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Topics - Slimebeast

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Slimy Stories / When I Met Uncle Ty
« on: 11:19:52 PM 05/01/19 »
I grew up way too fast. I don't want to sound like a stereotype, but the street was more of a teacher to me than anyone in school. Better lessons, too. I picked math up quicker by collecting money than mindlessly repeating shit in a classroom. I guess when your ass gets beat for forgetting to "carry the five", you figure shit out quick.

My parents were exactly a lot of help. Dad was a good man, but "thick as a red brick", as he put it. I guess his parents didn't do him many favors, either. Mom... well, Dad had full custody, and since that never happens, you know she was a bad bitch. It took me a long time to forgive some of the shit she did. To me, to Dad, to the dog SHE gave me as an apology present... Hell, I guess it's still taking me a long time, I'm not going to lie.

Family wasn't a big thing for me. I didn't even know I had any uncles until Uncle Ty came around for dinner one night when I was about twelve. He got a new job, Dad wanted to congratulate him and I guess make sure he kept at it by rewarding his work ethic. I learned later that uncle Ty was kind of the black sheep in a family of black sheep. Not an easy task.

Uncle Ty showed up at the door in a suit and tie, and even if he was kind of rumpled, he could've passed for someone who just came out of a business meeting with semi-important people. What ruined it was the smell, like the man had stale onions and garlic warming in his armpits. Dad knew his brother wasn't faring well at the job, and at that young age, even I knew adults didn't go to work stinking like an Italian dumpster.

The smile on uncle Ty's face was, again, almost reassuring. He gave something to my Dad, something warm and wrapped in tin foil, then hung his suit jacket and stepped into the apartment.

For about an hour, uncle Ty took a load off on the couch. He and Dad laughed over old stories, girls they'd met, stuff like that. Things I really shouldn't have been listening to, but to be honest I'd already had sex. Seventeen year old girl moved in down the hall, and I guess I was the one who got the housewarming gift.

When it came time to eat, I was already starving. Spent my lunch money badly, and not on food. Uncle Ty said grace, but all I could think about was tearing into the food and passing out under the black light in my room.

My appetite was tested, though, when dinner started.

"What's this?" I asked, toying with the meat on my plate.

"Eat it." Dad snapped, putting a forkful into his square-toothed mouth.

I looked at uncle Ty, sideways, eyebrows arched in that 'you serious?' kind of way. He smiled at me and chuckled.

"It's cave rabbit." Uncle Ty explained.

Same look, this time at my dad.

"Cave rabbit." I repeated, looking down at the gravy-coated gristle. "Never heard that."

Uncle Ty shook his head. "Kids today, man. Shit. Think just because you ain't heard of something, means it don't exist. Exists well enough for me." He took a huge bite and laughed again. Dad joined him. "People die hunting cave rabbit. Get lost in the shadows. All turned around. Cave rabbit is smart, see, they know when you're after them."

Again, the message was made clear. "Eat it."

I knew the deal. Dad didn't me embarrassing uncle Ty. Or... didn't want me embarrassing him... I don't fucking know. Some shit about pride. Either uncle Ty would get offended that we didn't like his cooking, or he'd feel bad because he bought the single worst chicken from the back of the shadiest meat truck in the city. Either way, I chewed on that shit until my jaw got tired, then I swallowed it down, still whole.

By the time dinner was over, nothing was left. I'd like to say I did a good job making things disappear, but the truth is dad kept going on about how hungry he was, and wolfed it down like a boxer taking one brutal dive. The man looked half-dead by the end. Eyes bugging out, sick look on his face. Mouthing "Mm-MMM!" through greasy, tired lips.

Uncle Ty got a shower and shave before he left. Didn't think it was strange at the time, just something guys do. You can use someone's toilet, so why not the shower, right? Seems a lot less rude that sticking your bare ass on someone else's property and shitting into it. Maybe that's just me.

Didn't find out uncle Ty was a schizophrenic until a couple years later. Never saw him again after that dinner... well, unless you count the funeral. Someone found him on the sidewalk, under a blanket of newspapers. Mighty cold that time of year. November. Couldn't have an open casket, on account of the decay. Nobody checked on him right away. Figure he was lying there until one day when someone finally decided to get him up and clean where he was sleeping.

Sad thing is he could've come to dad for help. Turned out, uncle Ty didn't have a job. Went in the interviews, and eventually he must've gotten so tired of being rejected that he just made something up. Come to find out, he was real good at making up stories. Covering up shit. Mostly to hide what he was doing, but also to keep people from worrying about him.

Like "cave rabbits". I don't want to look at that like crazy talk. I want to think about it like fantasy stuff. You tell a kid the tooth fairy left them a dollar, instead of saying you're keeping pieces of their skeleton in a jar. Wherever uncle Ty bought that ugly, withered morsel, that didn't matter as long as he could convince me it was something really rare and magical. Dad and I were worth the best to him, so he pretended we got the best.

Even though I never knew him, he was still family, so I want to remember him like his stories. They way he wanted to be known. I like to think of uncle Ty living in a penthouse apartment, with two really bad bitches and his own bar and shit. When I picture of him, I see a powerful businessman sitting behind his desk in a corner office. (With a hot secretary he's banging, too.)

I do my best to forget everything I was told about some sad bum who spent his life underground. I mean, plenty of people live down in those old, rat-infested subway tunnels. Not uncle Ty, though. Never him.

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When you think of World War II, the first thing that comes to mind is probably Adolf Hitler. The man who heil-handedly ruined an entire style of mustache. The early 1940s were an implausibly dark era for humankind, testing both concepts of humanity and kindness. Like a DC comic, most of us are secure in the idea that a single evil individual was stopped by a Justice League of Nations. However, like a DC movie, the truth is much more bleak and over-complicated.

After the fall of Germany, the Allies weren't just tasked with rebuilding what they had destroyed. There were rather a lot of prisoners of war to deal with. While the smarter ones (scientists, technicians, engineers, and physicists) were put to work faster than you could say "Paperclip", others weren't as lucky.

That brings us to one of the most morally questionable events in U.S. history. An experiment dubbed "Project Briar Rose" was conducted at a clandestine research lab on an undisclosed island in the north pacific. While most of the researchers conducting the experiment were from the good ol' U.S. of A., the project was conducted jointly with allied operatives.

The German government had wanted to create an army of tireless soldiers who were alert and at the ready 24/7. American officials wanted a non-lethal chemical weapon they could secretly use on enemies to disorganize and undermine them. Somewhere in the middle was Briar Rose, one of the most grisly experiments in history.

So, you knew this was coming... what could POSSIBLY go wrong?

#5 - The Lead Researcher was a Real-Life Super-Villain.

Remember how we compared this debacle to a bad comic book movie? Hang onto your bat-hat...

The lead researcher on Briar Rose was one of the aforementioned German prisoners of war. Among this peers, he was referred to by the code name "Dr.  Albtraum". I'll save you the trouble of running to Google -- that literally translates to "Doctor Nightmare". (Another example of Germany's ongoing war against the concept of subtly.)

A three-time widower with twelve children and a long line of mistresses, Dr. Albtraum wouldn't seem to have much time for science. He must've been pretty quick in the bedroom to have time for more sex and horror than a season of True Blood. (Care to guess how his wives died, by the way? That's right -- in their sleep.)

Dr. Albtraum gained a bit of fame during the war, due to his love of anesthetizing and vivisecting prisoners. After sedating his victims and removing limbs or even organs, he would then wake them up and ask questions about how they felt. If you thought getting up early for a final exam was bad, imagine taking a pop quiz while your spleen is on the desk.

While the good doctor may have unwittingly invented the board game "Operation", that was far from his only contribution to society. By mixing several nerve agents with vaporized stimulants, Dr. Albtraum created a concoction he dubbed "Schlafwach", which roughly translates to "Waking Sleep".

Luckily, he was captured before he finalized that special recipe.

Hooray for the heroes, right? Except...

#4 - We Totally Helped Finish The Sleeping Gas.

Whoops. As it turns out, Uncle Sam is the kind of uncle no one talks about. The one that gives you fun "sleepy juice" and says it'll be your little secret.

There were many initiatives after WWII that made use of German scientists, but they all get overshadowed by the previous Manhattan Project and its work on the atomic bomb. Flash over substance, as they say. Millions of dollars and tons of resources were put into the Briar Rose project, but it was all funneled through fake programs, so you can be forgiven for not knowing about it.

German prisoners of war, the less lucky ones as I mentioned, were used as test subjects. Exact numbers tend to be unreliable, but somewhere close to a hundred German soldiers were placed in a room about the size of an airplane hangar. There, they were strapped to hospital beds and monitored by a variety of machines. Before you start to feel sorry for these guys, remember -- literal Nazis.

Dr.  Albtraum insisted on administering the gasses himself. It was noted that he made U.S. Soldiers at the facility a bit uneasy, mainly with his tendency to sing old world lullabies to his struggling "patients" as they slipped into unconsciousness.

30% of test subjects never woke up after their first dose. As far as anyone was concerned, that was an acceptable loss on the path toward expanding human knowledge. Each new death brought information that helped refine the concoction.

The ones that died quickly got the best deal, because...

#3 - A Majority of Test Subjects Tore Themselves Apart.

After several months of testing, Project Briar Rose hit an unforeseen snag. As it turned out, the "Waking Sleep" was taking its toll on the Insomni-Axis. They became frantic and agitated, while simultaneously existing in a glassy-eyed stupor. Sort of like hyper-active toddlers who were also suffering from a sense-numbing stroke.

