the black envelope is too much..
I write to a woman who once interviewed me about "art" .and tell her if she wants a real scoop..
so I begin typing up the story that was in the envelope...but than I erase it...cause she'll think I;m the one who wrote it..
so I don't add in the story
.i write in one of the many notebooks that lay on the floor ..that were stacked...till Charles went ..mechanistic on me ..and knocked them over..
I decide I will write an email to a woman who once interviewed me about art..
I am not supposed to...I explain-really paint
as My "wards" literally think that 'scum' such as me....have no business "in the arts"
as ..."the degeneracy' I according to them "I seem to frolic in" is seen as a way for me ,literally to in their words..in their Graphs... try to-,"invite other's into' my anti American way of seeing things ---yeah like I sit down...and think hmmmmm how can I destroy a person's HOPE and SENSE of DECENCY and force ANOTHER through my art.. to SEE the world as I do....
WTF?...You think I go round seeing people as paint? and charcoal!...
bUT I write to this reporter who once interviewed me about "Outsider ART"
WHICH ...I never wanted IT to be called outside art ....but just art..
well
according to "word on high' and "words' unspoken via whatever shit they did to me in LA
put in me
according to these maniacs
I was in fact RAISED to be some angry man "scum" that -of course would paint ...this way...
they made sure I would never be able to get a real job...
those weeks I was in ICU unconscious.
found by the side of a road!..i was not even 19 years old
my childhood according to my Mandlers was set up
to
make
me
wacko
be a good enough BAD painter...or something so I could be an example of what happens to people who PAINT this way...
or else?...or else ...maybe you 'll be back on the side of the road..No ICU...this time-they said
set me up with a dr. who specialized in autism ...cuz supposedly that's what I was...
according to who..huh...them
?
and this dr..gave me this thing...that was supposed to fix me?
... silent sound.
.so I would get "better"....better at interacting...well..yeah I said...as I supposed it meant interacting with People...duh
NOT...Tele Presence...who the fuck even knew what Tele-Presense was or is in 1994?
who knows now ? but me and Charles and some people online being driven fuckin' loony land by it..
.jpg)
.you think I could just sit here and make this shit up...for what.
for you dear reader.
dumb reader!
yeah...think again numbskull
sorry..reader... don't go...getting offended by some dumb little words VEERED at ya'...cause
if you can't even take that reader...you sure ain't gonna do good if you're ever "app-ed"
and ...what makes you think you won't be?
you think you're too good to be" app-ed"
think again....maybe it will be me "app-ing " up your blood stream...why...
cause maybe I am curious what and How a demographic like you THINKS
that's all so I can sell your Neural Reads to some Mind Augment and Neural Data Agency
guy has got to make a living somehow..
besides the apps ...don't hurt
and you wouldn't even know about them unless
someone decided to use them in reverse...
some starry eye surprise..and some burning bush shit
just to see you JUMP
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The Seventh International Conference on Interactive Digital Storytelling and The International Association for Computing and Philosophy ....
Sponsored by Intelligent Sensing and Systems Laboratory (ISSL) for Computational Informatics ,Chuck Palahniuk and the Cognitive and Neural Engineering Research Group*
Dear Mr. MacArthur,
Just so you know, you make a great knife. An excellent knife.
It’s tough enough doing professional kitchen work without tolerating a bad knife. You go to do a perfect potato allumette,that’s thinner than a pencil. Your perfect cheveu cut, that’s about as big around as a wire—that’s half as thick as a potato chip. You make your living cutting carrots brunoisette with hot saute pans already waiting with butter, people yelling for those potatoes cut alluunette,and you learn quick the difference between a bad knife and a Kutting-Blok. The stories I could tell you. Time and time again, how your knives have pulled my ass out of the fire. You chiffonier Belgian endive for eight hours, and you might get some idea what my life is like.
