny to but future civilization?
Late in the summer, between the solstice and equinox, the loss of sensory in detail, and correspondent retention of material gains through the year's hustle and grind.  These all still founded by the genetic code that was inherited through a hostile and forgone environment of the past.  Harrowing the heroes of our modern current of time travel, the independent sentient being that forages through life only to find the needlessly endless supply of infinite nurturing, closes behind gate after gate, as garden after garden, restrict the prohibited immortality that a human mind would intuitively seek if given its now eliminated Eden.
Though through tough thick and thin, easy and strained, we strive for a niche and placement in the schemata of the divine plan, and we sometimes may seek the companionship of another life to help us achieve real reason to return to the simplicity that is a necessity of life, the dependence of belonging. There is a divine and omnipotent reason for every step that we make, the revolution of time, and in entries that we each individually make into karmic reality's time line, the reflection manifold is sought so that we can establish, each day with the rise and fall of the stars on the horizon, the same foundation that was told in the Old Testament, God said "Let There Be Light."
My pets, the people who have value to me as friends, and my society and community, all are pivotal to my enjoyment of the world.  The nice things in life, I share with others at leisure, so that energy may be rejuvenated during times of stress.  Even if it is only an animal, my pet, my friend, myself, I know that this will carry with it the amount of my purpose that God intended, to carry in Him.

Friday, September 18, 2015

Tyrant Time itunes download Review

After the retirement of Twyll The ChyllTyrant, the remixes that continue to make his lyrical expertise memorable, vary in degree of artistic value, and although this may be considered one of the more important feats of the Tyrant discography, it's action to close the chapter of writing that was the Tyrant in UnderGround rap, in Time, is the embodiment of a perfectly flawed characteristic to which the rhyming poetry of the multi-talented ChyllTyrant, is inherently strengthened through the creative expression of wordplay as his glass window, through which we see the artist through the perspective of anti-hero.  A glimpse into the inner workings of a mind within the streets.  Like the car ride you might apprehensively take around the way, the music is guidepost to the enterprise of The Crooked Empire C.R.E.M. & Association.  Assn.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

DJ ChyllTyrant

At the end of time where natural light diminishes due through powerful pulsations whose causation was creation of id.  Ego’s heartbeat of the positive atomic energy, against mentality of negative spectrum.  Neutrality is the guiding code for fate and fantastic leaps of faith.  This suspension of disbelief, as if written by a swift hand, improvisation in boredom’s lonely culling back to the earth whence we come.  Dreams interwoven through subconscious and unconscious in unison and seamless interpolation, in divine instruction, instinct and intuition.  Good and bad are mere constructs contracted by populations of humans known as civilization, used to integrate a heavily embedded belief system into ethical effect.  One cannot walk through life unhanded or as benign to his own existence, lest he become starved or ill.  These are the effects of civilization, of a system of true and righteous cultural beliefs that extend to empower the mass, serve and protect the people, and never to control the minds of it’s public, to only allow the individual’s demand be heard as it heads into physical battle against death of populations, being becomes non, as positivity would be drained and negativity through past time’s perception of reflective nature inherent in itself through which the endless sleep commences in eternity.  The heaven that is above is a waiting period, the return through the cypher, as one, through the whole of existence in retrospective entirety, fulfillment of the divinity of God, and hell is the afterlife’s infinite potentials, combined with every other living entity on dimensional universal biologic and botanic essence, whose main mission in the world’s escapade through destiny, is to relive the same life, reincarnated, forever.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Grim Reaper (poem)

death the skeleton
of the old man guides us
inter-universal time space.
the river of negative resonate
the pool of self-denial.
inner peace at the temple shrine
you are the ass.
you are the shit.

Saturday, May 09, 2015

The Rhythm of Life & LIFE Lyrics

It’s not as hard as it looks, some guitar hooks, getting her hooked, maam pardon the fucks. I give the rhythm something it’s missing when I barred it up, I guess I’d let out the fresh sounds off the top of my heart. Last days Lampshade shadows through the switching lights. Fixing them nice, yep I’m rich with the pipe. Get right. Or I might shift like a slide. Don’t hit your head on the hard cover of bucks. Parking lot garbage truck I’m parking a lot. Garages on barrage, when wetlanded the blocks were a swamp. You could say it sort of flooded when the darkness poured out da cups. But I think it’s just the lost wishes that never saw love. Because as hard as I look, it’s just a star on the dusk. Then I think it didn’t dawn in you still, you do the wrong thing and keep it on until, If you thinking what I’m thinking, chill, that’s why we only live once, father to son is why I’m giving it up. homies good. artists such as us are guardians into the garden of life. Water in hand, starting it up, I throw splashes out the air crafts. Blowing on that astro. Growing out my afro. I’m higher than the arch on the lamp posts, swinging wires like some kicks and some spare tires tracks, hitting kids with their crack, crooked is a conglomerate, now onto the facts, note wax, poetics drip out my throat when I spit liquid rhythms in raps, reflected it black from refracted fragments that lasers race fast and catch, laced with the cash on my face. and the soft in the safe is midnight made.  

that’s what you lack, that’s laughable that’s what you lack, that’s laughable that’s what you lack, that’s laughable really doe, your only friend that’s what you lack, that’s laughable creative spark snap on battle hill cannonball smack smack on the villain twyll army camo maps and backpack skills it’s the soldier field, where we hold and steal steal hold stronghold, and open seals really doe, it’s posed as long and stolen real I’m not sposed to belong, not golden deal My rappin tone is capitone is baritone is all in one channel o satchmo saxophone really doe, why you gotta teelee phone why you gotta be alone, you gotta really know really doe, it’s the really o.d. in a o.c. cali strap, o.g., go alley cat o.z. aiight really doe, it’s the really o.p.m. old poetry master your only friend laughable that’s what you lack that’s natural but lackin that nations station is the battle hill that’s natural that’s what you lack that’s natural but lackin that nations stations is the battle twyll that’s natural astral celestial that’s natural natural that’s natural natural that’s natural gotta know who you actin ill, that’s natural my passion is that of lingerie candles animals tender gentle sexual that’s the love handle swag so natural it’s ritual for the virgin to get window silled and that first impressions are minnows still in a distant condition… they move thru to the water’s edge suspicion of da voodoo buku, now I’m the envy of the princess so my second memory is a vision and endless extremity of the human sinner hymen skin thin for a first born dinner humid summer simmer, the daylight dimmer the redness of the sunburn conveys a picture of lover’s of the work unpaid, the Sunday that someday, one way or another me and my brother, live off the garden guarded by the cherubs of mother’s misfortune or another, night underlying quiet stars and while outside the violence riots war I remastermind the tyrant’s czar And combine leviathan poseidon and abbadon Azazel in the fallen star… Callin the gardens rotten scar But it’s only natural It’s only natural Aiight Ok Aiight Ok I miss u livin free for the ocean, return with the tide Ride free life helter skelter slide My omen, amen, amendment so omenous prayers and nursery rhymes aren’t aknowledged even I’m out of college, I’m in the streets now Into a broken promise and slated repeat now I’m out the mountains, into the deep now People seem to think that what maintains is sleep now I’m rapid and active the passion of wave crashes Collapsin avalanches and blazin the ashes Rain in the chasm, blood stain mattresses Brainspasm the anti-matter and antecedent Accidentally impregnate imagination Off artificial insemination thru reverberation In light seminal compression on the animate Primitive levels of elevation to the element For the kids thinking that water exists are slighted By the enigmatic zero within the hydrogen fire Confined by the limited sphere of air That’s encircled in the fear of the spirits ubiquity Where, the rarities and antiquities are uniquely Tears of charity’s and liberties of responsibility Freedom of choice, thereafter reason for noise Freedom of choice, your voice… Freedom of the water, the chaos of movement Freedom of the water the chaos of movement The music The freedom the music The freedom the music The music The water Do it It’s my mission statement that’s physical bangin Criminals and murder mischief, intrinsic language This is the vision and the fishin is anglin Angels collide visages of the finish’s vicious changeling Ripples aftereffects as well as energetics Electric current within the verbal semantics An array of vocabulary composed fairly simplistic Symphonic arrangement of continual ballistics Statics say that satirists are jus statistics of physics Holistic nonsense for the mentally molested Have the kid arrested, I’ll ressurrect the dead Well connected like necks chests and heads the only medal you got comes wit a ribbon I’ll pop ya wit the eagle into another dimension yes it is metathiz yes it is metathiz get it back yes it is metathiz quick to dead a kid presidential status quick to election pick veteran sick, ghostly superstitions disconnected static to the electrician this forcefed genre of horsceck culture orchid ghanja for ultra horrific sepultures honor the face of the promise land on the grace of the honest man, hot god damn i'm the kid that said it first bred to thirst so my gesture as the jester is head first bled for words, worse, i'm dead for verse dead on birth rest dirt resin the earth and I’ll press up hard if your daughter’s white burn her chest wit carbs and water pipes yes it is yes it is metathiz get it back


nightmares with zombies, vampires, or monsters.

monsters can only smell you, and you will be able to defeat most of them before their minions/possessed humans come ambush you and the survivors.
zombies can only see you, and you will be fucked.
vampires can only hear you, and you will be able to find somewhere to hide with the survivors, for quite a while, until one of your companions slips up and makes noise.

monsters get theme music, imported from your daily real life.
zombies get dream-morphing abilities.
vampires get horrific both auditory and visual special effects.

ghosts are usually people you know in real life who have died.

Friday, May 01, 2015

CAPTION FOR THE NIGHT (the best poem ever written)

beers boomers and blunts
bass bumpin in the basement
what you know bout that (boy's on fire oooooooo)

I live 6 feet under the ground
And smoke til I'm chokin
i got double the trouble
you're a fucking bitch
you want to spit with me I'll have you in a box six feet under the ground(BIG TIME)

COPYRIGHTS 2005 Twyll The ChyllTyrant

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Anti-Theism Beliefs

yourself as the number one person whose eyes which we see through. alpha omega, death as polar opposite from conscious life, lead by our inner conscience. environment one, versus the infinite potential polarity, planet z. this is the planet to which also i describe as our best as well as our worst possibility in inevitability. zombie planet. i have come to my own personal qualm with this zombie invincibility of a 100% saturation of planet earth into demonic reality in conceptualized imagery only imaginable by the human mind for it's supreme sentient mentality as self-absorbed heroic ego. the less living portion of the mind, to which is adhered zombie potential, is the non-transaction reaction to personification of soul. although the spirit may be weakened, therefore, humans survive through the success of independent nature in righteous command of the universal constant which is god. that is why pain is trivial, death is infinite, and life is merely our reflection in genetic divine artistic time usage in the proverbial celestial omnipotent condition of self against the comparative narrative that is our singular lives. reincarnation through to zombie life must be recognizable, thus, and i have attributed such anxiety of intervention from divinity. this is the ability of a life-nurturing body of elements to feel itself. instinct, and intuition, working cooperatively to progress evolution and achieve a natural peace and balance to the relationship between what is symbolically the trinity or trilogy of sensory time, space, and potential extinction...
this is essentially the essence of my theory of anti-theism.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

'Tyr's Fall': "The Ascent"; 2015 excerpt

Tyr was not standing, neither was he sitting as he watched the world below and surrounding him.  He watched with patience that came from blindness.  He sought out the different charges of emotion that ran through the thoughts, which soared upward in a constant barrage of feelings from the creatures in the whirlwind ascent.  Souls of generations that surged him with constant charges of trust, love, pain, hatred, came and went.  In one ear and out the other went cries of lust, of fury.

 Tyr was the catalyst.  His creation was that of utmost importance, the single barrier between imagination and reality to the people of Earth.  Time, was not the contingency that one would expect, however, in the catalyst’s eye.  Not that he could not determine the very instant of a soul’s most pleasurable sexual sensation, nor that he could not awaken the hunger and fear in the eye of a single child on Earth.  It was his duty, however, to regulate the emotional sphere of Earth.  This was all that he had for almost as long as he could remember, ever known.

 His being was an ancient, ancient one.  For at one point he had been very strong, and capable of quelling any individual thought process on Earth.   There had, indeed been pieces of history when his reign was supreme and where man and animal had co-existed in complete harmony.  Before his son Zeus had taken the threshold of war and faction of human spirit to new levels, Tyr had long awaited the opportunity to really execute his authority over man.