Several patients slipped their bonds by using the straps like sandpaper. This wore the skin from their wrists and lubricated their hands with blood. Guards and nurses suffered random attacks because of this, causing even more patients to die from beatings, and even  gunfire.

If nobody else was nearby, however, the patients who freed themselves began working on self-harm. They ripped their skin, wore their fingers to bone, and gouged their own eyes. Documents leaked decades later mentioned it was as if they could no longer identify with their own physical bodies and saw themselves as a stranger to attack.

Making matters worse, Dr. Albtraum had been up to his old tricks. Multiple patients had been surgically tampered with. They managed to open their own sutures and would un-spool their innards onto the floor. They would then die from blood loss or organ failure... you know, because said organs were thrown against a wall. Think about that next time you see kids gathering around a pinata.

So who's ready to dial the crazy up to eleven?

#2 - The Patients Who Survived Believed They Were Gods.

If you managed to live through all of that, you could be forgiven for thinking you were somehow special. Believing you're an angel, or demon, or metaphysical being, however, is a bit of a stretch.  The remaining patients, now down from one hundred to about ten, took that leap in logic.

Dazed, crazed, and yearning for the glory days of goose-stepping in parades, test subjects began speaking in language described as "flowery" and "ominous". Journals of their statements were recorded, though having so few German-speaking staff members left a majority of their statements lost to history.

One patient who had removed much of his face described himself as the archangel Gabriel and proclaimed that all around him would suffer when judgement day came. Another whose limbs were amputated due to infection began speaking of Mjolnir and Odin and the destruction of Ragnarok.

The spookiest of all was a man who had suffered no injuries. He had been a zeppelin pilot and had surrendered to allied forces at the very end of the war. This patient had done nothing but smile pleasantly since he was first dosed with the chemical agent, and for all intents and purposes he was thought to be brain-dead.

The pilot began speaking only after the island facility had descended into chaos, finally breaking a vow of silence no one knew he had taken. Unlike the others, he didn't identify himself as a spirit or a mythological figure. He said, plainly, that he wasn't even real. He declared himself to be the waking sleep, a figment of everyone's imagination. Everyone around him, everyone in the world, was dreaming, and this young pilot only existed in their subconscious.

Is that enough to keep you up  tonight? No? Well, how about this? As soon as he started talking, everyone else shut their mouths. Even the other patients. Even the ones who had plunged out their own ear drums and couldn't hear him. After what seemed like an eternity of ceaseless madness, the massive room fell silent except for the slow, calm monologue of a single grinning patient.

#1 - And Then Everyone Killed Themselves.

An unnamed soldier did what most of us would probably want to do in that situation. He put a gun to the pilot's head and, to absolutely no one's surprise at that point, put a bullet in him. Seeing that the dead man was still smiling, the soldier took a nurse hostage, turned his gun on everyone else, and demanded they drop their weapons.

Then, he shot the remaining patients, three fellow staff members, Dr. Albtraum, and himself.

At this point, there's no way to know where the prisoners were buried. There's no record of their interment, so it's very likely they were either thrown into a mass grave or the surrounding ocean. The facility was left to decay, and the island is still off-limits to anyone without proper security clearance.

In the years following project Briar Rose, twenty thee soldiers thought to be associated with the experiments have committed suicide. Six researchers did the same. The difference in numbers probably says something about which field has more difficulty with their conscience and moral code. I'm just sayin'.

While Dr. Albtraum survived the initial shooting, he was found dead several years later. He had tried to dose himself with the same chemical used on his test subjects, and it's still unclear if he intended to take his own life -- or if he had always been working toward something else entirely. Maybe he was really trying to build a bridge between the physical and metaphysical realms. If so, that "bridge" dropped him like a third grader made it out of Popsicle sticks.

I guess he hadn't heard the motto; "never die on your own supply".

T.P. Wong is a staff writer for and enjoys home-brewing his own "Schlafwach" solution by mixing energy drinks and horse tranquilizers. You can buy his new book, "Everything You Know is Wong", online or in stores this November. Would you like to write for Submit your list now.

Slimy Stories / A Glance at Midnight
« on: 06:41:50 PM 11/15/18 »
The Eyejacker.

That's what the newspapers called him. It felt like every bad super-hero story. Like some cigar-chomping tool at the local Tribune slapped on a random name he pulled out of his ass.

Picturing an editor trying to come up with a catchy name for my sister's killer gives me a rage headache. I now know how every victim feels when they see the media lifting a criminal to celebrity status. I didn't understand that line of reasoning before.

So, basically, I'm writing this now as a sort of counter against that mindset.

When I arrived at my sister's house that night, I expected nothing other than to console her over the loss of our mother. Mom had passed away a couple weeks prior, and, being all but a shut-in, sis had no one else to talk to when a bout of depression hit.

I had brought a bottle of wine. I don't remember what kind. Getting drunk and watching old home videos seemed work in the past. There's only so much you can grieve before your body shuts down from exhaustion, and there was really nothing I knew how to do other than helping that point arrive a bit sooner.

I rang the doorbell two or three times. No answer. Now, she had never tried to take her life in the past, but given the situation, the possibility was on my mind. I didn't think it was likely enough to immediately call 911 on the spot, but it was just possible enough to send me into a small panic.

I checked the back door and the windows. Just like the front door, they were all locked tight. The house had belonged to out parents, and I had spent a few nights trying to figure out how to sneak back in after a night of teenage debauchery. A quick shimmy up some lattice work, and I was able to try the second story.

The bathroom window was wide open.

It was a cold night. It was November.

I didn't feel the chill of the night until I saw that open window and the curtains fluttering inside. Then, all at once, the icy wind and crisp bite of the air hit me like an injection of ice water in my veins.

Climbing in, I noticed dirty, black boot prints on the otherwise spotless bathroom tile. Work boots. Men's boots. Size thirteen or more.

I called the police immediately and was told to stay in the bathroom until the authorities arrived. The dispatcher was very insistent, cutting through my random, dumbfounded gibberish with that same clear message. Over and over again.

I made my way through the dark upstairs hallway, having traded my phone for a glimmering pair of scissors from the bathroom counter.

I didn't know whether to call out or stay quiet. The debate raged back and forth in my brain. If I called out, maybe I would be told everything was actually alright. Maybe sis had finally met the girl of her dreams online. A very large woman with very large feet, who worked a hard job and tracked it in the house with her. That didn't explain why she would've come in through the window, so it seemed implausible.

It was just as likely to think that if I called out, whoever had broken into the house would kill my sister, my only surviving family member... my only true friend, really... before fleeing into the night.

Maybe calling out would scare him away and save her.

I couldn't sort it out in my head, and in the end, staying silent and trying to assess the situation won out by default.

By the time I reached her bedroom, I knew in my heart that she was already dead. I can't explain it. It's not one of those strange sibling things where twins feel each other's pain or whatever. It was just the overall stillness of the house. The silence, the lack of a running television or radio despite all the lights being on.

I knew, absolutely knew, that even if my sister was in the house, she wasn't home.

The pent-up dread in my heart gave life to a burst of adrenaline as I all but kicked open her bedroom door. The clatter and slam surprised me - almost as much as it surprised the man crouched over my sister's bed.

He was dressed in black sweat clothes. Black gloves made somehow darker by the dampness of blood. He wore a blue ski mask, its eye holes stained with what looked like rivulets of black mascara. The goo seemed infected. Thick, like tar.

He looked up at me with surprise. It was a feeling we shared. My eyes met his, but only for a brief moment before I looked down at my sister's body.

She was laid out almost peacefully. Her white nightgown, now marred with red hand prints, made her look like a sacrificial virgin on some ancient pedestal.

He made a break for the window. It wasn't open, it was locked, so I assume he probably would've dove head-first through the glass. I closed the distance quickly. While he had struggled with my sister, probably chased her through the house, then exerted the effort of murdering her... I was fresh. Ready. I had only just began feeling the fight-or-flight rush of terror and hateful exhilaration.

I caught the man at the edge of the windowsill. Pressing him against a dresser, I buried the shears at the middle of his shoulder blades, then several times between his ribs. I had a brief flash of reading a news story about a skateboarder who accidentally severed his spine at the neck, and never walked again. I started jabbing the killer there.

He never screamed, cried, or cursed at me. It could be that I just knocked the wind out of him... but he never so much as grunted or groaned. He just scrambled against the wall, against the furniture, as I stayed on top of him like a sadistic rider.

The police found it all very interesting. I could tell they were amused at times when I was explaining the course of events. It made me hate them almost as much as the man I had killed. It made me want to throw up.

Verbally, they chided me for risking my life and taking matters into my own hands. Behind that, I could see a strange sort of admiration. Maybe I was mistaken, but I felt like they wished more criminals suffered the fate I had dealt.

I sat in a squad car as they went upstairs and attempted to sort things out. It was then that I had the opportunity to come down off of my unwanted high of blood lust. I had to breathe harder. I had to cry. I had to use the bathroom. Every human need and emotion came knocking, taking its place back from that icy chill that filled me earlier.

It wasn't until that moment that I realized... before the police told me, and way before I read it in the paper.

The killer's eyes.. when my gaze locked with his for that brief moment. Shimmering green. Flecks of gold. Beautiful, innocent, yet sadly wary of the world.

They were my sister's eyes.

So yeah.