Still, it never fails, you can tourney baby carrots all day, carving each one into a perfect orange football, and the one you screw up, that carrot lands on the plate of some failed cook, some nobody with a community-college degree in hospitality services, just a piece of paper, who now thinks he’s a restaurant critic. Some prick who hardly knows how to chew and swallow, and he’s writing in next week’s paper how the chef at Chez Restaurant is lousy at tourne-ing carrots.
Some bitch no caterer would even hire to flute mushrooms, she’s putting in print how my batonnet parsnips are too thick.
These sellouts. No, it’s always easier to nitpick than actually to cook the meal.
Every time somebody orders the dauphin Oise potatoes or the beef Carpaccio, please know that someone in our kitchen says a little prayer of thanks for Kutting-Blok knives. The perfect balance of them. The riveted handle.
Sure, knock wood, we would all like to make more money for less work. But selling out, turning critic, setting yourself up as a know-it-all, and taking cheap shots at the people still trying to make their living peeling calf tongue . . . paring away kidney fat . . . pulling off liver membrane . . . while those critics sit in their nice clean offices and type their gripes with nice clean fingers—that’s just not right. Of course, this is just their opinion. But there it is, showcased next to real news—famines and serial killers and earthquakes—there it’s given the same-sized type. Somebody’s gripe that their pasta wasn’t quite al dente. As if their opinion is an Act of God.
A negative guarantee. The opposite of an advertisement.
To my mind, those who can, do. Those who can’t, gripe.
Not journalism. Not objective. Not reporting, but judging.
These critics, they couldn’t cook a great meal if their life depended on it. It’s with this in mind I started my project.
No matter how good you are, working in a kitchen is a slow death by a million tiny knife cuts. Ten thousand little burns. Scalds. Standing on concrete all night, or walking across greasy or wet floors. Carpal tunnel, nerve damage from stirring and chopping and spooning. Deveining an ocean of shrimp under ice water. Knee pain and varicose veins. Wrist and shoulder repetitive-motion injuries. A career of perfect calamari rellenosis a lifelong martyrdom. A lifetime spent turning out the ideal ossobuco alla Milanese a long, slow death by torture.
Still, no matter how thick-skinned you are, getting picked apart in public by some newspaper or Internet writer does not help.
Those online critics, they’re a dime a dozen. Everybody with a mouth and a computer.
That’s what all my targets have in common. It’s a blessing the police don’t work a little closer together. They might notice a freelance writer in Seattle, a student reviewer in Miami, a Midwestern tourist posting his opinion on some travel Web site . . . There is a pattern to my sixteen targets, so far. Yes, and there’s my years of motivation. There’s not much difference between boning a rabbit and a snarky Web-site blogger who said your costatine al finocchio needed more Marsala.
And thanks to Kutting-Blok knives. Your forged tourney knives do both jobs beautifully, without the hand and wrist fatigue you might get using a less expensive, stamped paring knife.
Likewise, cleaning a skirt steak and skinning the little weasel who posted an article about how your beef Wellington was ruined with too much foie gras, both jobs go fast and effortless thanks to the flexible blade of your eight-inch filleting knife.
Easy to sharpen and easy to clean. Your knives are a blessing.
It’s the targets that always turn out to be such a disappointment. No matter how little you expect when you meet these people in person.
All it takes is a little praise to arrange a get-together. Imply the kind of sexual partner they might want. Better yet, imply you’re the editor of a national magazine, looking to take their voice worldwide. To exalt them. Give them the glory they so richly deserve. Lift them to prominence. All that attention crap, offer them half that and they’ll meet you in any dark alley you can name.
In person, their eyes are always so small, each eye like a black marble stuck into a fat man’s bellybutton. Thanks in part to Kutting-Blok knives, they look better, cleaned and dressed and trimmed. Meat, ready for some good use. After you’ve pulled the cold viscera out of a hundred guinea hens, it’s no big deal, slitting the belly of a freelance writer .