 It was one common fact at this point, that war was imminent on Earth.  A catastrophic war that would rip the fabric of time and space.  As an Elder God, Tyr was ready to play his part in the fantastic war.  He had long ago been a part of the planning committee.  Here, the Elders of the Ether Realm laid out their separate pieces of the united outline to which Earth would be forced into recognition of its great Gods, of its untold horrors, of its warped existence which had been the creation of the Eldest and Greatest Of Great Gods, Elohim.

 Odin, the once great Elder of War, and the God responsible for the burial of thousands upon thousands of human bodies was still unfit for the task of such a catastrophic war on Earth.  It had been earlier augmented that Tyr would be his successor.  However the Greatest Gods, whose identities always seemed on the verge of revelation yet forever hidden in shadow of darkness to the Elders, who in turn were but shades and hues to the Lesser Gods, gave specific instructions to which the exchange of powers would take place.  A sacred monastery had been created eon ago for the purpose of such a battle of immortal souls, at a Mount Zion, which the Gods were instructed to build with one specific location.

 Both immortals, Odin and Tyr would ride the skies upon each other’s backs and like a tumultuous and unbalanced doppelganger, would collide upon themselves in combat.  Together they would sear the sky magenta, the ground smeared with blood.  Devastate, together they would scorch and smolder hundreds of humans.  They would run and when they would run the earth would quake.  As they yelled out in anguish of battle, the angels of the immortal army of Earth would cry.

The only recognizable flaw in the plan was Zeus, Lesser God of Fear.  At request of Tyr, to Zeus was left an undecided destination in the catastrophic war.  Tyr knew of his son’s spells of imbalance and anger, being that he was God of the human emotion of Love as well.  He was only uncertain of his son’s final movements for the fact that he had blocked out any retainable memories of his son’s fall from grace after the fall of the Greek empire.  All he would choose to know was that his son had made his decision either for or against him.  Besides this, Tyr was ready, he had already made arrangements for a Protector God to be transplanted on Earth to help him if need be, Aeolus, the Wind God.

The Half-Gods had long been relinquished, and the Lesser Gods stood all watching in awe as their armies of angels began polishing their blades with anticipation and impatience.  Tyr only existed to see the outcome rise upon the moment.  His entire being wound slowly down the whirlwind advance of souls upon his Temple of Godliness.

The time was ripe, rising like a full red moon over the grassy plains, skyscrapers, and mountain ranges of Earth.  Tyr foresaw many perils of the conquest of Earth.  In one day’s time, his son might lose his existence, forever, if man ceased to exist.  He also, as an Elder God of Earth, made no mistake of the other potential participants in the final battle.  Man and God fighting, fist and foot, blade and bullet to the last fallen combatant.  The darkness was ascending.

As the darkness lifted like a curtain of Greek tragedy, Tyr knew that his conquest would not be without possible pitfall and trap.  He knew, for instance, that Netherrealm’s leaders had been changed up quite frequently in just the comparatively recent past.  His distrust of the realm of Hell was due, for as the God of Emotion, he was one of the initial creators of the Netherrealm, where unwanted souls stay.  He knew but one thing, the reigning God Hades, who had been banished from Heaven for misconduct, was a foolish one.  The Least of All, Lucifer, was decisively still lurking somewhere among the shadows of Netherrealm, in all his disgusting, unimaginable ugliness.  Where the flames had yet to strike their sharp flicker, Lucifer, eternal foe of mankind, was surely waiting for some escape to set claim on the souls that he had desired for along the centuries, possibly even rendering Hades an Earthly mortal, or even more dangerous, try to escape for himself to the Earth Realm to set his own bids among the Gods for the remnants of Earth.

Tyr thought all of this through the darkness yet ascending, higher still, and as the whirlwinds of souls began to become more and more distinctly human, and the smells of Earth began to warp his senses.  He could smell at once as the ocean rose below him the blood of a million soldiers falling under sword and gun along the millennia of melee.  He saw at once the rise of Roman coliseums, and the fall of the World Trade Center.  Almost to Earth Realm, now, as the darkness steadily increased it’s rate of secession, he could hear Zeus’s cries of loneliness and fear.  Was it illusion?  What was it that his own son was hiding?

Lightning struck Tyr at every angle, time ripped and stood still.  This was the beginning of the final stages of his transconfiguration from Immortal to Mortal.  The ground began to rip upwards toward his feet faster and faster.  The mothers of Earth, fathers, the sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, all who fell to the whims of insanity, amnesia, the flashes of desperation, the depths of Apocalypse and death’s scythe.

A tear fell from Heaven.  Tyr caught it in his hand and grasped it close to his chest.  As the last of all the mind-blowing whirlwinds slowed to a halt, and the darkness dissipated into flashing bits of floating debris-like chasms, Tyr looked up once more to the Heavens.  His final war cry of complete betrayal of emotion, his throat bellowed out the name of his Father, who he would remember this one last instant, forever.  One last transconfiguration of mind remained.  A voice from Heaven made one simple request:

“Tyr, the time was nye, and do not give up faith.  The ascent has ended, the descent yet remained!”

Almost as soon as I felt the breath of life, I was dead.  As quick as the earth instilled it’s nutrients, it stole them back.  I remember just a few things of when I was alive, and although I could relay them at quite ease in a more comfortable setting, I am not at that certain capacity, yet.  Yet to explain what I’ve seen, I will continue.  I remember another one, who somehow resembled me.  I remember a light, and I remember three wishes that were allowed for my access to the light.  The wishes I have forgotten, but of which I made my final pleas with the light, I was never to be redeemed of life.

 There was a brief moment of inspiration between the light.  It grappled me and threw me which way and that.  I was without honor, without courage, without power at all.   Merely a child caught in a raging storm.

 In the light, in the thrashing and caustic light, which had controlled me from what seemed like years away, I saw the extreme continuity of motion amongst the living soul of Earth.  With one word, I learned to speak.  With another, I learned to argue.  With a motion, I learned to walk, and in turn learned to fight.  With all the beauty of the world at once, I learned the intricacies of seduction.  I learned to betray, at the sight of holocaust.

 When I reached out, I was grabbed by an archangel, Michael, who led me into the World of Gods.  I could see so many beings, guided along in a calm passionate world, by unseen forces that seemed to have always been in place, always strengthening.  Some seemed negligent of me, others merely turned a cheek, left or right, and the angel led me by arm through a vast field of others.

 I learned at an altar, and prayed at a sink basin from which sprung a fountain of evanescent cleansing spirit.  When I drank, I learned of my ancient past as well as my future.  I was taught not to think, or follow instincts.  I was taught intuition.  It was a glorious road for salvation that I sought, yet almost every God and even angel would only look at me haplessly and return often a shrugging complacency.

 I would watch the story of my brother as it climaxed and fell all day.  No thoughts would ever cross my mind on how to change the eventual outcome.  Only a slight tickling behind my eyes that burned as time wore on.  I would watch the world spin on it’s axis, and I’d watch the holocaust of Judaism all night to stay awake.  I consequently lost my need to sleep, or move.

 It was all in preparation.  That one day would come, one day that would release my soul once more.  The Elder Gods would come to see me, and lay with me, cover me with their arms.  Their old musk still runs through my mind.  I wanted only my brother.  Here in their solace, I would often ask and query.  What was the meaning of life?  When would my chance come to return to the Earth I longed for?  Who would I be...  Who would I have been?  Why did I have to die?  Alas, for naught, I was only captive.

 Then, the Elders would leave, all but one who would gaze at my eyes with pure unfiltered agony.  I knew for the longest time that this was to be one to remember.  His essence would catch up to me, and it would be all revealed at an appropriate time.  But his desire struck out like two jagged knives.  Every night when I laid down to sleep, I prayed Elohim that he leave my chamber.  To no avail, he stayed and stayed longer, gazing into my eyes with a hatred until I would cry.

 His hatred, almost as strong as banished Hades, was it intended for me?  The angels, who seemed to only want to protect me, appeared completely at ease with his being.

 It was a long time in the Ether Realm, before I realized that a God does not have shape and form.  It was a long time before I realized that I would never speak with any of them and be answered.  My lessons became more and more gibberish, incomprehensible.  It was a long time, yet still, before I realized that I would never be reunited with my soulmate.

 One morning, I awoke and the Elder who stood by my bed waiting for my rise each morning pointed toward the dark corner where the “Terrible” one stood and watched me sleep.  He was there, but something was different about him.  I immediately felt such envy and anguish that I stormed out of my chamber.  Everywhere I went, the one I called “Tyr” followed me, and it was soon I realized that I was not in motion at all, and he was only standing watch longer.  I threw myself again on my bed and, frustrated and confused fell back to sleep.

 Only once did I awaken.  I recalled some lessons, as I stared back angrily at Tyr, eyeing him directly in his unformed face.  The Elders had said that one could be completely free from sin on Earth and still never make it to Heaven.  I wondered what had happened to my brother I had left in our mother’s womb when I died at childbirth.  The Elders had insinuated that even Hell had it’s escape routes.

 Tyr had grown closer to my bed, and was steadily approaching my side.  Unafraid, I turned on my shoulder to face him.

 “Be quiet in thou dormant stance.  Thy vacancy here as a pure soul would be more than welcome in the Netherrealm!” I yelled, as he grew up closer.

 When he was inches from my forehead, I saw something I had never seen before in his eyes.  It caught me off guard, and I was startled until I peered closer.

 “He’s there!” I gasped, and closed my eyes tight.  I could still feel the heat of Tyr’s glaring eyes on mine.  A tear fell off of my eye.

 I wouldn’t awaken again for quite some time, and when I did, things would be far from normal.

“Fucking pigs can fly.  When they spit that sperm out right?  Fucking pigs!”

 “The pussies are a bunch of wimps!  I want my money!”

 “Fuck that!  I’ll shit down your fucking eyeball socket, you ugly turd.”

 “Get off my dick!”

 “Look at him, all proud like a baby...  Sitting there like a damn saint.  Like we aren’t out here busting ass.  I’m fucking tired of this shit...”

 “When that one’s head gets nice and limp, I’m gonna skull fuck him.”

 “Tournament of hot damn champions?  You all saw what Hades fucking said.  Fucking hot damn champions!  Real champs!  I could blow one of those chumps over with my smaller ball.”

 “You fucking said it, damn straight.  Bunch of pansies if you ask me.  My cock has more muscles than their entire arm!  And I’d assfuck the shit out of any one of them by the way, they would be crying for-“ SMACK!

 “Hey look!  They smacked him!  Burn, bitch, burn!”

 Hades, the reigning king of the underworld, was seated on a throne of dragon skeleton.  Blood was dripping on it from above where there were several hanging corpses.  He was barely more than a skeleton himself, with a shawl draped over thin, ashy, cracked skin.

 Hades knew that the Apocalypse was coming for Earth above.  It was his intention to use Tyr’s advance to the lower region of Earth Realm from the Heavens along with his guides’, adversaries’ alike, to create a temporary wormhole in the fabric of Truth and Time.  At this vantage point he would be able to summon the power of his kingdom, to duel with the Ether Realm on Earth.

Presently, a tournament was taking place in the inner ring of Hell.  Hades already had his minions hand-select a chosen few warriors who were fallen from the grace of God to fight to their deaths.  Of course, “death” was a relative word in the land of the undead.  No longer man, of flesh and blood, these warriors were without soul and had nothing much to lose, and a lot to gain by being released back on Earth.

Where names had been forgotten long ago, each warrior herein was given an emblem of a creature found on Earth.  At the moment, there were only eight warriors left.  They wore the marks of burned scarring.  For the recognitive purposes, they each were assigned an animal:  a Tarantula, Eel, Cobra, Python, Centipede, Toad, Scorpion, and a Lizard.

Hades thought and thought, weighing every angle of this advantage he had stumbled upon over the Gods.  Of course, he would be expected to have had a terrible time, for his negligence had lead him to these last hours to make a final decision on a plan of attack.  Per the usual, things in the Netherrealm were fast-paced, bloody, and perilous.