I think you can see why I don't appreciate the media buzz around her death. I didn't like when photos of her body were leaked. It doesn't matter if they put a black bar where here eyes had been. It doesn't matter how many times they call her "sleeping beauty" or "the sad sacrifice" or any of that. It's an insult to her dignity no matter how you present it.

I report every single "True Murder Case" video I see that talks about her. I'll keep doing it, too. Please keep crying about how you're making a living off of the grief of others, and now it's being taken away. It's one of the few times I smile, anymore.

Giving a murderer a portmanteau for a name in lieu of an actual identity does nothing more than project him to some kind of sick, stupid "urban legend" status. I don't know who he was, either. I don't know how he did what he did, and I don't know if he could really see me through his stolen eyes, or if he was just following the sound of the door flying open.

The difference between me and them is that I don't make up bullshit explanations.

My sister was a human being. She liked to play online games, and she would pretend to be a guy to avoid having to turn down advances. Her first kiss was with the most popular girl in middle school, and I gave her flack because I felt like she 'stole' my chance. My sister would sew pin cushions in the shape of small animals, despite the fact she didn't need them and wouldn't sell them. She wouldn't eat pizza, no matter how incensed everyone around her would become.

She was a real person.

She matters so much more than some random, unoriginal coward who hides behind a mask and preys on people more interesting than himself.

As I mentioned, I wanted to write this out to explain exactly how I feel.

If you'll excuse me, now, I have to go make my weekly anonymous threat to the newspaper. I know it's petty and dumb, but it lets me feel less helpless in an otherwise bleak and lonely situation.

Hey. Maybe some day they'll come up with an asinine name for me.

Creepy Media Picks / Pumpkin Song
« on: 02:07:44 PM 10/20/18 »

Slimy Stories / Grendel Grove
« on: 10:37:36 PM 12/24/17 »
Welcome to /r/StrangelyFamiliar

Please observe the rules of our Subreddit.

1.) Give a basic description of what you're trying to remember in the title of your post.
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67 Children's puppet show about vikings. One had a pumpkin head. self.strangelyfamiliar
submitted 1 day ago by RexLandon

Looking for information about an old puppet show. Probably on PBS. Featured a group of vikings that traveled to different places and harassed a bunch of stereotypically ethnic characters. One had a pumpkin for a head.

BloodyCruel 2 points 19 hours ago

Are you the same Rex Landon from The Depravers and Hackwards?

OhNoGoGo 1 point 19 hours ago

can confirm it's him
he comes around asking about shit from time to time

good luck dude

BloodyCruel 0 points 19 hours ago

I'm a fan. Thanks for doing what you do! We want Hackwards 3. (PLUS for the record, Mr. Backward can't be dead because you said in the first movie that the reverse killings could only end when the last ancestor was made to suffer.)

ScaredyPants00 1 point 17 hours ago

Title had Grendle in it because the vikings were after the Grendle. They went from place to place because they were hunting it and trying to get back Beowulf's arm IIRC

BTW you're actually wrong about the pumpkin it wasn't his head it was on his head. Big difference there

RexLandon 1 point 16 hours ago

I don't know if it's that much of a difference, really. I've only heard about it from my people, we're researching possible public domain properties, so I'm fuzzy on details and you'll have to forgive me. If anyone else can give any information, that'd be great.

ScaredyPants00 -4 points 16 hours ago

It's a big difference trust me would you rather wear glasses or have glass eyes LOL

RickSpeaks 1 point 8 hours ago

It was called GRENDEL GROVE. That's the place where Megrid lived with the Grendel and where every episode started. She sent the vikings out to a different place every time so they'd go on wild goose chases. The Grendel was secretly her friend, blah blah blah.

The vikings were Sack, Scorch, Scar, and Spoil and they had a bag, vase, beehive, and pumpkin on their heads, respectively. Not sure if they were stuck there or if they were supposed to be helmets, but I guess it's irrelevant.

ArmyMom_9 1 point 8 hours ago

That has to be my favorite interpretation of a grendel. Sooo small and cute like a baby dragon and I loooove dragons. In fact the viking/dragon thing in How to Train Your Dragon is what reminded me of this show!! Adorable!

ScaredyPants00 0 points 8 hours ago

Really? Cuz I remembered the show whenever I first watched Southpark. The way Kenny wears orange and mumbles just like the one viking mumbled from inside the pumpkin made me reeeal suspicious LMAO one character you can't understand in a group of four friends HMM wonder what that could be inspired from

Yuppy420 1 point 7 hours ago

I remember seeing this on Wikipedia before they decided it wasn't notable.

That's pretty much all correct but I think it was an urn and not a vase. You know, since his name was Scorch and urns hold ashes. I could be wrong but it seems like that would make more sense. I'm not an expert on the show.

RickSpeaks 1 point 7 hours ago

... How did I not notice that...

g_man14 1 point 5 hours ago

Aaaaand now it's time to bake the pie!

Yuppy420 1 point 5 hours ago

DO NOT do that.

BloodyCruel 1 point 5 hours ago

Do I smell a 'Grendel Grove' movie Mr. Landon??? It sounds like a great show I'll have to check it out.

Rex, was the missing tattoo thing in Depravers intentional? Like a clue that Ned wasn't really Ned? Or was it a mistake? It's a great movie so I mean either way it's fine.

OhNoGoGo 0 points 3 hours ago

dont bother he got the name of the show so he doesnt need to come back

BloodyCruel 1 point 3 hours ago


RickSpeaks 2 points 2 hours ago

I can't find anything about the show online, so I guess if he wants to know anything else there's at least a CHANCE he might pop in to ask again. SO there's that.

Speaking of which, someone should set up a Grendel Grove subreddit, or even a full-fledged fan site. Since there's a dearth of information out there, it might be fun to see what we can find and share with everyone.

Yuppy420 1 point 1 hour ago

That sounds nice and all but while I know about the show I'm not at all a fan. It's somewhat the pie thing still icks me out and gives me this weird cringe. Mostly though i watched it during a really bad point in my life and I really don't want to think about it as much as I would if i helped contribute to a site all about it.

RickSpeaks 1 point 1 hour ago

No, I hear you. I had a similar experience, and my family situation got really fucked up. I still can't really talk to my parents. Don't mean to burden you guys with this shit, but this is the first time I've thought about this show and what was going on then.

g_man14 1 point 53 minutes ago

No lie tho. All kidding aside the pie song was gross as Hell. Maybe I'm a little triggered too! XD XD

Why did they even have to write that in? You got a perfectly good kids show teaching about different parts of the world like Egypt and Africa and whatever and yeah I get it. They're vikings. They steal and wreck stuff. That's only historically accurate.

But writing that pie song into the end of every episode was like - doubleyou tee eff - they just pick a kid at random from the village and haul him off to make him into a pie? seriously? That's the message you end with??

Really bad idea to confuse kids by switching from puppets to live actors in an already nope-y scene and it's like they didn't even try to make the full costumes look whimsical. Looking back I feel like the pumpkin was visibly rotting across the episodes but it's probably just the nightmare fuel thing doing its work.

Yuppy420 1 point 52 minutes ago

Eugh. Just yuck. Yuck yuck yuck. I don't know if it was worse watching them sing about how they were going to make the kid into a pie WHILE THEY WERE CARRYING THE KID AWAY AND THEY COULD HEAR IT or if it was worse when they baked the "pie" in the ship's furnace and the camera just had to zoom right in. I use quotes there because flesh-colored felt over a pan of entrails is not a damned pie. It's just garbage

ScaredyPants00 1 point 48 minutes ago

I had a huge fight after the last episode when The Oldies finally got the Grendle :(

RickSpeaks 1 point 45 minutes ago

Let's agree to forget about the Oldies. Another thing my brain threw out until this very moment. The funny thing about them was that I didn't even CONSIDER how awkward and stupid it was to have them show up at the last minute suddenly be the only monsters capable of figuring out Megrid's tricks and capturing the Grendel once and for all.

The only thing that really bothered me was how much they looked like my parents. They even had the same last name as mine. Horowitz. FUCKED up shit, scarred me for life. Parents couldn't understand why I was flipping out and throwing a tantrum over "what they did to Megrid", and for some stupid reason I couldn't trust or respect them again after that.

g_man14 1 point 30 minutes ago

same dude same

just being real though the last name was wallace they had red hair and freckles and shit so i doubt it'd be horowitz no offence LOL

Yuppy420 1 point 28 minutes ago

Oddly enough, I know exactly what you guys mean about the parent thing. I don't think I've spoken to mine in about five years, which is crazy. I never forgave them for trapping the Grendel. It totally ruined my life and I guess theirs, too.

That's really weird.

I guess children are even more impressionable than I would've thought, because I could've sworn the name was ours. Johnson. The male Oldie was bald like my dad, and they were definitely asian like we are. At least that's how I remember it.

Am I remembering it wrong? Yeah. Have to be remembering this wrong.

RickSpeaks 1 point 15 minutes ago

Talked about show with wife, said it sounded like what our daughter watches when she gets home from school. "Good for her because it's educational -- too bad it's ending".

Kid's freaking out at us, will take care of this and get back ASAP. REALLY need to figure this out, will be back.

DrDennis 0 points 5 minutes ago

Sorry to pull the Mod card, but please follow rules 3 & 4. Since the reason for this post has been fulfilled, I'm going to ask you to move on. Consider this thread locked.