"is that it?"Charles asks
"yeah..."I say
"well if you look at it in a scientific way..or as interactive Gaming..and Predictive Response and all..I can sorta see why they have to manipulate a lot of the outside ..interaction.
..but that story
seems more than..... just me seeing demon faces...it sounds like they kinda want to kill you..
so maybe I'll wait a couple of days and see if they either kill you or drive you mad
putting a guy who writes stories like that right in your head
I just think maybe I should stay away from you...it's.nothing personal ..'
",,,hmmm..,,,'I say,cause I'm trying to figure out if I should really hate Charles more than whoever sent this note..
"Definitely you should hate Charles more!," I hear XXXX shout from his room next door.And I have to think real fast how XXXX knew I was thinking that...when XXXX comes in ,wearing a headset attached to this little computer I never saw him with .
" you gotta kinda stop baiting your Mandlers...".XXXX says.
taking the headset off....and showing me the computer
all it shows that shows is a video of the ceiling fan above my head...than a quick turn of the camera looking at a set of drawers...than what looks like the pattern on my bed pillow... I look around for my phone..or computer to see where the boring images came from .
"where'd those videos come from?" I ask XXXX
"your eyes dummy," XXXX says, rubbing my back
"I hate Charles.." XXXX says biting me neck softly ..."I don't want him corrupting you...and all the work we put into you..Man,.how dare he tell you the little devil faces we made him see ....weren't your minions.
..Man did it turn me on- you wanting minions .."
'I was kidding about wanting minions ," I say,looking at the computer which is projecting what I see.
..I put my hand in front of my eyes....and see my hand
not just in front of eyes
but I see the way my eyes see my hand on XXXX's computer
"Does it see the little visual Over rides they send me too?"I ask
:"Fuck yeah,"XXXX says "That moth thing this morning was awesome!...
.they don't usually let me tap in
..but I guess they want to freak you out or something cause they must have known I'd show you this"
I tell him "I was kidding about me wanting the monster faces Charles saw on people to be less scary than what he saw when he saw me..."
"Bullshit , " he says taking his hands off my shoulders.pointing at a graph he brings up on the computer..."right here...no right here .'well,were the devil people...ghouls or whatever you saw...like my dominion? like lesser versions of ME as like King Devil..see that spike..it means your excited.. and here...see that yellow line that goes up was when you said "..now tell me were these little devil faces you saw on like pedestrians and stuff..scarier or less scary than the devil face you saw on me.."...and when he says yes ...look how high that spike goes...Damian."
I write to a woman who once interviewed me about "art" .and tell her if she wants a real scoop..
so I begin typing up the story that was in the envelope...but than I erase it...cause she'll think I;m the one who wrote it..
so I don't add in the story
.i write in one of the many notebooks that lay on the floor ..that were stacked...till Charles went ..mechanistic on me ..and knocked them over..
I decide I will write an email to a woman who once interviewed me about art..
I am not supposed to...I explain-really paint
as My "wards" literally think that 'scum' such as me....have no business "in the arts"
as ..."the degeneracy' I according to them "I seem to frolic in" is seen as a way for me ,literally to in their words..in their Graphs... try to-,"invite other's into' my anti American way of seeing things ---yeah like I sit down...and think hmmmmm how can I destroy a person's HOPE and SENSE of DECENCY and force ANOTHER through my art.. to SEE the world as I do....
WTF?...You think I go round seeing people as paint? and charcoal!...
bUT I write to this reporter who once interviewed me about "Outsider ART"
WHICH ...I never wanted IT to be called outside art ....but just art..
well
according to "word on high' and "words' unspoken via whatever shit they did to me in LA
put in me
according to these maniacs
I was in fact RAISED to be some angry man "scum" that -of course would paint ...this way...
they made sure I would never be able to get a real job...
those weeks I was in ICU unconscious.
found by the side of a road!..i was not even 19 years old
my childhood according to my Mandlers was set up
to
make
me
wacko
be a good enough BAD painter...or something so I could be an example of what happens to people who PAINT this way...
or else?...or else ...maybe you 'll be back on the side of the road..No ICU...this time-they said
set me up with a dr. who specialized in autism ...cuz supposedly that's what I was...
according to who..huh...them
?
and this dr..gave me this thing...that was supposed to fix me?