The minions raised the cages in the arena of Tarantula and Cobra, who leapt, both, simultaneously from their crouch positions to combat.  Tarantula swept the floor of the ring and flames sprung underneath his foot, but Cobra evaded the attack with a jumping high right kick, which connected with a stunning cheekbone blow, sending Tarantula flying into Eel’s cage.  Eel, a witty and collected man, took his chance and grabbed Tarantula by the arm through the holes in his cage.  Viciously, Cobra began to pound into him with low blows to the ribcage.  Before breaking every rib, Cobra bit off the man’s nose and spit it at Eel.  Eel hissed, howled, and released his victim, letting Tarantula fall to the ground grabbing his falling guts.  With a loud stomp, Cobra succeeded in annihilating Tarantula’s skull into the burning embers of the battlefield.  The minions jumped and held him down, dragging him back into the cage where he would wait for his next battle.

As Scorpion cracked his knuckles in the cage, Hades was hatching a bit of a fury of new plans.  After seeing the mortality of Tarantula taken at such a quick pace, he was determined to have a back-up.

Hades motioned for one of his devils to approach his platform.  The minion did so, objecting by spitting on the burning, bloody, and beaten body of Tarantula on his way over to the throne.  Hades almost cracked a grin, but hid his pleasure.  Instead, he threw the minion against Tarantula’s emptied cage into a jutting spike.  Immediately the ring nearly doubled over in hideous laughter, sounding like the frightening howls of dozens of ancient beasts down the hole of their prey.

The devil grabbed the spike from behind him, and wildly spasmed his limbs off of it.  As fluid fire quickly spewed from the hole in his shoulder, he maliciously licked his lips with a forked tongue at the other devils who were still screaming in laughter.  He began again towards Hades.

Hades had, by the time the devil arrived, perfected his plan.  The bones of Leviathan on which he rested were his inspiration.  He realized that he knew, from the time that he had spent in Hell, only one thing; that ultimate devastation of Earth and the Gods was his entire being and also his ultimate goal.  He wanted to release more than one beast at once to scourge the Earth.  He desired a dragon.

The devil stepped towards the throne.  Hades glanced around and signaled for the next fight to begin.

As the two warriors battled, Hades quickly relayed his idea to the devil.  They had long ago won a tournament to collapse great Eden, and had retrieved a serpent from the gardens.  They had it in Hell, but were unsure of where it had been left to prior their command.

“Lucifer might know where the serpent is, master,” the devil whispered secretively.

“Yes, but how will we locate Lucifer?  One such as him has always been a wily devil, and a bargainer.”

“Perhaps Mephistopheles will be willing to assist us?”

“Mephistopheles has always held a trick up his sleeve as well-“ Hades began, as Eel’s forearm came flying past the throne, nearly swatting him on the head.

The devil turned about face and hissed at the battle’s champion, who was being escorted back to his cage.

Hades stood and waved at his minions as Scorpion re-entered his cage.

As the demons dispersed from out of the inner ring, Hades sat back down on the throne of blood and bone.  Time was pending, and the stench of a fallen God began to warp the arena, bending the fires’ flames, creating vapor lines along the walls.  Hades put a forefinger on his chin, and his middle on his thin, cracked lips.

The war would be a great one.  The entire Netherrealm was charged with impatience, aggravation, and a stuttering lust for Earth’s green pastures to once again return to barren rock and lava, not unlike the Netherrealm.  It was an exciting time for the demonic domain of Hell.  If Draco could finish where Leviathan had begun, they would surely be successful in conquering the realm of Earth.

 Lucifer himself started his tracks.  Lay still a moment.  His dark body became part of the shadows of the wall.  All that remained was the stench of The Beast.  Covering the fecal odor of The False One, and Minotaur of the Ring Walls.  He had made a plan of his own while waiting in the darkness.  His Beastly shape made into but a pattern of flame.

Huang Di’s loom was of yellow hues and great red circular shapes.  His nimble fingers bent on and off the fabric as he prepared final touches.  His life’s work would seem tedious to most.  Life, as an artisan, was not at all as exciting and full of flare as one might expect.  But his work was magnificent, defined with perfectly wound and weaved threads that garnished unimaginably beautiful garments.

 From the each of the first dancing rays of sunlight a morning awakening that would slight the shades of his countryside windows, blowing fresh breaths onto his closed eyes, to the grandest of golden rays that on sunset every evening, brought close to his long meditations.  Huang Di was a modest man, taking in all.  Long ago dispelling Godship, for the more humble life of servitude, he was much more accustomed to his current mode of labor than he had ever been to his reign as Emperor of the Zhou Dynasty of Ancient China.

 His loom, which was hanging from a rack carved from Dystillium, was positioned in the living space of his three-bedroom house.  Dystillium created much of the small hut he inhabited.  The glass windows always were kept shut, except in the afternoon, when a slight breeze would blow all the way through to the kitchen where tea would be coming to a boil on his stovetop.  The loom would twirl and wave in the wind, and dance to usher in the rising moon.  A new loom every two weeks, consistently was his rate of production.  He would sell the crafted cloths at often most meager prices, dependent on only the rise and fall of tea prices.

 His need to consume any nutrient was extremely minimal, yet he still appeared as only about an 80 year old man, despite his long lifespan, which had lasted for millennia.  Most of his sustenance was extracted purely from the air which would rise and collapse in his lungs during deep meditations every evening, and from his afternoon tea, which he drank exactly on schedule every day.  He was old, and fragile, but quick still.  Sometimes in the morning, he would lean through the window of his house and gaze out upon the river that streamed by his garden and, in total wonderment and awe, observe the fish that would dart through the waters.  He knew that he was old like the rocks that played for wandering fish, a hidden oasis of feeding.  In this way he knew that he would always be available for his peoples’ guidance along the flowing river of life.

 He had a long time past created his own haiku, in ode of life and the fish in his stream:

  A failure follows
 Autumn by first fallow land
   This is the flow way

 Satisfaction to Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor, would be as simple as hearing the grass blades bend outside his cottage in the evening, sunset by teacup, or sitting alone, studying his ancient library.  Huangdi Neijing, his book of medicine, had in the past been handily ready for consultancies.  Passersby, often hungry or beaten by severe weather, almost always could receive proper anointment from the right ingredients and mixtures at the hands of the once greatly revered cleric.

 He also possessed the original Book Of Shadows, which collected dust along the side of his shelf, many scriptures of Siddhartha Guatama and Mahatma Ghandi, the Necromonicron stood alongside the Illiad, Metamorphoses against the Tanakh, and many Western classics stood all having been read and re-read over again.

 Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor, was still now.

 He had sensed something of a physical birth among the antiquities of beings on Earth.  Something familiar was stirring in the afternoon glare, as the sun began it’s soft shade against the horizon.  A thing of great beauty, that he could smell and hear move like a delicate mantis.  Yet, the being was fully charged with such lustful spirituality that he almost arose to his feet from his embrace of the yellow loom.

 This wasn’t a human soul that he detected.  Not at all, but at the same time, not very much different.  While knowing that he mustn’t be alone in this study, that people around the world must have realized the shift in metaphysical balance, Huang Di nonetheless shut his eyes, contemplated what was coming.

 The weather seemed to change quickly, drastically, disturbing him as he sat and meditated, but he only knew this through his extrasensory perceptions of the environment.  A big storm was coming.  Horizon light was escaping the air of his countryside, and he still was without full knowledge of what shape and form was amidst the otherwise calm world.  He strained to capture the being’s essence, but it was moving too fast, darting from here to there, turning the planet upside down with aggressively charged beauty.  It was almost certainly female in essence, he concluded, but could not do much more to understand than that.

 Suddenly, he was startled into deep lucidity, and was overwhelmed with a barrage of premonitory images.  What he saw would be for sure, impossible to find tangible, but he felt certain of the power of complete chaos on Earth.  Demonic imagery of war and fire rushed over him.  Desperate sights of man against greater powers, a leader that would rise among them, an Apocalypse to humanity, craziness and insanity, finalizing in the frightening collapsing of Earth Realm.

 There was a knocking on his door that persisted through the dream-like meditation.  The knocking seemed to grow louder, and louder still, until it broke him from his spell at last, and Huang Di jumped to his feet.

 “Who wanders my yard, there?  Who stands at my step and startles me so?”

 “It is I, that does so, old one.  Open for me, you have something in your possession that I have come far to seek out,” said a man’s voice from behind the wooden cottage door.

 Huang Di made to move over towards the silhouette formed window to see whom it was that was banging on his door at such late hour.  But he stopped; for the light outside was so dim that he was unable to even see the stream that flowed by, although he still heard it’s current rush.  He lit a few candles around the living room, and remained calm, collected.

 “What is your name, then?  How have I known you by?”

First there was a lengthy pause, a clearing throat.  Then, a deep entrancing voice burst out;  “It is I, the one called Odin.  I am here only myself, an old man such as yourself, with but a single, simple request of you.  Danger lurks, old one, and it is safer inside than out here.   Please, be kind enough to give your kind service.”

 Intrigued by the man’s courtesy and politeness, Huang Di approached the door with cautionary steps.  However, with reproach, took in his hand a dagger from off a hanging golden harness in the unlit entranceway.  As he walked, he stashed the dagger in the back of his gi, on his hand embroidered white belt, which depicted a small yellow lion with a curling orange tongue.

 “Now I will welcome and open for you, but be sure Odin, I have studied well the ways of the Gods, and know exactly who you are, and, too, where you stand in this coming war.  I will indulgently sacrifice my body and life for a cause that will lead to the protection of my people and land.  This I say, while knowing that yes, our ways are soon to change.  You are allowed entrance, then, only in anticipation that as a chameleon strikes a fly from through the shades of it’s surroundings, so does a leader emerge from a crowd.”

 Huang Di swung open the door, and peered out into the swallowing darkness of the storm.

 There was Odin, standing affront a pack of wild and fighting wolves.  The thrashing between the wolfbeasts was not unlike a raging storm itself, and Huang Di was cynically thinking that these were one of the primal reasons for the coming onslaught of weather creeping overhead.

 Odin’s dark blue cloak was loosely tied, and sailed in the blowing wind at the door.  His hood covered his entire face with black shadows that danced in the light of the candles inside the cottage.  Still safe inside, Huang Di was almost angry with the man, for bringing his wild horde so close to the abode, but withdrew from the entrance and allowed Odin in, despite his concern.

Odin stood for no longer than three seconds alone on the step, only long enough for the candlelight to brave past the old man and to shine on his covered face.  He was unspeakable in his elderly stature, decrepit even, and fantastically marked by battles.  Along each cheek, swinging under each eye, even the corners of his mouth were all scars that created zigzags and caught shades of the darkness upwards against his brow, which was high and wrinkled.  His left eye socket was black, an empty void where an eye had once been.  His right eye was dark blue, the same color of his cloak, and his iris was blood tinged and veined.

“Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor.  I have traveled far already, to see you and your spectacular assortment of antiquities,” Odin said as he began to step over the threshold and into the house.  “What I seek here, is of utmost importance to my mission.  A Golden Compass that-“ the candlelights blew out as Odin closed the door behind him, “-could be noticed even in complete darkness of the Ether Realm.”

Quickly, Huang Di reached into his pocket for matches.  Anticipating a fight, he checked the position of his dagger, and drew out a brightly flaming matchstick from inside his gi.  Not so afraid, anymore that this old man posed much of a threat, Huang Di turned to the side and lit the stove.

“I am but an artisan, I can not imagine what a Golden Compass would mean to a traveler such as yourself.  However, if you wait in that room,” he said, sensing the urgency in the man’s voice, and pointing towards the room with the hanging fabrics, “I will take the time to allow your inspection.”

Odin slid, as if suspended in stasis midair, towards the unlit room.  From out of his cloak, he pulled an ebony walking stick, as he sat down on a rocking chair that stood facing away from a side window.  Huang Di walked through the doorway of his unlit room with the burning matchstick, lighting two hanging candles on either side of the doorway as he went.  For just a brief moment, all that was heard within the small living area from the bleakly dark bedroom was a low flurry of papers being rustled, until suddenly, there was a small creek, and the sound of a small wooden box being closed up.  Then, Huang Di returned behind the doorway with book in arm, and a toy-like box engraved with another lion’s insignia.