Creepy Media Picks / Scrumpers by TheFlyingMuke
« on: 09:43:01 PM 12/18/17 »

Creepy Media Picks / "Adapt or Die"
« on: 02:34:29 AM 12/10/17 »

Creepy Media Picks / UCA: Mario is a Monster
« on: 01:08:55 PM 09/01/17 »

Slimy Stories / JTK
« on: 04:19:17 AM 06/14/17 »
   I'm a nice guy. I try not to judge people on their looks or immediate behavior, and for the most part I like to think I've always been that way. There have only been a few exceptions to this rule. Mostly the random gibbering homeless people or ranting religious zealots. People you pass on the way to work, and don't want to get involved with. The one I remember most often, however, was Jeffrey Jones.

   I went to school with Jeff. Mostly. I don't want to get ahead of myself, here, but it'd be more appropriate to say I spent about one school year with him. We were both freshmen at the stale, white-and-blue high school that seemed more like a prison or a factory than a place of education.

   Jeff was fucking weird. Not in same way as someone who's way too smart or way too stupid, or a boy who's way into drama class. He was legitimately strange as a human being. Off. Wrong. He was tall and lanky. Almost as tall as his brother, Louis, who was two years ahead of him. I guess you'd call him “Goth” or “Emo” or whatever the term is. I was never into conformist subculture, but I'd label him that way due to the stringy black hair, one side of his head shaved, and the fact he didn't seem to own clothes in any color other than black.

   Jeff barked at someone. Legitimately barked like a dog. Some kid gave him shit for his whole My Chemical Romance thing, and Jeff did his best Cujo impression right in the guy's face. It wasn't just a momentary scare tactic, like he drew a blank on how to handle the situation. Jeff barked loud, and long. He didn't stop until the other kid turned and walked away, Jeff barking at his back like a lunatic.

   There are plenty of examples I can still recall at this point. At one point, we were given an assignment to write an essay about a "historical duo". The problem wasn't that Jeff picked more recent figures. The problem was that he selected Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. Someone must've told the teacher what was up, because she never called on Jeff to present his essay in front of the class. That was the end of it.

   The most telling thing was Jeff's notebook. He left it behind in class, one day, and someone decided to go through it. From what I heard, it was full of bad drawings of demons and terribly written "fan fiction" where Jeff teamed up with movie villains. He envisioned himself as the badass martial artist who earned the fear and respect of monsters and hardened killers. Instead of treating it like yet another red flag, kids were content just using it as a source of mockery.

   I guess the real roadblock, though, was Louis Jones. Jeff's older brother was a pretty proficient player for our basketball team, the Haymakers. (Named long ago by a farming community with no idea of the secondary definition.)

   Students wanted to stay on the good side of Louis and his clique. Teachers knew that the majority of the school's budget actually came from sporting events. Local authorities... well, the information would never make its way up to them, so I guess they can't be blamed. Jeff could do pretty much anything he wanted, short of murder, and he knew there would be no real repercussions.

   I wasn't exactly an angel, of course. I mean, as much as I tried to give people the benefit of the doubt, Jeff really strained my patience. Girls would cross the hallway to avoid him. Not because he would accost or annoy them, but because he would leer at them. That alone almost seemed more distressing to female students than the awkward, hormone-fueled antics of other boys. It's difficult to explain... it was a look that almost seemed to say, “You know, if I did it, no one would listen to you.”

   I don't know what caused this behavior. I have no idea what kind of home life Jeff and Louis had, but it was obvious their parents had remarried. Louis was like a younger, more lithe Shaquille O'Neil, and Jeff was more of a Rob Schneider. Someone you wouldn't be afraid of, or even give a second look, if not for the overt attempts at looking and being edgy.

   A couple friends and I decided to take Jeff aside and talk to him, one day. It was a huge mistake, and while we knew it would probably be fruitless, we were high on teenage melodrama and saw ourselves as saviors of the student body. Maybe even of Jeff himself.

   “Jeff.” I called out after lunch, drawing his attention before he went back into the school building. He was always the last one back. You know, to be fashionably late, I guess.

   “You need to stop messing with everyone.” My friend Troy chimed in as Jeff stood toe-to-toe with me, arms folded.

   “I don't mess with people.” Jeff whispered in a put-on, gravelly voice. “People mess with me.”

   Keith, the third of our ill-advised Musketeers, laughed. Jeff instantly turned, cocking his head as if he hadn't clearly heard the boy.

   “What's funny?” Jeff snarled, “Do I look like a joke to you? Do you not recognize darkness incarnate when it stands before you?”

   “Man, what's wrong with you?” Troy drew Jeff's attention back off of Keith, who was visibly shaken, and clearly falling for the paper-thin tough guy act. “Are you, like, literally crazy, or do you just like scaring everyone all the time?”

   It was a clumsy retort, but it worked well enough in the moment.

   I'm not blameless for what happened. Not at all. I don't want this to seem like I'm stacking the deck against Jeff, here. He was obnoxious, threatening, and on occasion, violent. However, that doesn't excuse how we reacted when he made the hot-headed mistake of shoving Troy to the ground.

   Keith and I were frozen in shock for a moment. In an instant, Jeff was in Troy's face. The next second, Troy was on his ass, and Jeff was barking at him. If we weren't so shocked by the sudden turn from argument to assault, we might've been able to collect our thoughts. We could've just helped Troy to his feet, made a useless report to the Principal, and went on living our lives.

   That's not what we did.

   I was the first one on top of Jeff. I tackled him to the ground, hard, as if he had killed Troy instead of just shoving him off-balance. I think he was screaming as I punched him repeatedly in side of the head. The shaved side. Keith was with me in a flash, kicking Jeff in the leg and hip. I didn't even know Keith was doing this at the time, in the rush of adrenaline. Before long, Troy was back on his feet, and, apparently feeling that he should join in since he was the one who had been shoved, he delivered a single stomp to Jeff's stomach, crushing the breath out of him.

   The fight... or, I guess, the attack... lasted for mere seconds. It was a brief display, showing Jeff that he might be able to fuck with the other hundred-plus kids at school – but not us. Never us. We felt like the only ones who actually put morality over popularity.

   Ironic, I know.

   The funny thing about that day, if you can call any of it “funny”, is that we never got in trouble. Jeff didn't tell a soul. It's almost like the influence his brother had over the school went both ways. Maybe Jeff didn't want Louis coming back at us and risking his future. Maybe he was just embarrassed to admit that “darkness incarnate” was left wheezing and crying in the school courtyard. I'll never really figure it out.

   The up side of the whole thing was that Jeff was an absolute dream for the next couple months. No leering at girls, no taking things that didn't belong to him, and no barking. The gossip at the time was that Jeff finally got reprimanded by the faculty... but Troy, Keith, and I knew the real reason.

   The next big controversy was a shake-up in the yearbook department. A couple of the kids running it were caught giving students unflattering placeholder names. "Slutty Sarah", "Nick the Nerd”, “Fatass Felix”, stuff like that. They were reprimanded harshly, and it seemed like that was going to take root as the year's “big scandal”.

   Everything seemed to be normal as Halloween festivities approached. This was at the start of our Sophomore year, and nobody really paid attention to Jeff anymore. Louis was free to be head of “Respectful Costume Day” without being tacitly involved in borderline felonies. And yes, in case you would ask, it used to just be “Costume Day” until a “mariachi band” arrived a couple years prior.

   I'll give you three guesses as to who Jeff dressed as, that year. If all three of your guesses weren't “The Joker”, then I've failed to accurately explain this guy's personality and behavior. Of course it would be a crude attempt at mimicking a deceased actor's psychotic tour-de-force.

   Now, when I say he came to school dressed as the Joker, I don't mean exactly. For the most part, his clothes were the same. Black, ripped jeans, black boots (with elevated soles), black shirt. With the addition of a black trench coat, black and white face paint, and red lips, his everyday outlandishness almost seemed to make sense. Almost.

   I was talking with Jane, my girlfriend at the time, when we both fell silent just to watch Jeff skitter past. She was dressed as Jesse from Toy Story, and even tipped her hat to Jeff as he stopped briefly to flash us an unbalanced grin. I didn't notice the prosthetic scars on his cheeks until that very moment... but at least he wasn't giving her “the look” again.

   For some reason, seeing Jeff made up like that caused me more shame than anything else. I was Heathcliff the Cat. It was an old sweater and orange pants my mother had “striped” a while back, and it still fit pretty well, so it seemed like an obvious choice. (Jane thought I was a tiger, and I went with that.)

   For the rest of the day, all I thought about was whether it was okay to find Jesse sexually attractive or not. It was one of those school days that's just wasted due to the spectacle of it all. You can't take a report on WWII seriously when comes from the mouth of a bad “Tony Stark” cosplayer.

   Then, the fire alarm rang.

   Everyone in the class room laughed immediately. We'd been waiting for some sort of prank or unscheduled “event” in the lead up to Halloween. Still, the teacher got us up and out the door in a regimented line. Dracula behind the Green Ranger behind Gomez Addams behind a zombie cheerleader. It was hilarious.

   It wasn't until we were in the hallway that we heard the screaming. It wasn't prank screaming. Not even one of those lame Halloween sound effect CDs. It was real, bone-chilling shrieking. From multiple people. Many, many people.

   The teacher told us to continue to the exit as her high heels click-clacked in a jog down the hall and around the corner. We were all silent. Other students from other classes had joined us, now, and the one thing we weren't doing was walking to any exits.

   The screaming continued. The sound of a window breaking, like someone had fallen or jumped through it. Anything else was drowned out by the din of the fire alarm.