... silent sound.
.so I would get "better"....better at interacting...well..yeah I said...as I supposed it meant interacting with People...duh
NOT...Tele Presence...who the fuck even knew what Tele-Presense was or is in 1994?
who knows now ? but me and Charles and some people online being driven fuckin' loony land by it..
for you dear reader.
dumb reader!
yeah...think again numbskull
sorry..reader... don't go...getting offended by some dumb little words VEERED at ya'...cause
if you can't even take that reader...you sure ain't gonna do good if you're ever "app-ed"
and ...what makes you think you won't be?
you think you're too good to be" app-ed"
think again....maybe it will be me "app-ing " up your blood stream...why...
cause maybe I am curious what and How a demographic like you THINKS
that's all so I can sell your Neural Reads to some Mind Augment and Neural Data Agency
guy has got to make a living somehow..
besides the apps ...don't hurt
and you wouldn't even know about them unless
someone decided to use them in reverse...
some starry eye surprise..and some burning bush shit
just to see you JUMP
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
you think you're too good to be" app-ed"
think again....maybe it will be me "app-ing " up your blood stream...why...
cause maybe I am curious what and How a demographic like you THINKS
that's all.... so I can sell your Neural Reads to some Mind Augment and Neural Data Agency...guy has got to make a living somehow..
beside... the apps ...don't hurt
and you wouldn't even know about them unless
someone decided to use them in reverse...
some starry eye surprise..and some burning bush sh*t
just to see you JUMP
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charles calls and says
he's freaking out..
and now he's seeing little nasty faces and things all over the place...
like he's Tim Robbins he says in Jacob's Ladder..
I tell him 'he IS " Tim Robbins in ":Jacob's Ladder" and so are all of us who have been used as little Guinie Pigs...
I tell him I slept with XXXX
and he gets all angry...
"Dude .I say..you were literally making little crosses at me...and calling me Damien...
he says "that was before they did the Seeing shit to him with "like everybody...cashiers,the people on the subway,pedestrians "
part of me is a little pissed....cuz'
not that I wanted to be no devil...or have someone ...especially my boyfriend "see" me as such
...but ..
just in terms of continuity ...or something
cause now...what am I supposed to think...
like an idiot I say,'well,were the devil people...gouls or whatever you saw...like my dominion? like lesser versions of ME as like King Devil...in the Occipital over ride
"what are asking ..'He says,"what a thing to ask...who would ask such a thing../'Charles says all angry and angrier..
"It's a sensible question.."I say.
"and you slept with XXXX...just like that.." he says
"Dude...you were fuckin' around with me seeing Brad Renfro.." and that's not an insult asshole"I say
"I don't really have much control what they make me see do I?" Charles says.
"and neither do I..they made me see your face as a human skull you know...and I just waited for them to cool it...you didn't see me jumping all around like a faggit..making signs of the cross with my fingers..."i say
well a human skull isn't exactly what I saw in you"Charles says.
"You didn t see anything IN me ...Charles...you saw some visual over lay...You CHOSE to think .meant something..now tell me were these little devil faces you saw onlike pedestrians and stuff..scarier or less scary than the devil face you saw on me.."
"Less scary,"he says
"so in a way..I am like King devil"i say
"...as occipital OVER RIDE yes...,' Charles says.
"meaning they worked HARDER on ME ,on making some Visage of Me ..than just the rest of it..'
"and this to you is some compliment? "Charles asks..