“I have here, the Bai Ze Tu.  It is what lead me to suspect your identity, as well as foretell your destiny, with certain insight.  Are you familiar with this scripture?”

“No,” said Odin.  “I am not so interested, however, in my destiny, as I am in the identity and location of a certain God that has come to Earth.  His name is Tyr, and he has arrived this very hour to defeat me in battle.  It is my duty, and obligation to meet him for the final conquest to begin.  That is why I need the Golden Compass, for while he was granted the wish of having a guide, I was old on this planet when the coming war was first conceived in the hearts of Man.  I have walked this world for century and century, with only my beasts by my side, whom I know I mustn’t let alone for too long, lest they take to their own agendas and begin devouring human flesh and blood.  You see, the matters and actions that are pending here, are of complete necessity.  We must move guiltlessly and purposefully with grace and rapidity to the final hour.  Hurry, then, old wise one, show me the Golden Compass.”

Knowing that he had the upper hand, Huang Di continued, “Tyr is a mighty God, Odin.  Are you sure you are ready to face him?  He has the power of all emotional charge, all mental aggravation, to devastate your forces.  I have seen the outcome of this war, in a premonition.  Just as you began knocking on my door, I was enraptured in the revelation of what is to come...”  as he started again towards Odin, “Yes, you may see the compass.  I will coordinate it for the positioning of Tyr, and allow you to carry it with you on your journey.”

Odin’s eye lowered to the box in Huang Di’s hand.

“Say no more, wise one, Yellow Emperor, Huang Di.  I am the one responsible for your immortality on Earth.  You have powers comparable to a God, now that you are closing in on the time span of existence of Man.  The dagger in the back of your gi, it is granted the special magical ability of bringing the dead back to life by it’s bearer’s command.  You must use it with great care and exception to bring back three of Earth’s greatest warriors for one last fight.  Let your wisdom guide you, carefully.”

Huang Di’s eyes widened with surprise.  He slowly reached to his belt and took out the dagger, which was green and had the crest of a dragon on it’s handle.  He had only used it to cut tealeaves, and had never before used it to fight a mortal, much less revive one.

 “My master!  My wish is only your demand, and my labors are of love, now, for you,” Huang Di said, kneeling before Odin.

 “Then, we will be successful in our mission.  I’ve always known that I would be able to trust you with such great sorceries.  What will transpire between now and the end, will be redemption of the Gods to Elohim, the Greatest of all Greats, the Eldest and Wisest of all Gods.  Mortal man, with his constant contract of dilemma of life, will be freed forever to recognize Him.”

Sometimes, in the course of an era of human endeavors, enterprise, and progress, through which man has endured, and kept faith in God above, a leader has emerged that is marked from birth, through heritage.  Other times, another leader is formed from the ground up.  Still again, fate may swing her arms to the balance and a great leader is born, that through generations has come to such greatness and durability of spirit, which is unalterable even by the Gods themselves.  Reincarnated souls, trapped between Hell and Earth, were always greedy of these spirits.  They were of the same kin, and yet if a spirit seemed ready for Nirvana and entrance to Heaven, the spirit was usually assigned an unsavory life.

 This is the more telling side of every era of humanity.  How leaders are chosen, is as pivotal to it’s success, or failure, as it’s economical status of wealth, or environmental prosperity.  This is the telling side, as well, because of the fact that this particular generation’s leader would be among the last great ones, and that the leader would arise from between the ashes and dust, dirt and mud, hunger, blood, and oath of purity, truth, would create one of the most incredible tales ever told.

 The man called himself Tank.  At 33 years old, his original birth name was Matthew Briggs, and he was born of a mother named Felicia Jackson, and a father whose name was Johnathan Briggs, who’s mother was Theresa who died at 55, and father was Henry, who’s own mother was Victoria who died at 81, and father was Lester who died at age 72.

 The man was named Matthew because his father and his brothers and sisters had become greatly devoted and prided Catholic Christians since the death of their mother Victoria.  Henry made sure to this, although most of his sons and daughters had primarily gone along in their lives to do not so great things, and later he stayed at Sunday service afterwards every week to flirt with the other patrons of his church.  Henry also, kindly, made sure that his son, Johnathan who had left his old estranged girlfriend, Felicia, and gained the custody of his son, Matthew, had a place to stay.  But in due time, would regret it, as soon Johnathan fell into the same game of cat and white mouse that stole Felicia’s soul and life long ago, shortly after their unsatisfactory and violent courtship, and during the long court custody trials that ensued.

 Matthew was now an ex-marine of five years who had come home to Los Angeles to see his mother poverty-stricken in a run-down tenement in East L.A.  She was foul in stench and crack cocaine had tore her skin, stretched it out so that she was barely recognizable under her stringy, unwashed hair.  She had gone mad, as well, and would be unintelligible for most of their initial rendezvous at a local diner.  Instead of embracing her son, she would only embarrass him, clawing at the inner sleeves of her worn out sweater and denim jacket.  She accidentally coughed once in his black coffee, and her nose was running wildly.  Tank soon politely rose out of his seat and gave her the hug he had been waiting to receive and hid his lie when he told her where he’d be staying in the city.  He silently told himself that he would return for her one day, but didn’t want to see her this way, and was humbled and nervous that she’d run him out of house and home if she knew where he was residing.

 That was nearly a decade ago.  Since then, things had gone well, then slowly tapered off into dismal for Tank.  His father would disappear from his life after cancer struck.

Tank was the name that he had earned in Marine boot camp, but he had then used for street credibility, and a reference among the other members of his gang.  He hadn’t seen his mother in four whole years, since the one time he had driven up in a Cadillac along a prostitute-ridden side street of the Southside and watched as his companion handed her a bag of coke out of his car window.  He pulled his hood up, and lowered his sunglasses.  Hiding watering eyes, at the exact moment of the hand-off he was already pulling off, going directly to the uptown basement party where he had intended to get laid.

 Tank was 33 now, though, and he was on his way to becoming homeless soon if something didn’t change.  The gang scene was crawling with informants, or so he had believed, and his old set had crumbled under the weight of a fierce police crackdown late in the last decade.  He had been beaten and brutalized, as well, during a big drug raid gone sour, where he had evaded being caught with coke, only to get jumped outside of his friend’s project building.

 “Gangbanging ain’t what the shit was cracked up to be,” he told a young gunner one morning outside of a corner store.

He quickly realized that his words of advice were only going to fall on deaf ears, possibly encourage rather than discourage the young man.  He wasn’t even sure what the words meant, himself.

 Los Angeles, the City of Angels, would probably be his resting place.  Probably just another veteran’s name engraved on a wall somewhere, was all that he’d amount to.  His thoughts had grown horribly morbid.  He’d even given a clean shot at employment in the last couple of years, and had lasted only six months of real work between two different jobs.

 But Tank was still without serious threat or worry.  He was a survivor, and he still had his gun ready in case an old rival gang picked up on him.  He still walked with a big zip lock bag of marijuana hidden in his boxers wherever he went.  He still had his rosary around his neck, and he still wore his red bandana, even though he had long ago left the gangster life behind him.

 At a high seven feet tall, and weighing only a bit under 300 pounds, Tank was a big, big man.  Intimidatingly large, and mostly was still muscle.  He had short hair, which grew longer on his beard.  His voice was deep, and hoarse after nearly two decades of smoking.

 This momentous day of reckoning for mankind, although unforeseen by Matthew, happened to land three days before Tank’s 34th birthday.  Today, it was raining in L.A., as well as cold.  As the rain poured down, Tank was standing out on the stoop of his apartment building.  His dress was of a camouflage hooded sweatshirt, and blue jeans, a pair of boots, a red bandana.  He was melancholy, watching a group of kids walk down the street, a young multicultural group of students across the road.  Reminiscing the long passed times when he was young as the students, fresh on the streets from his first jail bid, charges of conspiracy and affiliation that would be the only charges he’d ever have to beat.  It had been an armed robbery, and manslaughter for his youthful comrades, and he’d gotten out early for good behavior.  He had only shortly thereafter enlisted directly into the Marines, barely having passed through a certain amount of scrutiny that had resulted from his rap sheet.

 The Marines had changed him, physically, drastically.  Nonetheless, on his return to the street life, his mentality was still solid, hard as a bullet.  He had never been one to rob or steal, although he had been urged to, and he had stayed clean off the drugs that he started selling.  He never was too flashy, besides the new Cadillac that he had bought at age 27.  He had recently sold the car, his prized possession, the year prior, used most of the money to live off of, the rest to start his weed selling career.  The Marines had been a quite good idea as well, and he had been paid very well for his six-year stint.  He had been nominated for promotion to Lieutenant, but had retired as a Sergeant.  Tank still didn’t like to talk about the time he spent in the Marines, with anyone.

 Suddenly, the wave of nostalgia thickened and like a riptide he was brought back to a small room of an old, abandoned building near where he stood right then.

The strong scent of the incense was still lingering, and he remembered the old woman’s words, “Your kingship will be as a plague on your family tree, and will stem wicked leaves.  But be brave, eat not of the foreign fruit of perdition, until you are ready...   It is by all means your war, boy...  The time is nye, in the sky, the time to die, time to try, once by and by, by and by.”  Her lullaby was sung gently, like a mother he never had.

“The Muse...  What the hell is going on with me?”  Matthew thought.

As a taxicab pulled up in front of him, Matthew Briggs began to lose concentration.  The rain was coming down hard, and as he turned around, he wondered what his life would have been like if he had stayed in the Marines.  He slowly opened the front door, and took a keycard out of his pocket.  He began to point it towards a sensor near the handle before a woman pushed out through the entrance, allowing him in.

 As he started up the stairs to his studio apartment, he half noticed the lights in the stairwell flickering off for a brief moment, flashing back on as he grabbed the rail.  The nauseating but familiar scents of urine, chicken, cigarettes, and a faint smell of marijuana pervaded the air around him, combined and outbalanced each other between levels of stairs.  When on his floor he saw a man banging on a door, yelling to the other side slews of obscenities, he presumed another domestic dispute.  When he reached his apartment, he looked back and the man was angrily walking away, shaking his head in the dank hall.  The lights flickered again against peeling paint in the hallway, and the sound of his television set leaked out of the door as he pushed in his key and opened it.  Once inside, he shook off his boots, and started towards the kitchen area, to put down his gun, which he grabbed from behind his back.  Tank stepped closer to the table.  Before he tossed his gun down, he made sure the safety was securely in position.

“One helluva day.”

The moment the gun landed on the table, spinning, he sighed out loud, deep and heavy.  At the moment the gun’s barrel pointed at him, the Earth cracked.  His building collapsed, and Tank was buried beneath tons of rubble.

“In the end, when all things have come to a close.  When, what is the emperor’s riddle becomes as the snake’s tail coils to it’s mouth.  There will be moments of pure ecstasy and elation.  The bears will awaken from the deep slumbers of winter and charge the plateaus with fury, the lions will crawl from the dens and spring into motion towards the terrific prey that lies just behind the tiger’s eye that is destroying inhibition.  The nights will become blood fire, and the days will be scorching hot.  Anger and vengeful bloodlust will fall on the greatest men, and the meek shall inherit the earth to be burned down by the blades of the wicked.  The rising tides of hatred and ignorance, will be pooled and ripped towards the collapsing of the machines.  The labor fields will become battlegrounds to the rawest of bones, burned by a summer plague.  Ghosts will rue the rushing forces of good and evil, delve into holes made of lost wishes, and without scruple, terrify the men and women.  Boys and girls will be sacrificed to their lesser good, rape and murder will become as epidemics to the Earth Realm.  We will ascend to the forsaken’s side and collide the powers, forces and combine our own vengeance to overthrow those that oppose us...

 “When I have wondered if I could I ever once again walk on the Heaven’s plain...  To reunite the water dog with it’s owner has often transcended even to myself, one without will.  Is it mere fancy or has the awakening begun?  Upon this discourse I have pondered many moons.  I’ve heard it spoken in ancient tongues; ‘the time is nye.’  Let me say here, now then, It has begun.  To Ragnarok my aides and sorcerers, generals and warriors, we will march as one until the last body has fallen.  Until my return to fortify the kingdom, go now my minions, return will be the satisfaction of Ahriman’s Sacrifice.”