   “Someone should go see what's up.” suggested a disembodied voice.

   “We gotta go outside. The firemen will help them. We can't.” said another.

   “Fuck this. Fuck it, man.” a third helpfully added.

   Some kids broke from the group and went to leave the building. Others stayed right there on the spot, ready to run once they saw what exactly was going on. I, in one of my trademarked bouts of unbridled altruistic stupidity, made my way toward the panic.

   As I left the others behind and rounded that corner, I saw the source of the commotion.

   Jeffrey Jones.

   He stood to one side of the body-strewn hallway, his head angled away from me and toward the teacher who had just ordered us to safety moments before. She crawled on the waxed, faux-marble floor, blood trailing after her. I could see the glint of a knife still wedged in her back, between the vertebrae.

   I let out an immediate scream. There was no time to stifle it. Upon hearing the nose, Jeff turned to me. I'll never know how he singled it out of the echoing cries already filling the building.

   Jeff had added some accessories to his costume. Among them, a feather boa from the heavy-set girl I'd seen dressed as Lady Gaga... a loose necktie I recognized from a senior dressed as his own dad... and a distressingly familiar cowgirl hat.

   The makeup on his face had all but vanished due to sweat. In that moment, even from that distance, I realized that the cuts on his face weren't actually prosthetic. They were as real as the viscous blood on his hands, arms, chest, and legs.

   Jeff started to walk toward me. My first instinct was to run. I would've done just that if not for the injured girl who saw this as her opportunity to escape. As soon as she stumbled to her feet, steadying herself on a locker, Jeff reached beneath the bag of a nearby trash can and pulled out another knife with masking tape still stuck to its blade. Within an instant, he had cut her throat for a second time, and this one stuck.

   I was already running toward the girl by the time he grabbed, then dropped her to the floor. I don't know if I yelled at him to stop, or if I let out a primal noise. All I know is that I retrieved a fire extinguisher from the wall, and hadn't even considered the fact I was about to attempt to bash in the head of another human being.

   Seeing me coming a mile away... or maybe just hearing my less than stealthy approach, Jeff reached above a locker and retrieved yet another taped-down butcher knife. He must've been hiding them around the school for weeks. It's insane to think no one randomly found them.

   So that was it. Dual-wielded kitchen cutlery vs. a crude, red metal bludgeon. It would be an inelegant, cumbersome, and messy display that would most likely leave the both of us slowly dying in a detestable heap.

   Fortunately for me, that was the moment Louis finally stepped in and attempted to handle the train wreck his brother had become. I didn't even see where he came from, my tunnel vision blackened to all but the menacing figure that had been casually strolling my way.

   “Jeff!” Louis boomed, “What the fuck are you doing?!”

   I stopped. Jeff stopped. The world stopped.

   “Rapture.” Jeff replied cooly, “Judgement day."

   “I don't understand!” Louis all but cried out, his face twisted up into a knot of emotional torture. With thick arms outstretched, he slowly approached Jeff, who refused to look back at him.

   “I'm judging the sheep for their sins. Their stupidity.” Jeff offered back.

   Louis finally reached his brother's side, taking a cautious stance. He took Jeff's hand and removed the knife with no real resistance. The blade clattered to the floor.

   “And sheep...” Jeff continued, finally looking his brother in the face with a blank, loveless expression, “Are are only good for slaughter.”

   Louis had approached Jeff from the side. It only took a moment for my mind to register a crucial mistake. He hadn't seen Jeff's other hand.

   “He has another knife!” I shouted.

   Instead of looking to Jeff's hand or backing away, Louis turned his attention to me as if he had no idea what I was shouting about. It was one option I never would've accounted for. With a single, fluid motion, Jeff planted the knife in Louis' neck, releasing a shower of crimson-tinged profanities from a sports deity suddenly made frighteningly mortal.

   “Shh...” Jeff sneered as Louis leaned against him, sliding to the floor, “It'll be over soon. It's like going to sleep. Shh.”

   There would be no more inaction on my part. No more standing around like a fear-gripped child who was waiting for any given excuse to avoid what had to be done. I was raining down steel blows on Jeff before he even realized I was after him again.

   He crumpled to the floor, but I didn't stop. This wasn't like the courtyard after lunch. This wasn't an overreaction, and I was more sure of myself at that moment than at any time before or since. Jeff had to die, and I was the one who had to save the world from his continued existence.

   I broke several fingers while trying to use the fire extinguisher for unintended purposes. One when it got caught in the handle, and others when they were presumably pinned between the metal and Jeff's skull. Most of the details are still shrouded in a haze of panicked fury.

   The numbness wore off quickly, giving way to stinging pain. I could no longer keep a solid grip of the weapon, and trying to wipe my own blood on the orange-and-black sweater only covered my hands in more blood than had spattered there.

   Jeff dragged himself slowly, trembling fingertips pressed against slick floor. I could only fall into a sitting position and watch, panting, as he made a slug trail of gore toward a bench. I knew what would be there. Another blade, taped to the underside of the seat. I didn't care. He'd be dead soon. He'd have to be. Maybe I would be, too. I couldn't even hear the fire alarm anymore and considered I was having an eerily calm heart attack or stroke.

   Before Jeff could reach the bench, a strong fist grasped his pant leg. Louis. Jeff's hands scrambled to regain traction as his brother slowly, painfully pulled him back toward him. The two lay there as Louis held Jeff's faltering body in a tight embrace.

   I knew it wasn't out of love. It was simply the only way to keep him still.

   Later, I'd find out that Keith and Troy had been among the first kids to actually evacuate the building when the alarm rang. No one outside knew what was going on, and Police were on the scene quickly... but not quickly enough.

   Jane was dead. So were over a dozen other students and staff. So was Louis. So was Jeff.

   We didn't go back to school for an inordinately long amount of time, until the board figured out where to send everybody. I didn't see Keith again, and only saw Troy in passing since our schedules were entirely different at the new location.

   The only sense of normalcy after this incident came when our yearbooks arrived. Since most of the students had spent years together at that school and the events surrounding the school year's termination were “highly unusual”, people requested the yearbooks still be sent out as a much-deserved of keepsake. The well-intentioned idea was to remember the good rather than the bad and “memorialize the victims”. There was a big argument about funding and budget needs, but in the end, family and concerned citizens successfully shouted the school board down.

   When I cracked open that book, a sense of bittersweet reverence fell over me. There was Jane. There was Louis. Complete with quotes beneath their pictures... ones their parents thought they would've picked.

   The yearbooks were recalled right away. We didn't get new ones. I don't know who did it, or why. Just another sick joke from a random chucklefuck on the Yearbook committee, I guess... but there he was, staring back at me from the page.

   Jeffrey Jones. Amateurishly photoshopped into a white-faced, red-lipped mockery of himself.

   Beneath the picture: Jeff the Killer ~ "Go to sleep”.

Slimy Stories / Red Apple Snacks
« on: 03:10:53 AM 05/21/17 »
Red Apple brand snack foods aren't made with apples. I mean, I guess that's probably obvious to most people, but as a kid I assumed they were. Even when the bag said "potato chips" or "sourdough pretzels" right there in bright lettering, I still didn't give the actual ingredients a second thought.

That's one of the main reasons Tracy Zackowski made fun of me from second through fourth grade. There were other reasons, but they're not important to these events and I'd rather not publicize them, anyway. One fateful childhood conversation in the sandbox lead to a protracted argument about whether or not Red Apple brand pork rinds were made of apples.

I was on the wrong side of history, naturally, but at the time I thought the other kids were incapable of reading the words right at the top of each package. "Red". "Apple".

Tracy and I walked the same way home from school, and every day it was the same routine.

"Cottle's is coming up." He would say it casually, at first, referring to the small gas station and market that sat in the middle of overgrown brush between the school and our homes. The first warning changed now and again, "Let's go to Cottles," or "Have you been to Cottles this week?"

It didn't matter if I walked ahead of Tracy, or if I lagged way behind. He'd run to catch up, or wait until I came to him. As we'd walk closer and closer to the dreaded Mom & Pop store, he'd get more and more excited. Questions would turn to demands. "We have to go to Cottles, they have something you want."

The store was a bit run down. I guess some would call it creepy, especially if they had to stop for gas in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night. We only saw it during the day, however, so to the both of us it was just a familiar landmark. One that had morbidly fascinating deer carcasses in full view whenever a hunter paid to have their kill butchered.

The main issue was the vending machine. The obnoxiously loud, humming behemoth barely fit between the entrance and the front window. It was always stocked to capacity with a certain product I'd become way too familiar with.

Red Apple snacks.

Every time I passed the place, Tracy would erupt in laughter. He'd point me to the machine, sometimes even push me toward it, all while telling me to "Get me a bag of apples". It wasn't funny the first time, and I could barely keep from screaming my head off when years passed and the joke didn't let up.

Once, he even handed me a quarter and told me to get anything I wanted. When the joke was over and the jeering laughter finally stopped, he demanded it back. I think it was the nonsensical nature of it all that bothered me the most. He refused to let a long-defunct running gag die a peaceful death.

As that time passed, many things in the neighborhood changed. A residential project began construction near the school, the farm near my home was sold to a Saudi Arabian businessman who simply wanted it shut down and left abandoned, and a family with three daughters around my age moved in next door. The changes weren't necessarily all good or all bad... an abandoned farm made for great kickball games... but the fact that things were changing so rapidly in the first place made my young life seem hectic.