'sort of...is ..I mean kind of?isn't it" I say
think again....maybe it will be me "app-ing " up your blood stream...why...
cause maybe I am curious what and How a demographic like you THINKS
that's all.... so I can sell your Neural Reads to some Mind Augment and Neural Data Agency...guy has got to make a living somehow..
beside... the apps ...don't hurt
and you wouldn't even know about them unless
someone decided to use them in reverse...
some starry eye surprise..and some burning bush sh*t
just to see you JUMP
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charles calls and says
he's freaking out..
and now he's seeing little nasty faces and things all over the place...
like he's Tim Robbins he says in Jacob's Ladder..
I tell him 'he IS " Tim Robbins in ":Jacob's Ladder" and so are all of us who have been used as little Guinie Pigs...
I tell him I slept with XXXX
and he gets all angry...
"Dude .I say..you were literally making little crosses at me...and calling me Damien...
he says "that was before they did the Seeing shit to him with "like everybody...cashiers,the people on the subway,pedestrians "
part of me is a little pissed....cuz'
not that I wanted to be no devil...or have someone ...especially my boyfriend "see" me as such
...but ..
just in terms of continuity ...or something
cause now...what am I supposed to think...
like an idiot I say,'well,were the devil people...gouls or whatever you saw...like my dominion? like lesser versions of ME as like King Devil...in the Occipital over ride
"what are asking ..'He says,"what a thing to ask...who would ask such a thing../'Charles says all angry and angrier..
"It's a sensible question.."I say.
"and you slept with XXXX...just like that.." he says
"Dude...you were fuckin' around with me seeing Brad Renfro.." and that's not an insult asshole"I say
"I don't really have much control what they make me see do I?" Charles says.
"and neither do I..they made me see your face as a human skull you know...and I just waited for them to cool it...you didn't see me jumping all around like a faggit..making signs of the cross with my fingers..."i say
well a human skull isn't exactly what I saw in you"Charles says.
"You didn t see anything IN me ...Charles...you saw some visual over lay...You CHOSE to think .meant something..now tell me were these little devil faces you saw onlike pedestrians and stuff..scarier or less scary than the devil face you saw on me.."
"Less scary,"he says
"so in a way..I am like King devil"i say
"...as occipital OVER RIDE yes...,' Charles says.
"meaning they worked HARDER on ME ,on making some Visage of Me ..than just the rest of it..'
"and this to you is some compliment? "Charles asks..
'sort of...is ..I mean kind of?isn't it" I say
"Can I come back over? or will XXXX be there?" Charles said
"who cares if he's here...but are you gonna go all wacky if they make you see me as some demon or something..?"I ask
"Probably," he says,"I don't know what to think anymore"
"That's why you sometimes just have to let them think for you.." I say
"what,"he yells
"I mean ...you just have to...roll with it.." I say
"why you call me a faggit? you're already talkin' like XXXX..." He says.
'it's a stupid situation..but it is what it is...I never thought I'd hear your voice again...or see you again.."I say,like a faggit.
"I just don't know what I'll be seeing,"Charles says,"or hearing or thinking anymore...any of it"
"sometimes you won't, sometimes you will and that's the best we got to work with." I say
"you think XXXX is app-ed?"Charles says
"Nah...he just works with them.For Christ's sake Charles so do you,"I say
"you're doing something to really piss them off...writing things you shouldn't"He says
"fuck them,' I just don't care..the day I begin following orders from people that do this to people.."
I decide to tell him about the black envelope....I tell him about the little story that was in the envelope by some polish guy
named Chuck at first I thought it was you
some writer Evan says can make mince meat out of me..some one not brought in to mentor me ..but really just like un mentor me or destroy my mind or something with just one dream or something
"what's the story about" Charles asks.
"I don't know...it's like some fancy story they make you read in high school" I say
"well just read it me," He says...
"no, I say maybe it will get in your head and be stuck there.."I say
"you'll be reading it to me not interfacing it to my mind..."Charles says
"Graph your Mandler," I say and Charles says ,"I'm allowed to read it to him ..it's fine.".