Me (poem)

It was a long wait...
Like all are at this intersection

i was under the influence of your emotions.

i sat in silence, watching rain fall.
you looked sad, but determined.
through endless thoughts
like unwinding kitestrings
of indecent places, with unfriendly faces, i prevailed on tour.
it couldn’t be further from truth, i don’t regret leaving.  only coming back ever again.

It's The Love
so don't blame it on fate, when our passion is always raging.
that our blood mixes, our stories would prove.

My arms are reaching for you and i can't see you in watches never worn.
millenia maybe again.
frightened and abandoned.

Here, where family is no longer familiar,
where fame is a feeble replacement. 
on a road
that twists to the very place we met.
i wouldn't look at the street at all,
but i'd run across the highway.
looking on to a sunnier side of the tracks where we'd be happier. 
instead, we've reached a checkpoint, and it was where our car stopped and we did not.

the other rules that we broke were too long for these rotten epitaphs. 
too short of a battle was given up on!
You told me that the empty pillow ate at your conscience. 
i can see why, even when i am asleep.  eyes closed,
i realize dream after dream of our embrace. 
first and final.

"c'mon girl, gimme a hug.  u know we both need one."
we need one:  us.  and a hug is just a symbol, simple, simile, smile,
because i like you, and that's a sign.
i thought of you when i made all the mistakes i did make.
Will she still love me?
is the only thought that crossed my mind.
in recent years i've solved algebra that would make einstein shrink.
but it is right in front of us. 
the answer is before the question.  what are you looking for?

i know what to hold faith in, though.  it is the eternity that i would wait to see you.
but while eternity seemed like a promise, it was only a sequence of events.  unfolding like packed clothes.

i can't believe it.  but i need it.
i can feel it in my bones that were made strong,
but they were made, nonetheless.
and the powdered hand of my sculptor.
and the steadied eye of your painter.
to watch each other only at distance was never intended, yet we pretended,
and yet now we do not.

So we will wayside falter, my brave eyed lover.
So we will wayside falter, my brown eyed mother.

Then, by the canal will be a chosen path.  leading to where i can always call home.
and our adventures will continue.  Lord knows.
only a spark missing, where so many are bountiful.

You are beautiful in every sense of the word.
and too many sent to the world miss you, gone.  i swear to god.
i am lieing awake tonight, however late.  and i miss you too.  and these worries are real.

As we turn the next corner, my starvation is sincerest.
but that's why i'm always searching for the right things in all the bright lights.
both to say, and to not.

Someone is keeping count of the infinite time that you sacrifice. 

i am.

1ST Album Review

awesome Pure Hip Hop. UnderGround from the heart, Independent in every single way. The Crooked Empire & Association also known as Twyll th` ChyllTyrant is the modern equivalent of Julius Caesar, or Plato, Shakespeare, or 2pac. Good job. Electronica and Rap, meshed seamlessly, uniquely, and with lyrical expertise.

The Best Joke Ever Written

i was working on new material and was thinking back on how when i was sick i saw the doctor and he said that a lot of scientists are saying that you have to take care and pay attention to your face, because it's all intertwined and related inside, it's literally all connected, and science has told us this because we know it's your head.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

THE CRIMINAL by Twyll The ChyllTyrant

THE CRIMINAL a choir practice wasn't what the people wanted, when they asked for justice that morning. a man drenched in overdose wasn't asking for justice, but knew in the back of his mind that his salvation was only a doorstep from the beautiful voices echoing through the halls of 42nd street's rained on alleyways. as he turned the knob of the church door, a car door opened and one wheel almost splashed his dirty boots. so this was revelation, and he knew as he stared into the preacher's eyes that this was not revolution as he had so wanted. not so at all, they said under their breath, to the criminal... not so delicately. not so ashamed. they being, the congregation, the whole thing lined up across the choir. standing like wooden soldiers, the young men in training to be priests stood patiently awaiting instructions. as if waiting to be guided by the hand of god. the nuns were shuffling, already. and the choirboys stood afront their seats. or up in the stands, hung their elbows across the rail. this is all so much not to be taken for granted... so for the amount that this is not worth, we're all sorry for your discomfort. like his along the rails beneath the city. like his trials upon trials that warranted his lifelong spasms of misbehavior ranging from manslaughter then, to petty theft upon theft. his shortcomings, his failures, they weighed upon his heavy brow, that was grease-stained already. his hands were shaking like mirrors during a lightning storm. intermediate remedial remedies for the mediocricy that stands as the frontier of change. if one brain can move one leg, and both sometimes, can leap to faith so readily... where does that leave the creatures that move on all fours. that crawl the streets, that hide behind cupboards and picture frames. can a man be an animal. the criminal, standing next to the choir, to the right of the pulpit, witness to a thousand confessions' tears strewn out the aisles. he did not cry. he had laid strung amongst the beggars and had seen the crack lights dim out in windows along the prositution highways of any city. some stars shine harder, the glare of the liquor runs deep in the eyes. like his bloody fingers from picking through garbage cans, they dripped down to the scorching earth. playing with himself, beneath the obituaries of an alleyway fire escape and wakin up newsprinted wet. he'd see stars, he told himself as he ran through his youth like a sharpened blade through a christmas ham. gifts were his specialty, and pawning them twice as fast as they were ever held in line. sitting in the choir stands, one choirboy held an empty bible, and looked with fireglazed eyes at the criminal. we all judged him then, when the nuns were walking to the quarters. penance as sweet. with the hung shoulders of the steady line the nuns made in awe of the negotiation made by the preacher with the sun and wind darkened man in the windbreaker and shorts. in the harsh winter season where life was so frail, so frail that the fractures on the stained glass from the inside looked like small spiders charging impetuously the sacrament of jesus christ. who had come forgiven, he had been. the preacher needed not to open curtains and wave bibles today. they would be kind to reconcile his pockets today. but a brown paper bag lay near the pulpit as well. donations to charity couldn't accept his way to purgatory, and the criminal never cried. but as the doors swung open to the church and the swat team came sweeping across the aisles with weapons drawn, later that morning. later that day, back in the halls of insanity, after he had knelt in redemption from the cold months. the criminal was no saint, but his miracle of food and water left on platters in his cell each night, would make good a promise he'd made that new years. survive another one, even as a footnote to the catastrophe of the metropolis he called the maddened humanity. life was a stepping stone then, and always would be again.

Tuesday, April 07, 2015

The Arc Of Civilization

the guy was raised in the jungle by wolves, gets rescued in his teenage years and comes to america where he goes to a museum with his adopted family. he sees a giant wooly mammoth skeletal reformation on display, replete with ice age - petrified fur and giant tusks, and it's eye sockets empty like sad, longing, and lonely prayer. he runs to the giant relic of the past, hops the fence, and goes to hug this modern artifact worth a value incalculable by anyone, alive. the monster only first shrugs, in warmth to it's reception, then shakes, and crumbles, destroyed to the floor. this guy, savage in society, is forced to mop the floor, sweep, and do volunteer work, for vandalism. is this fair, even though he has never earned a dollar on the books in his entire life, to force him to pay this way for the ruin of civilization's narcissism? are america's teachers our mentors? or are they mere curriculum figureheads, pointing towards books that they expect we read, before?

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Black & White Memory (poem)

Although true love may come from just one pair
Be not afraid in times of lonely unseen pain of focus
As useless to survive as the soulless
Only the burned in burden we bear as time slides and slips
Forever open…

_plant life
For more
_magical things
may come of it...

In days drawn lead with grass tips green with fresh
How our oft forgot are forth in coming around so frozen
Even in our own friends’ once earthly deaths
Of forgone memory comes the crying and for their despair’s
Eternal oding…


I’d always pictured the North as a cloudy rainstorm, snow-storming, lightning stricken farmland. A land of drawn shades which even in the thickest of nights, could glow against curtains and into lamplights that stood low and hung like the last of the homeless waiting for soup kitchen portions of grub, remaining still in the hazy-eyed fluorescence. It was just a setting sun that only guided down the darkness to the backs of garages and barns, where many houses all faced in the same direction and couldn’t help much but succumb to the most shadiness of an empire’s tribute that was as symbolic in my mind. A brown, underground, and hearty, rock and dirt foundation let through little green beyond that laying behind the soil’s moist nurture of fallen seeds of which once would have been mighty trees that told stories and knew of rich heights. They, though, like the fortitude of civilian life, out here, could only begin to the wondrous climb to the sky that lead their destination into devastated fate of a concealed coverage by the swooping canopies of waving branches and leaves far overhead that had solidified the forests of the Adirondacks. They were stunted and would break, thrashing at the brushing bush, crackling their stump in hollow emphasis of more weakened efforts.
I’d also contemplated in awe, the disconnection from the society that seemed to permeate from over our rainwater reflected horizons of New York. The River Hudson rarely sent vessel of shipment or boatload to our Bay, and that is one reason why, amongst superstitions and against the favoring of commerce to commute as efficiently as possible to the desired location of demand, we all call ourselves citizens of a fragile and thirsty America. We were quenched only by advertised products, as we felt the limbo of a stage of civilization that revolved around the socialness of everyone. The impossibility of the modern human to withstand the call of the changes of progress was a growing sensation of disbelief and frigid discomfort to us, but one that we adapted to the same way as those shrubs and bushes did up North. But the once bravely productive rail had only brought the freight for the last decades, and the skies were filled with phantom lives, flying above us like ghosts, to those of us tortured in the inhumane servitude of our own choices, rather than forces of nature, whether industrial workings or construction, manual labor or commercial service. These were dreams that flew up high, dreams that flew across the Atlantic, and out of our daily minds that came with an air and dignity that held us close into the metropolis as patrons to a future nobody had time to check.

Except, as I knew was the case, we all really did know what lay ahead for us. It was only certain that this flawless life would continue, day by day. I had known of these certain consistencies in the lifespan of an average American, but had only guessed, as youth has tendency to incline us towards, that I would somehow forge forth and charge through the world without noticing the slightest amount of hesitance.

The Downward Spiral

i look into the mirror and see only the same cowardice that i see in everybody else. i despise my own image, as the frog must see blindly in a wild world of blind hatred.  the alter-ego of a brain is to judge through the eyes of others, in idiotic comparison.  constantly preparing blueprints and drafts of daily situation and detail circumstance, then, with the calmed approach due the labor, fall in pratfall of misfortune to reality.  the longer we meditate and train our condition, the more we suffer of our perception.  it's our misconception of the surroundings, the over-eager exaggeration, that costs.  however, the very actual introspective process often will seek opposition in the form of any environmental input available through our internal focus as well as periphery.  the very reason two people can fall in love, they can also propel each other infinite.  the same is true of our own lives, as self-prophets have alluded.  hating themselves and karma's return reciprocation of the downward spiral can become inescapable...

Friday, January 30, 2015


THE READER by Twyll The ChyllTyrant
January 30, 2015 at 5:49pm 
The day I died, I watched Time's shadow on the hollowed shelf.  The sun on the snow was white.  Business was fast, work was hard, and the Dalai Llama had just died earlier that week, People even had the market-selling cover.  

The walk to my apartment is short from my vendor stand, I usually arrive home in only five minutes or less.  The building has a stoop, whose corners loomed long and dark that evening.  I walked up the stairs, rather than take the elevator, but that day the elevator was out of service, so I had to take the stairs by elimination.  The first flight of steps, a light was broken, and I thought I could smell something like sulfur.  The smell passed but when I reached the second flight, I could see that its light was broken, as well.  Suddenly there was a noise upstairs, six heavy steps and a loud yelp like a big woman might make.  I didn't take much notice, although it was certainly out of the ordinary to hear domestic disputes at this hour of day.

My apartment has a chimney, I think most of the apartments in my apartment building do.  I have a two room, so I'm uncertain of all of the details of other apartments.  It also has a porch, a small dining room, and two bathrooms, one in the corridor between the bedrooms, and one in the master room.  I live alone, but it seems appropriate for when I have company over to visit.  My living room has two sofas and a love seat.  I didn't need to eat right away, so I had a few cigarettes and some coffee on a sofa, and watched the baseball game on my television, which is a large flatscreen monitor above the chimney.  Eventually I flipped on the oldie's radio and cooked myself a hamburger on a fresh bun with a pickle and a baked potato with butter and salt.  Then, I shut everything off and went to bed.