The biggest event, though, one that rocked the entire county, was the murder at Cottle's Market. I didn't know all the details then, and I still don't know them, now. Civilized people didn't speak of such things, apparently, and local news had too much respect for the Cottle family to publicize the events.

All I knew... all I know... is that Mr. and Mrs. Cottle were killed in some unimaginably brutal fashion. A way that caused my father to go pale when he heard. A way that made Mrs. Panteleon so sick to her stomach that she clutched a wastepaper basket in her lap, just because one of the kids asked her about it.

It was a fair few months before I was allowed to walk home past Cottle's Market again. Even then, that told me that there had been no arrest or capture related to the murders. Looking back on it, I was allowed to walk home again around the same time Kirby, the school janitor, stopped coming in to work. He'd always been a weird person. Unkempt. Fidgety. Someone on the peripheral of any given situation. I could never tell if he was humming or just talking to himself.

I can only assume Kirby was somehow brought in for the killing. I had seen him outside Cottle's at one point, shirtless, scratched up, and hauling pig carcasses in through the side door. Obviously, he'd been given extra work helping Mr. Cottle with his butchery service. It would be easy to railroad him. I don't even think he would've necessarily understood what was happening. Not with mental clarity, at least. If that's what happened, they made a mistake. A very big, very bad mistake.

It was getting dark when Tracy and I left the school musical. It was Little Shop of Horrors. I had wanted to be the Dentist, but ended up as one of Audrey II's nameless offspring at the very end of the show. Since my Dad worked nights and my Mom was still an unrepentant alcoholic at that point in time, I guess they wouldn't have been able to come see me sing, anyway. Not that any of us could carry a tune.

"Cottle's is coming up."

I stopped in my tracks. I had only been allowed to walk home again for a few days, and I assumed he had given up the gag out of fear due the gruesome murder. I was wrong, of course. He had simply forgotten about it until that moment.

"Have some respect." I snapped back, quickly brushing past him.

"You know what I could really go for?" Tracy giggled.

There was no point to it, anymore. No more "comedy" to wring out of it. He had gone from immaturity, to bullying, to what now seemed to be outright sociopathy. I tried my best to ignore him, to not give him the reactions he was trying to pull out of me.

"Do you have any quarters?" He asked.

"Fuck off."

"You cussed. Now you owe me." Tracy acted as if I wouldn't know what he was going to say I owed him. Red Apple chips. Red Apple shoestrings. Red Apple whatever. A proud product of Faceless Co. There was no conceivable way on Earth I was going to be surprised by anything at that point.

At least that's what I assumed.

As we passed Cottle's Market, Tracy and I both froze. There was no need for one of us to ask the other if we saw it. It was an immediate and simultaneous reaction. Our eyes locked on the vending machine.

The building still had a fluttering, tattered length of crime scene tape stuck to a doorway now left off its hinges. The shattered front window was long boarded up, with the shards of glass carefully swept away. Where there had once been a brownish-red smear from the building to pump one, there was now nothing more than a slightly darker patch of worn pavement.

It would've been nothing special to look at, anymore, if not for the humming, brightly lit vending machine. It was still as empty as I'd last seen it... except for the glossy apple in the C5 slot. The fresh, shining, red apple.

Almost as immediately as I had been transfixed by the sight, I turned to Tracy and punched him hard in the upper arm.

"No!" I shouted, "I'm tired of your stupid jokes! We're gonna fight!"

It wasn't the most eloquent challenge, but it got the point across.

Tracy just looked at me, rubbing his arm absently as a huge, smarmy grin spread across his face. It was like watching a cartoon wolf salivate over an unsuspecting hen. All at once, Tracy sprinted to the vending machine, his hand shooting into the pocket of his jean shorts. He drew out a handful of coins that glimmered in the fading evening light and jammed one into the machine's coin slot.

"What are you even doing?" I called over. I was finally ready to fight Tracy. To the death, I imagined. The fact that he was running away, but not out of fear of being beaten, confused and frustrated me.

Tracy turned back to look at me, the vending machine's light making him all but a silhouette.

"You're gonna eat it!" he sang, laughing, "I'm gonna make you eat it!"

Shaking my head, I started to walk away as Tracy punched the corresponding code into the number pad. I heard the beeps, then a thunk, then Tracy's annoyed groan. Looking back for what I thought would be one last time, I saw the apple wedged against the glass. It had failed to drop properly.

"Good," I muttered to myself, still fuming, "Lose your stupid quarter."

Then, I heard the shriek.

It wasn't a yell or a scream. It was a piercing, sharp, echoing shriek that reminded me of the squirrel my dog found and ate during one ill-fated Thanksgiving.

Looking back again, I saw Tracy on his knees at the foot of the machine. His arm was in the take-out port, up to the shoulder. He had reached in for his purcharse, but now appeared to be stuck. He frantically gestured for me to come over.

This time, it was my turn to laugh. I pointed at him, making sure to drive home his embarrassment.

"Help me, you idiot!" he called, "I'm caught on something! It's caught in my skin!"

Rolling my eyes, I made a purposefully slow, plodding trek back toward him. I didn't even consider leaving him there to rot, since helping him out might change his opinion of me. If it didn't, I'd at least have something to hold over his head. Mutually assured ridicule, I guess.

He shrieked again.

Even from the road, I could see the spatter of red as it exploded inside of the machine. I could hear the sharp plink of liquid bursting against glass. Tracy's head lolled to the side, and his feet kicked out from under him in an involuntary spasm. I dropped any selfish thoughts at that point and started running to him.

Tracy looked up at me again in what I can only assume was a moment of regained consciousness. Silently, weakly, he reached his free hand out in a pleading gesture.

Then, the sound of cracking bone sent a shudder through me. I blinked reflexively as Tracy's head, torso, and legs appeared to file themselves away in the crimson slot. It happened so fast that the rapid blinking has forever burned the memory into my mind as a grisly, awkward, stop-motion film.

By the time I reached the machine, only the sound of a mechanical hum remained, and only Tracy's limp feet protruded. One of his Hexalite shoes came off in my hand as he fully disappeared within.

I banged on the machine as hard as I could. I kicked at it. I threw rocks. However, the glass... now fully opaque with blood... didn't even suffer a single crack. Something dropped to the bottom with a wet, sickening thud, and though I didn't dare open the gore-flecked slot, I knew it was an apple.

A very, very red apple.

Happy St. Patrick's day, everyone. Sorry to be a bother on a holiday, but I need a bit of advice.

As of this writing, I have what may or may not be a "leprechaun" in my cellar. I know what you're thinking, most likely the words "bull" and "shit" in that specific order.

A little backstory - I've been hearing something knocking around in the walls and under the floors since New Year's. It started pretty much smack bang on January 1st. I figured I had a raccoon or possibly a neighbor's cat climbing into the house for warmth or safety. The neighbors have a ton of feral cats outside that they refuse to spay or neuter.

I noticed the cats have been dying rather a lot over the past few months, ripped apart with guts removed or trailing along grass and over fences. That's why I started to suspect a raccoon, or something else that would fight cats for territory.

I set a trap. It's one of those live capture traps. The humane ones that drop their door when the food plate is triggered. I smeared the trigger with an old can of tuna.

So, yeah. Snap. I heard the thing go off while I was making dinner. Didn't even finish up, just ran downstairs to see if I'd finally gotten the bastard that's been keeping me up all night with the constant scratches and wheezing.

Surprise. Not a cat, not a raccoon. Nothing I've seen before. What I'm looking at, down there, is more like a gnarly old infant. Like a mummified child that someone unwrapped very indelicately. Twisted, kind of atrophied limbs, bulbous head, etc.

I guess it looks like a child in the same way a hairless cat looks like an old man. It's a sort of vague resemblance, but in my head I know this isn't actually a person. It's something below that.

I haven't been able to see the facial features. Its over-sized head is wrapped in a sort of puke-greenish burlap cloth. Like a sack. I can't tell if the fabric is green or if it's stained, the whole thing is slick and I can see it glisten in the dim cellar light when I go down there.

But hey, it's small. It's green. Leprechaun, right? I don't think it's natural. It doesn't feel natural. I get a weird sort of fear response from it. Like magic, I guess. Electro-static stuff, but only in the sense it makes my hair stand on end.

It grumbles and wheezes when I'm on the cellar stairs, but when it sees me, it goes silent. I think maybe it doesn't want to tell me where to find the pot of gold.

This is where the advice part comes in. What do I do with a leprechaun? Do I make a wish, or do I ask where its gold is? I don't want to be violent toward it, but is that how you get the information out?

Overall, the more time I spend down there with the thing, the more I think it's a good idea to let it back out. Maybe follow it back to the end of a rainbow or something.

I really want to let it out. Sometimes I black out a bit and find myself opening the trap while it jitters and hums at me. I don't usually black out like that, I can only guess it's because leprechauns are magical.

It's a leprechaun, right? It's a leprechaun.

I have to let it back out. I'll get gold and wishes when I let it out.

I'm dizzy.


Slimy Stories / Adapt or Die
« on: 03:56:31 PM 03/08/17 »
I've heard it said that if you want to work in television or film these days, you need to "adapt or die".

This doesn't mean you have to change to fit the tastes of modern audiences, or keep up with current trends or technology. It literally means that if you're pitching your concept to a production company or network, you'd better be adapting an established property, or your project is likely to be dead on arrival.