"The Seventh International Conference on Interactive Digital Storytelling and The International Association for Computing and Philosophy ....
proudly
presents
"Baby Mine"
for your pleasure and ours."
* Partners in six EU ITC projects concerned with digital game systems, pervasive computing, human-machine interaction, psychophysiology,
artificial intelligence and neural engineering.
and on another piece of paper
that looks and feels like old fashioned typing paper..and has the words I make big
unlined....or drawn over with yellow highlighter OR BOTH! at the same time!
To Mr. Kenneth MacArthur
Manager of Corporate Communications
Kutting-Blok Knife Products, Inc.
that looks and feels like old fashioned typing paper..and has the words I make big
unlined....or drawn over with yellow highlighter OR BOTH! at the same time!
To Mr. Kenneth MacArthur
Manager of Corporate Communications
Kutting-Blok Knife Products, Inc.
Dear Mr. MacArthur,
Just so you know, you make a great knife. An excellent knife.
It’s tough enough doing professional kitchen work without tolerating a bad knife. You go to do a perfect potato allumette,that’s thinner than a pencil. Your perfect cheveu cut, that’s about as big around as a wire—that’s half as thick as a potato chip. You make your living cutting carrots brunoisette with hot saute pans already waiting with butter, people yelling for those potatoes cut alluunette,and you learn quick the difference between a bad knife and a Kutting-Blok. The stories I could tell you. Time and time again, how your knives have pulled my ass out of the fire. You chiffonier Belgian endive for eight hours, and you might get some idea what my life is like.
Still, it never fails, you can tourney baby carrots all day, carving each one into a perfect orange football, and the one you screw up, that carrot lands on the plate of some failed cook, some nobody with a community-college degree in hospitality services, just a piece of paper, who now thinks he’s a restaurant critic. Some prick who hardly knows how to chew and swallow, and he’s writing in next week’s paper how the chef at Chez Restaurant is lousy at tourne-ing carrots.
Some bitch no caterer would even hire to flute mushrooms, she’s putting in print how my batonnet parsnips are too thick.
These sellouts. No, it’s always easier to nitpick than actually to cook the meal.
Every time somebody orders the dauphin Oise potatoes or the beef Carpaccio, please know that someone in our kitchen says a little prayer of thanks for Kutting-Blok knives. The perfect balance of them. The riveted handle.
Sure, knock wood, we would all like to make more money for less work. But selling out, turning critic, setting yourself up as a know-it-all, and taking cheap shots at the people still trying to make their living peeling calf tongue . . . paring away kidney fat . . . pulling off liver membrane . . . while those critics sit in their nice clean offices and type their gripes with nice clean fingers—that’s just not right. Of course, this is just their opinion. But there it is, showcased next to real news—famines and serial killers and earthquakes—there it’s given the same-sized type. Somebody’s gripe that their pasta wasn’t quite al dente. As if their opinion is an Act of God.
A negative guarantee. The opposite of an advertisement.
To my mind, those who can, do. Those who can’t, gripe.
Not journalism. Not objective. Not reporting, but judging.
These critics, they couldn’t cook a great meal if their life depended on it. It’s with this in mind I started my project.
No matter how good you are, working in a kitchen is a slow death by a million tiny knife cuts. Ten thousand little burns. Scalds. Standing on concrete all night, or walking across greasy or wet floors. Carpal tunnel, nerve damage from stirring and chopping and spooning. Deveining an ocean of shrimp under ice water. Knee pain and varicose veins. Wrist and shoulder repetitive-motion injuries. A career of perfect calamari rellenosis a lifelong martyrdom. A lifetime spent turning out the ideal ossobuco alla Milanese a long, slow death by torture.
Still, no matter how thick-skinned you are, getting picked apart in public by some newspaper or Internet writer does not help.
Those online critics, they’re a dime a dozen. Everybody with a mouth and a computer.