In the middle of the night I thought I heard coughing in my other room.  I woke up, and walked over to it.  The door was closed, although I thought that I had left it open.  The room was empty, when I pushed the door.  I turned around and walked back to my bedroom from the dark corridor.  I went into the master bathroom, and leaving the lights off, relieved my bladder in the dark.  I went over to the sink and started to turn off the water to rinse my hands, when I thought that I heard the water itself flowing louder, or somehow harder and noisier than usual.  I turned off the water after a fast second, startled, and looked up and thought for a brief second that I saw someone standing behind me in the dark, with horns on their head.  But I looked more closely and saw that it was only the shadows of the towels in the linen closet behind me.  Still unnerved, I continued to rinse my hands, and then splashed some water in my face from the faucet, when suddenly the lights went on in the bathroom, which made no sense I thought, while my eyes dried enough to reopen from the cold wash, because my light switch for the bathroom was on the opposite side of the door near me.  But quickly I rubbed dry my eyes, and when I reopened them the room was still dark, and I was alone.  It took me a long time to try to get back to sleep.

Eventually I started to realize that I was having real difficulty sleeping.  I tossed and turned for over an hour under the covers, and although I was hot in the sheets, I was more overwhelmed with restlessness.  Finally, at 1:30 in the morning, is when I heard the sound in the living room.  It wasn't a cough, though, this time.  It was a scratching and irritatingly high pitched stuttered squeaking like a sinister monotone laughter.  The scratching sounded like it was beginning to become a ripping noise as I rose speedily off of the bed and towards the door, and I realized that it sounded like someone ripping through a flatscreen monitor.  It stopped shortly after I entered the corridor between the bedrooms, altogether.  I raced down the hall, nonetheless, determined that I had really heard something.  It was very dark, and I forgot to flip on the lights.

In the living room, there was someone sitting in the love seat, legs spread wide, hands resting on kneecaps.  His feet were hooves with brown puffs of hair.  He was naked, black like a burned and singed fleshy beast, with an extra-long pointy nose.  He gleamed dimly in the moonlight from the window, shining a glittery green.  His eyes bolted out like two bulbous protruding purple diamonds, although black, and he had a wild spastic and long red forked tongue that was thin like a snake's.  His fingers were long and pointy.  There was a small patch of hair on his head that was brownish green, and he had no earlobes.  His teeth were grey, dark, dirty, sharp, ragged, and his jaw was hugely long.  He opened his mouth, anyway, and somehow spoke to me, asking me just three questions.

I looked behind him and the computer seat was burned down to a stump, and the monitor was flickering different colors randomly.  I was speechless, however, and unable to move.

Then he hissed his tongue at me viciously and spit a light spray of mucus-like liquid all over the coffee table.  He had controlled my mind, already, but he leaped out of his seat, revealing a long single-line spiked tail, that had been tucked between cushions, which flew in both directions, and he grabbed me by the forehead with his strong hand.  He put his mouth all the way around my entire face so that I could see into his empty body, and then let go and looked me in the eyes, spun around, and rushed over to the chimney and climbed inside and disappeared forever.

The police found me hanging from the balcony by my necktie the next morning.

I don't remember what I said back.  I don't often remember what I say sometimes to certain people.  They are mere minor distractions, from me and my impertinent working lifestyle driven by focus and accomplishment.  I know I should reconsider others more, but I don't really think that it matters.  Nobody matters.  We're all unorganized, all alone, and we're all weird.

Selfish as it seems, there's a certain amount of distinction that comes along with being an attractive girl in modern society.  Think, & there I am.  I recognize that other people exist, but more importantly, I recognize that they realize that I exist.  Yet, even more importantly, I command attention, due to the scientifically acknowledged fact that I am genetically predisposed to have a higher intelligence than most men.  Less social people are therefore reflective of only each other as I raise myself only higher and higher than those weaker humans among the evolutionary chains.

I don't even have a boyfriend.  I rarely talk to anyone outside of the middle class income families that I grew up with.  There's no reason to, because I can get enough out of the conversations that I do have, with the people who I already trust, to gain experience to a certain, more concentrated extent.  But at school, I feel alienated because I am designated beautifully special, and therefore more likely to succeed.  That's why I brush off people so easily, because it is fun.

To me, walking away from people is like walking away from the past.  Granted, I am young still, and should be making acquaintances more often than reflected in behavior, to build for a good future, but I, at the same time feel that my youth enables me to feel as though I still have time on my side.  The advantages of being a young, smart, and pretty female are seemingly endless.  I am not ashamed, either, and I love my own body.  Constantly taking care of myself is how reality manifests my personal pride.  I am what I am, and I choose what and when I eat, and always brush my teeth afterwards.

Youth during the days of those few years that I spent in high school taught me my most valuable life lesson, though.  People are weird.

That night was different.  After cheerleading practice, I came home and there was nobody there.  There were no cars in the driveway or the garage.  It was raining when the bus pulled away from the lawn, and I closed the front door behind me fast, and entered the threshold into a darkened living room.  I called for my parents up the stairway, and only heard my own faint echo ricochet out of the guest room and closets back near the rear of the upstairs floor, where we kept our bedrooms and computer in my father's home-office.

Mondays were usually late nights for my mother who worked as a secretary at a law firm in the city.  My father was the day manager at a local manufacturing plant, and would normally be home by now.

I continued to walk through the living room, though, without hearing the dog coming running like it normally was supposed to.  When I reached the next doorway, with my way lit only by the dim streetlamps outside, I reached around the corner to flick on the light.  At that moment, lightning struck and another thunder bang echoed above the roof of the house and I jumped up a little bit, startled, and accidentally flicked up on the light switch.  The power was out, so I flicked it back down and then back up, nervously.

A car's headlights stretched around the living room walls behind me.  At first I thought that somebody was pulling into the driveway, so I looked quickly to the front window, towards the driveway in the front yard.  The driveway was empty, and the headlights flashed on from far on the curtain and the car appeared like a ghostly vessel through the water-streaked window, outside in the gloomy weather.  It was black, with just it's headlights shooting through the pouring rain, parked out beside our leafless tree that hung it's branches like a claw over the roof of the unmarked vehicle.  I stared at it for a moment from the back of our living room, where I was sure I couldn't be seen.  It didn't move for a full minute, until I looked back behind me in the kitchen at the phone.  Then, it suddenly pulled off and drove away down the street.

But something had caught my eye next to the phone.  Something was out of place.

The wind howled outside, and as I felt my way around the kitchen table to the phone, my mind raced through the people I knew of who drove, as I tried rather desperately to figure out who had a black car that would stop at my house for any reason.  When I reached the phone, I bent over it to look at the piece of paper that was stuck next to it.  It was a note.  The phone rang.

Startled, again, I read again the note in the dark as the phone continued to ring.  It only said that my father had been here to pick up the dog to go to the veterinarian.  So I picked up the phone.  Dead silence on the line.  The power was still out, or so I thought.  So I put the phone down. Suddenly, the lights went back on.

A certain aura of danger lingered in the air, though.  I finally took off my bookbag and put it on a chair at the kitchen table.  As I started to empty it, my mind started to feel like it was finally clearing up, as the thunder started to roll further and further away.  I had been surprised not to see anyone there, but I was beginning to settle myself back down.  I had homework still, as well, and I knew that I would be smart to get to bed early that night.  For some reason I felt unusually tired, barely able to keep consciousness as I piled the books out of the backpack.  I took a nap.

The rest of the evening was on schedule, and nothing seemed to happen out of the ordinary.  My father came home from the veterinarian with the dog, and then my mother came home.  I had finished eating supper before 6:30, and already by 8:00 was doing homework.  Nothing strange happened, and I felt as though everything were normal.

By the time I was ready for bed, the phone hadn't rang again all night.  My cellphone received only one text message from an unavailable number.  The text was blank for some reason, or my service wasn't working right because I couldn't read it.  I went to bed wondering how the world could be filled with so many people, with so much variety and interdependency, yet we all maintained that we were detached from each other.  Mondays were slow for everyone, was one of the final thoughts I remember thinking before I fell asleep.

My dreams that night were the kind that seem like they never end.  Just one giant episode right into the next, and each epic opus leading into one just as long, or longer than the last.

It always seems like the easiest dreams to remember are the ones right before we wake.  So as the night crept on and the dreams expanded and their patterns became more clear, I remember that the themes began to intertwine.  Of course, I can only remember the main ideas of the last dream that I had that night.  But the confliction of the pragmatic ego and the dogma of our own memory are such that by the time the last dream was beginning to take natural shape of its own amongst the myriad of prevalent and expressive creations that came before it, the melting of the overall plots began to make definite sense.

I was in school still.  For some reason I had been selected or elected to be the school ambassador.  It made no sense, but I was taken out of class because of it and put in a special room in the school where I was supposed to be alone to do research, and I was on a computer for a long time.  I was doing the research, when the assignment software seemed to switch itself to become an experiment of some sort where I was learning about biology and then creating new types of animals and species on the computer screen.  It sort of reminded me of a video game, which I never played, but it was only a dream, and I was taking it seriously.

After a while, the computer began to get brighter.  There was now only one animal on the screen that wouldn't close its software window.  I would go on and try to create a new animal over it, but the files wouldn't save and the same stuck one kept coming up.  It was an ugly animal, like a dog mixed with a pig.  Also it seemed to be getting uglier or angrier the longer it stayed up on the screen.  Soon, it started looking around the screen on its own, without me making it do anything.  I tried making a new animal again, and the ugly one jumped out of its window and attacked the new one, tearing it to bloody flesh right in front of me.  I became frightened, and the beast in the computer began barking at me, growling, and lunging at the computer screen.  The glass on the screen started to break, and I reached my hand away from the mouse and began screaming.  The beast wouldn't stop though, and it jumped all the way out of the computer monitor and grew when it came into the room with me.  It had huge fangs, and blood all over its maw.  It was foaming out of the mouth and its eyes were bloodshot.  I reached out to stop it from getting me, but it grabbed my hand with its jaw and I started screaming as I felt the wet blood trickle out of my wrist.  I screamed and screamed until I woke up, and at 6 in the morning stayed up until I had to go to school at 8:00.

The end of the week brought with it, as always, a changeover that not only alleviated us from our often overexcited peers, but also exemplified attitudes that had grown weary of the uncomfortable settings of both work and school.  The exchange of final assignments to the teacher of my last class drew parallels with the oncoming responsibilities of being a young adult in a shortened version of life in the real world.  It was similar, to some, as the life of the locust.  Metamorphosis underground in a hibernated state, until the one chance for an escape, if only for a small season, the locust's reproductive celebration was like an extravaganza of pent up sexuality.  Yet others held a high aristocracy in the face of the workweek, higher yet than our age limit would permit.  Graduation from the school was sometimes seen as devolution from out of the shell of a pretense of controlled guidance through the community, to a new set of universal agreements with the government which outlined our behaviors in the long lives that would await us all in the outside world.  We had waited patient, it had seemed, for our escape into the harsh realm that crept and crawled along outside the walls of the school.

Modern culture does have its standards, but look closer and see that regulations of human interactions are never written in books of law nor even stone tablets.  They come from an underlying algorhythm that slides between our conversations, propels us through actions in public commerce, and even decides for us the appropriateness of our outgoing enjoyment of subconscious to the point of subliminal, and furthermore, depending on your particular identity, they may as well be felt with the power of omnipotent language from within our genetic makeup.  Even though civil rights were at one time handed out to the citizens of our countries, it was no easier to forget our particular social roles than it was to forget an internet username.  There were certain things that every man feels express him to perfection.

How easy it was, then, to forget that although our natural instincts lead us all to feel as though we know truth for ourselves, the ideal of perfection is a false one.  Even our most wild inclinations, our most intuitive habits, and our most symbiotic portrayals of our individual purposes in life are not without the singularly human affect of imperfection.  This impediment of society was most likely a direct cause of our constant exposure to the flawed image we see of ourselves in everything around us.  However, there were always the artists with their signatures, self-proclaimed freedom, and that irreplaceable personal touch.