If you're not hoping to create a prequel, sequel, spin-off, or the much dreaded reboot, you'll want to present an adaptation of something with a pre-existing audience. It seems like executives are less and less willing to take a risk on an original concept, when they can cut corners and use name recognition to put asses in seats.

Don't get me wrong, when I moved out here, I had every intention of making my way on my own. I came with my own series show bibles and series synopses. I started out on the web, making terrible content on New Grounds, and when people started digging my work, I began aiming higher.

Little did I suspect that of all the projects I would be hired to write, none of them would actually turn out to be mine.

So, that's how I was introduced to the concept. Adapt or die. Early on, I got work converting the lesser-known works of Hans Christian Andersen into a modern television crime drama. Thumbelina became a diminutive, tough-talking rookie on a corrupt police force only she could clean up. The Ugly Duckling was re-imagined as a promising young ballet dancer, threatened by a mob boss named Little Claus. Every word I hammered out felt like a nail in my creative coffin, but the studio loved it.

When production wrapped on the first season, I swore on everything I held sacred that I would never do anything like that again. A few tense years scrambling for work changed that, and the next big job I took on involved corrupting a 1970s children's puppet show about whimsical vikings. Under monetary duress, I transformed it into an action-packed major motion picture sextravaganza, starring some fly-by-night starlet who was more adept at showing skin than taste in scripts.

After that, I stopped pretending I had standards.

This is what lead me to Thibault Ward. As the legend went, Mr. Ward had come over to the United States from the Czech Republic when he was a young man. Having only a box of old drawing pencils to his name, he took to drawing caricatures of anyone willing drop a few coins into his tin. Eventually, his artistic skill would catch the notice of the local newspaper, which gave him his first real job as a staff cartoonist.

It was a rags to riches story I would've loved to explore as a character piece. A film about the rise of a young immigrant escaping some unknown old-world persecution would've been a nice change from the recycling center my office had become.

Unfortunately, that was not meant to be. Mr. Ward had become somewhat well-known for a comic strip he had initially created for the paper. One that got him a few book deals and saw his work reprinted across the country in various outlets.

"Fresh Catch" was the name. I suppose it was clever at the time, and the bad wordplay certainly didn't detract from the strip's staying power. The 80s even saw a Fresh Catch cartoon, though it only aired for one season before being replaced with something equally saccharine. They changed the name to “Tunatoons”, as well, which seemed to be an odd choice.

I had actually seen the cartoon as a child, though it hadn't made enough of an impression to be remembered. It wasn't until I was offered the job of adapting Fresh Catch into a live-action film that memories of the short-lived show came creeping back into my brain.

It was essentially a "Tom & Jerry" setup, back when that was actually a new concept. The comic strip featured a small group of anthropomorphic tuna fish, who would engage in ocean-related wordplay and would be involved in various slap-stick scenarios. Where Garfield had pies in the face and hating Mondays, the Fresh Catch fish would constantly fall for fishing hooks hidden in everyday items they would want to keep.

I bought a couple collections of the strip to prepare myself for the project, and I could spot an oft-used formula right away.

Panel One: Tuna fish looking at a random item they would like to keep.
Panel Two: Tuna gives the set-up for a pun or word play.
Panel Three: Tuna tries to take the item, but get snared by a hook and whisked off-panel.
Panel Four: Remaining tuna delivers the punchline, seemingly with no regard for its lost friend.

I didn't see much material to work with in terms of an over-arching story line for a feature-length film, but inventing a plot was something I'd gotten very used to. Just reduce the concept to a skeleton, then slap some mystery meats on until you have your own literary Frankenstein's Monster.

The villain of the comic strip... the Gargamel or Lucy Van Pelt... was a grizzled old fisherman who also happened to be a buck-toothed beaver-man. His name was originally "Old Man Dam", but in later strips a more commercially viable moniker stuck. "Driftwood". The stains on his rain slicker and wading boots could've been fish guts, but it's more likely they were just crudely drawn splashes of water.

The weird thing about this comic strip, as opposed to the aforementioned Tom & Jerry, is that sometimes... the bad guy won. Every so often, a strip would actually end with Driftwood catching and canning one of the tuna characters. It was always some one-off fish who didn't appear in the strip before or after, but I found it to be a disturbing creative choice nonetheless.

The cans would go on a shelf in the beaver character's fishing shack, along with the many others he'd managed to catch. I was just glad he never seemed to eat any of them. Not when kids reading the strip could see, at least.

I figured it would be easy enough, in the end. A nuclear family of live-action actors go out on their boat one day for a wholesome vacation. A storm hits, they're magically transported to an island where they meet a bevy of annoying CGI tuna who won't shut up. Driftwood and his gang of dock-worker otters menace the happy, colorful tuna fish, and eventually the family saves them. Roll credits, move merchandise.

Early talk behind the scenes had Ryan Reynolds as the father, and it was mentioned that Ice Cube might lend his voice to a rapping tuna.

Then I met the illustrious Mr. Ward.

I've sat down with plenty of weirdos in my time. Studio execs who are very obviously coked out of their minds, eccentric actors who want to pick my brain about how their pointless, forgettable character would behave, and so on. Mr. Ward was different, though.

He lived in squalor, which was surprising considering the modest legacy he had created. I suppose whatever deals he had made as a young man were short-sighted and not very beneficial to him. His home looked all but abandoned, with a yard full of random debris and clusters of rusted, old rain barrels. When I pulled into the bumpy dirt driveway, I finally realized how far I had truly traveled from any sign of civilization.

Apparently, Mr. Ward enjoyed solitude. I can understand being drawn to the peace and quiet of wooded property on the outskirts of town, but suffice to say it's not for me. I couldn't imagine an elderly person living so far away from any form of medical assistance by choice.

The old man was insufferable. Crooked and gnarled like the dead trees outside his run-down house, Mr. Ward looked like someone who should've been afraid of a random stranger like myself. Instead, he was quite the opposite, barking at me to get inside before I let in mosquitoes, and demanding I take a seat and stop acting nervous.

It was difficult to believe a somewhat funny comic strip had come out of such a humorless old man. I was deeply regretting the decision to look him up, even before he insisted I drink bitter, stale tea from a cup that still had crust on the lip.

To say Mr. Ward's visage was unpleasant is an understatement. It wasn't the ruddy, wrinkled skin or the wild brow and ear hair that put me off. It was the scowl... a scowl so overstated and outlandish that it would've been more at home on a drawing of Driftwood than on a human face. Especially since they seemed to share the same prominent two front teeth.

"You must be wondering why I asked to meet with you." I croaked, choking down the scalding water that was barely passable as a legitimate beverage.

"No." Mr. Ward shook his head, taking his own cup in shaking hands, "You're one of the movie men. The last in a long line of snake oil salesmen who wish to bastardize my work."

I chuckled awkwardly, but it wasn't a joke. I already knew that.

"I know what you mean," I tried to relate to the old man, "Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do with my career was adapt other people's ideas. But hey, look at it this way... you're the first creator I can actually sit down and talk to. You can tell me what you do or don't like, and I can maybe change this or that according to your opinions."

Mr. Ward sat back for a moment, breath whistling through his nose, as he seemed to consider my words. It was like watching a very old, dried-out gourd trying to process a head full of burrowing mites.

"What I would like from you," Mr. Ward finally said, "Would be for you to leave my work alone. You will not adapt it. You will ruin it. You will corrupt it. You do not create, you destroy. If you have any respect for people who actually dream, who invent, you will not put your hands on my characters or my world."

Slightly taken aback, I defended a process I deeply hated. Sure, the end product I would produce was going to be intellectual garbage, but I had seen the comic strip and it wasn't exactly comedy gold.

"Well, don't you want your story to reach a wider audience? A new generation of children? Surely you created the comic strip to bring joy and laughter to kids, so why not let others take up the project and grow the viewer base?"

"These doodles, they may seem small and ridiculous to you. To me, they are very important. There is a piece of myself in these strips. Every poorly made doll or shirt that bares my creation rips another piece of my work away from me. It becomes less special. Less meaningful."

The discussion was tense, and it dragged on for an hour or more. As cranky as Mr. Ward was, he was far from stupid... so in the end, he knew that no matter how much he objected, the rights to his work hadn't belonged to him for a very long time. The most he could really hope to do was guide my hand a bit.

Eventually, he relented and did give me some advice about the project. Mostly, he spoke of the way his strip represented 'real life' and 'the truth of human nature'. I had to stifle a laugh or two here and there. He clearly thought very highly of himself.

"The fishes can be smart, but they are easy to manipulate." Mr. Ward explained, "It is integral to the story that you show they are victims of their own wants and compulsions. The boys are caught by things like baseballs, toy trucks, trinkets that catch their eye."

Then, the old man's outdated opinions started to show through.

"The girls, they desire things like beautiful dresses, cakes and candies. They are also not as wily as the boys. Not as clever. Women frequently cause problems that the men must step in and solve."

When I was content, if not comfortable, with the information and opinions I had received, I said my goodbyes and promised Mr. Ward he would be happy with the final product. Neither he nor I believed that, I'm sure.

In the following weeks, I set to work on an early draft of the script. As mentioned, I went with the "family gets sucked into a land of adventure" thing. I got word that Driftwood was going to be a live action character, which meant no gnawing down trees or flattening people with his tail unless I wanted to make the actor, possibly Vincent D'onofrio, very uncomfortable.