That’s what all my targets have in common. It’s a blessing the police don’t work a little closer together. They might notice a freelance writer in Seattle, a student reviewer in Miami, a Midwestern tourist posting his opinion on some travel Web site . . . There is a pattern to my sixteen targets, so far. Yes, and there’s my years of motivation. There’s not much difference between boning a rabbit and a snarky Web-site blogger who said your costatine al finocchio needed more Marsala.
And thanks to Kutting-Blok knives. Your forged tourney knives do both jobs beautifully, without the hand and wrist fatigue you might get using a less expensive, stamped paring knife.
Likewise, cleaning a skirt steak and skinning the little weasel who posted an article about how your beef Wellington was ruined with too much foie gras, both jobs go fast and effortless thanks to the flexible blade of your eight-inch filleting knife.
Easy to sharpen and easy to clean. Your knives are a blessing.
It’s the targets that always turn out to be such a disappointment. No matter how little you expect when you meet these people in person.
All it takes is a little praise to arrange a get-together. Imply the kind of sexual partner they might want. Better yet, imply you’re the editor of a national magazine, looking to take their voice worldwide. To exalt them. Give them the glory they so richly deserve. Lift them to prominence. All that attention crap, offer them half that and they’ll meet you in any dark alley you can name.
In person, their eyes are always so small, each eye like a black marble stuck into a fat man’s bellybutton. Thanks in part to Kutting-Blok knives, they look better, cleaned and dressed and trimmed. Meat, ready for some good use. After you’ve pulled the cold viscera out of a hundred guinea hens, it’s no big deal, slitting the belly of a freelance writer .
"is that it?"Charles asks
"yeah..."I say
"well if you look at it in a scientific way..or as interactive Gaming..and Predictive Response and all..I can sorta see why they have to manipulate a lot of the outside ..interaction.
..but that story
seems more than..... just me seeing demon faces...it sounds like they kinda want to kill you..
so maybe I'll wait a couple of days and see if they either kill you or drive you mad
putting a guy who writes stories like that right in your head
I just think maybe I should stay away from you...it's.nothing personal ..'
",,,hmmm..,,,'I say,cause I'm trying to figure out if I should really hate Charles more than whoever sent this note..
"Definitely you should hate Charles more!," I hear XXXX shout from his room next door.And I have to think real fast how XXXX knew I was thinking that...when XXXX comes in ,wearing a headset attached to this little computer I never saw him with .
taking the headset off....and showing me the computer
all it shows that shows is a video of the ceiling fan above my head...than a quick turn of the camera looking at a set of drawers...than what looks like the pattern on my bed pillow... I look around for my phone..or computer to see where the boring images came from .
"where'd those videos come from?" I ask XXXX
"your eyes dummy," XXXX says, rubbing my back
"I hate Charles.." XXXX says biting me neck softly ..."I don't want him corrupting you...and all the work we put into you..Man,.how dare he tell you the little devil faces we made him see ....weren't your minions.
..Man did it turn me on- you wanting minions .."
'I was kidding about wanting minions ," I say,looking at the computer which is projecting what I see.
..I put my hand in front of my eyes....and see my hand
not just in front of eyes
but I see the way my eyes see my hand on XXXX's computer
"Does it see the little visual Over rides they send me too?"I ask
:"Fuck yeah,"XXXX says "That moth thing this morning was awesome!...
.they don't usually let me tap in
..but I guess they want to freak you out or something cause they must have known I'd show you this"
I tell him "I was kidding about me wanting the monster faces Charles saw on people to be less scary than what he saw when he saw me..."
"Bullshit , " he says taking his hands off my shoulders.pointing at a graph he brings up on the computer..."right here...no right here .'well,were the devil people...ghouls or whatever you saw...like my dominion? like lesser versions of ME as like King Devil..see that spike..it means your excited.. and here...see that yellow line that goes up was when you said "..now tell me were these little devil faces you saw on like pedestrians and stuff..scarier or less scary than the devil face you saw on me.."...and when he says yes ...look how high that spike goes...Damian."
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