We could find solace in the dictionary definite, but in a referred encyclopedia, our appreciation of the subject and respect for our experience would be put to the test.  The idea of a weekend was a great thing for those of us who knew how to enjoy it, and I was popular enough to have had a good accumulation of expectations.  The last class's ending, the last bell's ring, all the way until the eruptive commotions of student parking lots and rides home, it was all under the guidance of a ritual that we masqueraded as eternity in servitude, only rebellion of our inner wisdom where solitude was the only ruling master.

Parents and guardians who worked for a living came back from work and shaded themselves under the glows of artificial light.  There was a feeling of unity in our households in which we imagined that togetherness stood for something other than just survival.  It permeated out of televisions and it seeped off of stovetops.  Through our outlooks as young adults, we saw that the life of the grown adult was really attainable and predictable.  This, despite the multitude of transitions that would await us all that would inevitably be painful as this life that we called childhood faded off into the void.  Old age, and eventually death was our climax, so we were only naive and misled to believe that pain was something we would learn from.  Instead, our release was not from the understanding of captivity that we were accustomed to applying to the actual necessity of protection that was installed on our existence, but out of illusion.

Anticipating that we were vessels, ourselves, only budding blossoms in the garden of life, our role models became our conscience, and our bosses turned over our daily events for us so that we could assume roles of our own as interns to potential markets that would only stay open and close up as our achievements and mistakes both took root independently to help make our classification of unbreakable as the time itself.  Blindly wandering, though, we descended through the gateways of confusion and left vacant the residencies of assured safety.  Commitments that seemed senseless were noted so well that we found ourselves more apt to follow that particular lust for adventure than common to even the most dangerously employed professional should ever allow.  Thoughts that forever stray never return to their point of origin, and instead usually abandon the facts for fancies that were sometimes never meant to be noticed in a nation built on censorship of unwanted desensitization.  But if the seeds were sewn, the crops reaped unused unnecessary to the conclusion of the success did continuity of the unity of family feel these benefits, nor from our individual maturity.  Relationships such as friendship and colleague are easily rotated, genealogies are broken and mended, but the strangeness of a strained acquaintance is the hardest and most unbreakable bond on Earth.

It was my duty, according to these very bonds, to play the part of the miniature replica of the scripted stereotypes governing my character in this stage of life.  Apparently, I was without weekend calling that preserved my preferences for the excitements of the theatrics of the party life, and had been so called on to perform the civil duties that were attributed to me so far in my short span of life.  Regardless of my father's encouragement to join charitable non-profit volunteer organizations, I had gone through my own distinctly progressive and perceivable futuristic maze of networks to arrive at this ultimately unstoppable current situation.  Entrepreneurship was trending with the youth and I was doing what I could to establish myself as an entity that would one day have ownership of such properties that might assemble the same industrial fields I, as not only an only child but only heir, would feel perpetually inclined to fill for those whose dependency, too, I would one day strive to replace.  Employment was more than a goal for those of us with that integrity; it was as secondary as an hour hand chases the minute.

Tonight was Friday, and I had been given the qualifications and instructions to be present in a nearby neighborhood.  Babysitting was the night's agenda, and I felt strong and ready to earn the money and gain the respect.  Multi-tasking, surveillance, restrictions and allowances, were my primary commandments.  I felt strong, and lucky for the gifts my body had bestowed upon me.  I was confident and eager.

Approaching the area of the house whose home would soon become my temporary private domain for the night, and whose fortitude would be my charge, I was listening to the music in my headphones and pretending that I one da owned a record label.  I was picking which artists I would have under my management, and what projects we would endeavor.  Lackadaisically, I strolled down the avenues of my city.

The laptop bag was switched from left to right shoulder on the last turn onto the street where I would be babysitting, and as I was doing so, I thought I saw something inside one of the windows on the street that looked odd.  I wasn't sure, but it didn't strike me that the oddity was anything to concern myself with.  The person in the window looked vaguely familiar, and I was ready to forget it and keep walking, when I heard a car engine.  Quickly, I turned and looked down the street that I had come from and was unable to see any headlights, but there were bushes next to many of the driveways.  Looking down the sidewalk, though, I thought I saw the same thing in my peripheral vision from the window in the same house.  It was a human face, maybe an older man or lady, but it looked completely horrified by something outside in the road.

The wind howled loudly and I started to move once again, and quickened my pace almost immediately.  I was practically out of breath when I reached the apartments down at the end of the block.  I crossed the street at the intersection, and under the traffic lights I glanced back down the road to try to see over to the house that had given me such a brief fright, but the bright green emanating from above me made the houses into only outlines against the deep blackness of the night sky.

Inside the people's house that I was babysitting that evening, I made all of the friendly and undisturbed gestures I had planned n making with the parents of the 3 year old I was there to keep watch over.  They would be back at midnight, dinner and movie, and they had left the baby in the crib upstairs, fed.  They were out the door before I was even done logging onto the computer.  In ten minutes I was online and in two hours I was off.  Nothing unexpected had occurred, yet.

I got up off the couch in the living room and walked over to the window in the front of the house.  I looked out across the street at the apartments outside there.  Fantasies began racing through my mind, as I was no foreigner to the perversions of almost all teenagers.  I thought a little for a moment about a football player I had been watching at school, the handsome boys at my high school, then the musicians I had favored earlier that night during my walk.  I was thinking about the walk briefly when I was reminded of the face in the window.  I don't know what made me remember, but as soon as I started to close my eyes to shake my head and forget the terrifying image and feelings that had chased me here, there was a noise.

The sound wasn't loud, but it pierced the mood and ambiance, and it resonated off of the computer, through the small living room, and made me snap quickly spin my neck around.  I almost laughed, though, as I saw that it was only an instant message on the computer screen of the laptop on the coffee table in front of the living room couch.  I walked back around the couch and leaned over it to look at the screen of my laptop.

There was no name on the message.  No program was on the machine that looked like this one, either.

I was scared again, and I couldn't figure out why, but it felt instinctive.  I ran upstairs, to the child's room.  It was empty.

In the movies, they showed us how the detectives and police could always solve even an intricate crime.  But even in the better films, scenes of the lead detective's frustration are what build the audience's anxieties to the point of climactic turning where the plot finally reveals the clues.  Cinema uses a healthy imagination to put us in suspense, but real life doesn't always have a happy ending.

That was it.  I was on my own from there on out, after the missing child incident in my high school years.  I was so young, I was forced to continue on and always look back as though I had committed some unholy atrocity.  Guilt is like karma, and innocence is a foreign tongue to those that have lost it.

To others, the catastrophe's consequences varied widely, but even when I entered college, I remember the first night spent in the dormitory room with my roommate, when I woke in the middle of the night and thought I saw moving lights out of the quad through the window next to her bed.  It was only her, Elizabeth, there, though, under her covers.

When I returned home that Thanksgiving, I borrowed a car from my parents and was driving to the mall, when I found myself back on that same old street.  I looked at the houses across from the now abandoned apartments, and pulled over next to the old tenement.  The house that haunted my dreams and nightmares had been repainted by now to a different color.  The houses next to it had undergone renovations of various different types, too.  I had already observed the empty apartment building, assumed that the tenants of the houses across the road had been faced with the impending foreclosure of the apartment properties, and had tried to revitalize their property value in an effort to overthrow the slums surrounding them.  As I was about to take the car out of park, throwing it in neutral, someone drove by slowly, stopping traffic for a moment, and I saw that the contractors had left parts of the neighboring houses across the street unfinished.  Roofs were still in shambles, fences broken, and shingles hung loosely off some.  That house was a tower in the wasteland, but only for me.  The once red paint was now a darker purple.

Back in the dormitories, Elizabeth and I were rarely anything less than professionally polite to one another.  Time had changed all the ways that I acted around other people, even those my own age.  I was paranoid, for sure.  I never felt that I truly belonged with the other students, and I couldn't fit in with any group.  When Elizabeth went out to the bars the first year, I realized that my life was already beginning to slow down.  Older than she was, yet not as reckless, nor as happy, I felt that my maturity was wearing down the walls of my social paranoia, yet that I would one day be happy was one thing that I felt youthfully hopeful for.

These early experiences were misleading.  I studied hard, all the time, and tried to concentrate in class, but it always felt like I didn't know what to say exactly.  I almost failed the first semester at the university, partly because of a lack of participation in class.  My professors spoke to me semi-sympathetically, and we agreed that we would have to come up with an alternative extra credit assignment for me in a couple of core courses.  I did feel as though I was being given a good second chance, and I was ready to commit myself.

The second semester wasn't much different though.  Midterm grades came and I was doing alright, but when I looked at the last semester's adjusted credits, it didn't seem to make much of a difference, at all.  The grades had caught up a letter, but going from C's to B's wasn't very impressive, especially in retrospect of the difficulty of the amount of essays that I had struggled to complete before the winter break was over.  Seeing Elizabeth come and go from the dorm room more and more, I began to curiously wonder how she was able to sustain a passing grade point average.  I thought it was unfair, and felt that if I didn't find out how she was getting it all done, that I would become distracted and jealous.  Elizabeth told me after the midterms, that her secret lay in a moderation of work and play, a good diet, and constant preparation for the tests rather than the continual regimen of daily routine-forced studying that I had forced myself to do.  Strangely, it seemed as though she was saying that I was working way too hard, and I was only partially offended by these observations, if at all.  I admired her comprehension of her own position, including her own education and the same system of school that we both shared.  I also looked up to her sexually, as did, well, most of the men at the university, including our professors.  She was beautiful, and had no trouble attracting anyone there.  As we talked, I began to open up to someone new for the first time my whole life.  I knew she was listening to everything I had to say, and I thought of it as therapeutic, and her as my mentor.

That's when the pressures from home and my parents began, when, after my midterms, a letter came in the mail.  I was crying alone in the dorm room when Elizabeth came in from her last class of the day.  She quietly patted my shoulder and I told her that my financial aid was going to be denied because of poor report cards.  She was there for me, then, again, where nobody else was.  This was too much of an emotional time, still, and when she asked if I had any money to go downtown to the department stores with her, I burst out crying again in her arms.  She only laughed a little, and cooed me sweetly under chin.  She smiled and rocked me slowly singing the song I had heard my whole life into he back of my head, "O Suzanna."

I knew things would be hard to explain to my parents, who were in no position to pay for my full tuition, and I knew that the next move I would make would be to take out my own student loans, if I could.  I went to my bank the next day to see what it would take to get the money.  In the bank, at the ATM, I swiped my card to check my available balance which had been emptied before I came back to school after winter break.  I was positive that there would be zero funds available, but to my surprise two hundred dollars had somehow been forgotten after Christmas, although I knew that I had deposited it from my memory.  In this sudden turn of events, though, I felt off guard and delighted at the same time.  I withdrew the money.

For the duration of the following week, I was beginning to watch closely the moves of my peers, especially Elizabeth.  I watched her woo classmates, and I listened to her cull her friends, all the while discussed by every cool guy in the cafeteria.  By Wednesday I was ready to attempt to integrate myself back in to the world of popularity.  When noon came, I decided that I couldn't hold on any long, and that I would go to the cafeteria and eat at a table with some of the girls I knew.  I might get lucky, I thought, maybe see somebody nice.

There she was, sitting at a back table near a window with a group of kids, naturally segregated with girls on one side and boys on the other, all talking and eating together as if they were the only thing that existed in their niche of the universe.  I shyly made my way through the lunch line and was about to sit at another random table, when I looked over again in her direction, and saw her staring back at me, smiling beautiful and perfectly in a way that reminded me of what true happiness must be.  I tried to smile back, and she waved me over, so I walked down the aisles of tables, half expecting some joker to stick his foot out and trip me.  I was so used to being among the elite from my high school, that I knew that a newer initiate would often undergo cruel punishments from their contemporaries.  Nervously, I focused only on Elizabeth.  I sat a few seats down from my friend, and resumed the initial invitation to small talk my way through conversations with my fellow populace.

When Elizabeth left the table I was already read to go, also, and I got out of my seat and followed her and a few girls towards the exit.  They were going to their next classes, and I asked if they would be at the cafeteria at the approximate same time every Wednesday.  They would, and Elizabeth assured me that she had scheduled most of her classes to allow for exact times for getting to the gym and lunch.  She joked that I should go to the gym and visit one of the guys from the cafeteria table, Randall, sometime.  I laughed, though, and told her I had been a high school athlete.  It made me feel like I was putting a lot out at the stake, to admit that I was still into cheerleading, but I recovered by asking about going downtown Thursday night.  Elizabeth had already started to turn around, but when I mentioned the bars, she turned back halfway and replied quickly that I should go out with them Friday.

That night, Elizabeth came back late, and we barely talked.  During our most accelerated moments of life where we are apt to lose track of time, we are usually at a point where, for some reason, we are allowed abilities to reflect the past most intensely.  Thursday night, while we both were doing our homework, my brain began remembering how irrationally scared I had been of those events at that old babysitting job.  It was two years later, and I was finally getting over the intense paranoia, after I had spent so much time in fear.  I was awake later than usual that night, and as I looked out the window of our first floor dorm from my pillow, I thought how the next night would erase the final pieces of misfortune from my spirit.

Friday night, at the bar, Randall and I met again.  Elizabeth disembarked after a few drinks to another bar with some man I never got a chance to meet or speak to. She came back from the bathroom and announced that she had been introduced to a guy from out of town who wanted to check out the city.  She laughed and pointed in the direction he was waiting, and said that she had a lot to show him.  I tried to check out who she was going out with, but there were too many people at the bar.  So, Randall and I stayed there at the table, and Elizabeth weaved her way through the crowd toward whoever it was out there that she had met.  I watched for a minute as she walked, trying to see between familiar faces from around school, but Randall grabbed my hand, and started to tell me about how pretty I am.  Astonished, at first, I stopped pursuing my roommate and went back to socializing, drinking, talking, and forgetting about my life.

I finally got back to campus after the bars had closed.  I wandered through the dark quad alone.  In my room, the lights were off, and Elizabeth was already in bed.  I, too, fell asleep in a matter of minutes.  In the middle of the night I was awakened to the low sound of a humming.  It sounded faintly reminiscent of the old song that Elizabeth had sang the week before; "O Suzanna."  The humming grew annoying after a couple of minutes, off key, and I was already feeling cold and disoriented from the oncoming hangover.  I got up out of bed, finally, sleepily mumbling for her to keep quiet, as I stumbled over to close the window.  The humming did not stop as I approached the window, and I felt like I was going to puke, the room smelled awful, so I kept the window open and turned around and yelled at her again, but she still did not quit her incessant song.  So, I walked over to her bed and saw that her sheets were over her head.  I pulled them off.  I saw her head was missing off of her shoulders, and the sound of the humming had been wind from the window rushing across her windpipes under the sheets.  My roommate had been murdered.  All the way to the hospital in the ambulance I sang "O Suzanna."

They don't really want you to know this, but some drugs that doctors prescribe their patients work on what is called 'placebo' effect.  This means that the medicine that you get a prescription for is inactive, with no real ingredients, and that you are told to take medicine every day, unaware.  Usually the people who are given these fake drugs are so far out there that they never even realize.  Medical fields based out of scientific research and studies, likely to uphold indisputably conclusive cures, appear inexcusably negligent when 'placebo' drugs are fraudulently handed to already completely disoriented patients.  Still, the government condones the irresponsible conduct, despite all rationality.

Another misconception among patients at psychiatric hospitals is that they are going into a locked cell every night, trapped at all times in a ward that was there not to protect them, but to imprison them.  Sign yourself in, sign yourself out, was meanwhile, the majority of the h hospital policy regarding patient detainment.  There's no reason to exaggerate the effectiveness of the practice of patient therapy, especially while doctors, nurses, workers, and therapists there don't have expectations for full recovery.  If you were there until you died, would be the only perceivable problem.  The reasoning is there would be no insurance payment, although the appearance would be of just yet another unfixable case.

Personally, I wasn't much of an exception to the general rule that a patient would probably decipher at least some of the mysteries on their own, and want to be released as soon as frustrations occurred.  Maybe it was sheer strength, perseverance; my untouched wit led me to the point which I was going crazy that I was locked in a strange world, rather than total insanity by pure nature.

During visitations, I felt disempowered, like an exhibit for my parents, ambassadors of the world outside.  They would come in to the wing of the hospital to see me, like aliens from another planet.  They were like holographic images sent from orbiting satellites far above Earth.

It surprised me that they never initially encouraged my release, so that until I started to calm myself down, I always felt safely suspended in a false reality, like a television show.  The hospital was my set, the nurses and doctors were my supporting cast, and the camera was in my mind, or so I thought.  Really, the cameras were on the ceilings, peeking in at me as I slept on my cot in my small room.

The only reason I came to the realization that I could sign myself out of the hospital, was an interaction with another patient that happened after a month of sedation and deep meditations of my own.  A man who had been recently thrown in with the rest of us drooling, ogling, sometimes delirious psychological experiments, seemed definitely different, more focused and clear-thought.  Altogether I only saw him twice before he disappeared.  Delusional as I was, though, I thought that he looked somehow vaguely familiar.  I questioned a nurse as to where the mysterious man had gone to, and that's when they spilled the truth out that I could emancipate myself at any time.

The last week before release I dreamt that I was trapped in a padded cell, strapped down in a straight jacket.  Out of the window of the cell there was a monstrous patrolling monster.  I was trapped inside the cell, but safe.

Nothing mattered anymore.  People had thrown me off of my high horse once and I had found my way back in to the games of life.  But this time, I was determined to never let anyone else close to me ever again.  I had been changed.

The first major problem after I came home from the hospital was that I had no money of my own.  Work had never been a big concern of mine.  I thought that I would be able to get by after I had graduated from college.  But leaving school with no degree made things difficult.  My financial aid was non-negotiable and all of my scholarships had vanished.  My parents weren't much help.  Instead of a car, they bought me a 'used' dog.  Instead of a job, they put rent up at a downtown apartment in my home town.  There was nothing I could do besides stay indoors for four months, unmotivated even to find employment.  Television replaced most of my old social habits, and my parents were the source of all or most of the food that I barely ate.  All that I had to keep me company was the dog- a greyhound named Xaul.

All that autumn, I watched the people out on the street out of my top story apartment window.  They met, left, walked, ran, conversed, argued, and hated and loved with one another.  Everyone seemed a part character in a long story that stretched out into the setting sun, through the horizon and into outer space.  They lived lives far more attached to a reality that had rejected and ejected me to my tower, here.  Ridiculous as it seemed, by Thanksgiving I was beginning to become jealous of the normal, ordinary people who could continue their benign existence into eternity and never, it seemed, become exposed to the harsh elements that were somewhere out there in the wide wild world, waiting just for me.  In a dark alley, or hiding behind the tombstones of a cemetery, within the tinted windows of the slow drivers in low riding sports cars, between blinds, against edges of any business storefront, panhandling for spare change, everywhere safety's absence became less than top priority to the rest of the world.

Eventually, I exited the apartment one evening and ventured.  I attended a midnight show at the local movie theater.  That was alright, but I soon found that my jealousy had become an unmoving distrust in my heart.  Complete strangers became a target of hatred, criticism, aggravation, pent-up angst.  As I would heatedly complain about popcorn prices, tobacco taxes, grocery receipts, soon, credit items and ATM fees.  I became aware that this lack of trust spawned its own set of problems.  I had become poor, in debt, impoverished, and unclean in my habits.  By Halloween I couldn't even afford candy, but realized that my top floor apartment wouldn't receive visitors, and was shattered to recognize how alone I felt.

Thanksgiving came, and at the dinner table with my parents at my old home, I popped the question right away as my father began carving the turkey.  I remember, he was whistling merrily, as my mother sipped her wine, frowning, rolling her eyes to the window of the dining room.  I asked if I could borrow a large sum of money for the next month, and when my father denied me, I didn't try to negotiate or compromise, but I stormed upstairs to my old bedroom, shouting at my parents to their embarrassment.  I meant to grab some of my old belongings, books, anything I wanted out of the room, but when I got inside I sat on my old bed, and lay back onto the pillow, beginning to cry.  Tears were still forming in the corners of my eyes, and I covered my mouth in disgust at my own ruin.  The money had supposed to have been so that I could start finding work.  I had assumed that I would need extra travel expenses, maybe some new clothes, a cellphone, and of course other household items.  Yet unable to figure out why my father had denied me, I began yelling obscenely how I hated the entire planet, condemning my family, and would just leave, not to ever return again.  I got up and walked out of the bedroom and pushed past my mother in the upstairs hallway, threw on my coat, and started to walk home.  My mind was filled with sorrow, and I had attacked my only source of tangible consolation.  Alone once again, and now with a headache, I charged forth through the snow and wind.

On the second corner after I had left my parents front door, a car came up behind me, flashing headlights in the dark, honking, and splashing.  Then, it suddenly pulled over and stopped a few yards ahead, quite unexpectedly.  There, it waited, as I trudged on.  When I got a little closer, it had begun to roll down the passenger side window.  When I arrived at the rear of the vehicle, I saw that the window had been unrolled all the way.  I pretended not to care, until all at once, out of the car cracked out a cackling and hideous laughter.  I strayed right on the icy sidewalk fast and pushed forth ahead, trying not to look back.  A voice shouted as I huddled my shoulders, eerily echoing through the empty road a voice I couldn't understand.  I pretended the voice had come from some horny teenager attempting to make my desolate night worse.  But although I lived two miles down the road, the sound of the voice wouldn't leave my mind.  It had been a simple sentence that the person had said, but it was so strange that I was beginning to become increasingly extremely worried of every car that rode past me from then on, during the walk.

The last stretch of three blocks that I walked in the cold, I was shaking from not just the severe snowstorm that raged overhead and everywhere in the city streets, but from fear.  Any car I heard move on the street was speculated, I was examining each one when they get farther away to see if it was the same specter, following me down.  This harassment on a holiday was a soft irony to my defense, in face of the fight with my father over money.  Nonetheless, I plunged up the stoop of my apartment and frantically fumbled with my keys, shivering in the frigid air.  As I pushed open the door, sirens erupted in the dark, still night, somewhere.

Hastily, I climbed up the stairs to my apartment.  From each landing's doorways poured out the muffled clamor of Thanksgiving dinners, families filled with spirit and joy, televisions and radios cranked on high volume.  All mocking me and chasing upward through the stairwell, remnants of a lost civilization I no longer should belong to.  At my apartment door, I sniffled my noise and unlocked and pushed open the door, nearly falling face first in sobs into my studio.  I didn't hit the lights before I spun around and slammed the door behind me, leaning against it while I locked the deadbolt.

The dog, Xaul was under the bed, only his tail shook underneath, and I fell down on the covers and into sleep.

The night was bitterly cold, and the temperatures were falling below zero, wind chill was negative eighteen.  The window had been left open, and the whipping of the curtains, and my freezing body woke me up from my slumber at midnight.

I looked at the window and thought I heard Xaul whimper.  He was still under the bed.  I reached down and patted the floor to call him and pet him, but Xaul didn't respond and the whimpering stopped.  Curiosity made me wonder why he was hiding still, so I rolled over on the bed and leaned over the edge to look.  Underneath the bed, a man was laying next to Xaul, a man I had never seen before.  He was chewing the dog's face and reddish dried blood covered his face and hands.  As soon as I saw him, he was already reaching over the dog to grab me by my jaw which had been opened right then to let out a scream.  I blacked out.

The next thing I saw was a bathroom mirror.

Pain was everywhere in my whole body.  I was covered in blood and my eyes were falling asleep as soon as they had been opened.  Behind me, holding my head by my hair and scalp was the man, who by now looked familiar somehow, and in my confusion I lost track of where I was or what I should be paying attention to in order to get out and away from him.

I was looking at the mirror, noticing that I couldn't move my mouth which had actually been duct taped closed, when he pushed my head straight down onto the sink.  Pain again shot through my face, and I felt like my jaw had been slammed into pieces.  I began choking on teeth as he threw my limp body off the sink, out of the bathroom, onto the floor.