I also removed the morbid concept of Driftwood catching and canning the tuna fish. Ones that children would no doubt become attached to. Sending kids out of the theater in tears wasn't really a good way to sell more tickets. Instead, I threw in a foreboding threat of "selling the island to developers" as the villain's main motivation. Hey, it worked in every other children's property ever written...

I had to admit that while most of the original creator's words about not adapting his work and preserving outdated gender roles fell on deaf ears, something about the whole thing did cause me to rethink something. Maybe this time, just this time, I would leave my name off of the finished film. A pseudonym would work, and while I was more than ready to accept the paycheck, there would realistically be little to no notoriety to claim from this. Maybe disassociating myself was an easy, perhaps lazy form of protest – but it was still protest nonetheless.

I had just finished my first draft when the phone rang. It happened so perfectly, that if I had seen it in a story, I would never have believed it could happen. The moment I typed the “D” in “END”, the ring snapped me out of my creative focus.

Thibault Ward was dead, and the movie was off. The timing was even more unbelievable than that of the call. At first, I saw little reason to cancel the film project based on Ward's death alone. Then, the details were filled in for me.

In his old age, Mr. Ward had clearly been unable to keep his property in acceptable condition. After many warnings, countless fines, and several threats of action, the county finally sent a crew out to remove the junk he had accumulated.

There was a gunshot, and they found the man dead at his kitchen table. Recently emptied tea cup overflowing with blood. Self-inflicted wound to the head. His death was instant, with the barrel clenched between his odd teeth.

Mr. Ward didn't kill himself over the county's decision to dispose of his things. Not entirely, anyway.

The barrels. Apparently, the ones I had seen in his front lawn were just the tip of the iceberg. There were supposedly barrels scattered across his back yard, and filling a shed out back. There were even two or three barrels stacked in closets in his house.

Inside the barrels? Kids. From very young to nearly teen-aged. Many, many children from as-of-yet undetermined decades. It would be a very long time before they could all be identified, but some were said to be in such a state of decay that Mr. Ward must've been doing this well back into his early years as a cartoonist.

It's been over a year, now, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing. All I know is that the Fresh Catch movie is definitely canceled with absolutely no plans in the works to revive the project. I was paid a pittance for what little work I was able to accomplish, and I quickly had to move on to a SyFy channel adaptation of that old “Flying Purple People Eater” song.

They expect me to wring 12 episodes out of that thing, possibly more if they're desperate enough to renew it. I'm not kidding.

I'm thinking that once everything is sorted out, once there's some more insight into who these kids were, where they were abducted from, and why Thibault Ward might've done what he did, maybe I'll revisit this whole thing with fresh eyes. As soon as it's not “too soon”.

I'm almost positive that I can adapt this into a pretty decent horror movie.

[This story was written at request of Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, in relation to its Animation Kickstarter found here: ]

Slimy Stories / The "Donational" Project
« on: 07:14:01 PM 02/21/17 »
This will probably get annoying for both of us, but I have to change a few names in this post. Basically, I signed a non-disclosure agreement with a certain corporation, and I'm not even supposed to be sharing what I'm about to say. Changing the names will at least give me some little shred of legal safety.

In fact... for legal purposes, I'll go ahead and say this story is completely fictional, and any relation to real-world events is a total coincidence. Plus, let's be honest. Any attempts at tracking my account will not work, but you're welcome to try.

So... There's this company called "Zillion", that I'm sure you've all heard of. They're probably one of the most well-known corporations in the world, and everyone with an internet connection has definitely used their search engine at least once.

Zillion started out with a simple motto. "Never be bad". The idea was that they were a different sort of company, one that actually cared about the users, their happiness, and above all else, their privacy.

That last concern went out the window pretty quickly. Now it's all about serving targeted advertisements and collecting data. In fact, I've heard that Zillion itself has more information on citizens than any Government in the world.

All of this is why I was highly skeptical about their intent when they launched the "Donational" project. They claimed it was the next step in crowd funding and charitable giving, but I'm sure I wasn't alone in thinking there had to be some major catches.

The premise was simple enough. Two randomly selected applicants to the program, one male, one female, would be given the new "Zillion Specs" internet-connected glasses to wear during every waking moment. A group of 100 other applicants would then be able to watch a live stream of these two subjects at any time they chose, using a very secure browser-based control panel through Zillion's subsidiary video platform, "ViewPipe".

In other words, you could see through the eyes of these two subjects at pretty much any time of day. The only time the glasses were allowed to be disconnected from streaming, by contract, was between 8 PM and 6 AM Pacific Standard Time. That was to allow for sleep, showers, etc. Exceptions could be made for bathroom breaks, but Zillion seemed oddly specific about their duration in the original application process.

Now, on to the crowd funding aspect. The 100 viewers were given randomly assigned names combining an adjective and an animal name. For example, users would be known as RedShark, PurpleFlea, etc. These users also each received a healthy daily allowance of "Z Points", which they could send to the two streamers at any point they chose. Points would roll over from day to day, and if the project had officially launched, these points would've been purchased with real world currency.

If you're lost by now, I guess I would sum up the whole thing like this: Viewers watch the streamers in their day to day lives, and give their Z Points to a streamer when they want to support them.

In practice, I suppose the final service would've allowed viewers to enter the Donational website, select what kind of person or project they wanted to support, and then monitor the work and deeds of whoever represented the cause and wore the Zillion Specs.

Streamers would then be able to withdraw the Z Points in the form of real money... with Zillion taking their cut, of course.

Right away, BlueMule was a problem. I saw him in one of the stream chats on the very first day, when the streams began. I had started off watching the male subject, dubbed "Keith", though I'm sure it wasn't his real name.

BlueMule was an obvious troll. There were strict moderators in place to keep chat from getting unruly, but I could tell he was testing the limits. He knew exactly what to say and how to say it in order to avoid actually triggering punishment. He'd twist the arm just enough before it broke.

At one point, BlueMule asked if Keith was gay after the streamer had randomly looked at a passing man's body on the street. When people asked why he would say that, he explained that he was just wondering if Zillion was representing alternate lifestyles properly.

I don't think anyone believed that, but there was no real way to prove his concern wasn't legitimate.

BlueMule is actually the reason I switched from watching Keith's stream to watching Kelly's. The moderator presence was kind of having a chilling effect on the flow of the chat, and I didn't enjoy the extra surveillance he was forcing on us.

Kelly was an interesting choice for the program. Whereas Keith was the standard blonde "surfer dude" who was hoping to get funding for a new board and gear, Kelly was looking for help with her terminally ill mother, and possibly opening a dress shop if that funding goal was met.

She seemed sad. All the time. It wasn't something incredibly obvious, but when we watched through her eyes and heard her speak, there was always a little bit of a dark cloud in her voice. She enjoyed an ice cream cone, strawberry cheesecake, I think, but went on to say it reminded her of when her mom took her out for ice cream. She saw a stray cat and stopped to pet it, then asked if it used to have a warm bed before it was thrown out.

Everything had that sort of depressing tinge to it, which I guess is why she wasn't getting anywhere near the same Z Points that Keith was.

As the days went on, viewers helped Keith pick which type of board he was going to buy, what graphics it would have, and so on. It quickly became a system of putting numbers into the stream chat to signal which choice would "win". Almost as quickly, Keith realized his missed opportunity and switched to making us vote with Z Points.

"Donate now for this design... okay, donate now for this one...." and so on. Very smart, though not subtle.

Kelly had a day where her grand total of Z Points earned came to 200. Barely anything, and before Zillion's cut. She had spent the day in bed, not saying anything, with her Zillion Specs on the nightstand, facing an empty section of her bedroom. Some of us speculated that she had gotten a bad call about her mother during the stream's down time, but no one knew for sure.

At first, people sent her Z Points to try to cheer her up, but BlueMule had come over at this point and "helpfully" stated that she wouldn't see the donation alerts if she wasn't wearing the glasses.

It went down hill from there. Far and fast.

They didn't care if she had tears in her eyes, or snot in her nose. The fact that she was crying did little to stop what was happening.

It didn't take a brain surgeon to figure it out. Kelly realized that she was getting donations when she was in front of the mirror. Donations that grew when she would adjust her top, and would shrink if she was doing her make-up or just primping in general.

I don't know how serious the situation was with her mom, but Kelly went to a very dark place... and BlueMule was there to crack every borderline joke possible.

Kelly outpaced Keith in donations when her streams became largely about trying on bathing suits. Painting her toenails and putting lotion on her feet weren't as popular, but had their own dedicated fan base with Z Points to burn.

She ended up looking completely dead inside. There was a definite clause about nudity in the application we'd seen, but in the same way BlueMule knew how to avoid a ban, Kelly became an expert at showing "everything but".

I started watching Keith again, after it became apparent this was going to be Kelly's life going forward. The chat moderators seemed oddly tight-lipped about the direction things had taken, as if they'd been notified by higher-ups that they needed to be very careful about not supporting or condemning the behavior.

After all, this was all data for the test run, right?

Keith's streams were boring and predictable as I'd expected, especially after the descent into depravity I had just witnessed. After he was basically getting nothing in terms of Z Points, he was far less interested in interacting with the chat. He would do things like wear the Zillion Specs on his forehead, angled at the ceiling, while he watched television or ViewPipe videos.

I was in Keith's stream when Kelly was killed.

I phrase it that way, because I'll always blame the viewers for what happened. Someone popped into Keith's chat and shouted, in capslock, that everyone needed to come to Kelly's stream right away. Watching Keith's ceiling fan spin wasn't really doing much for me, so I switched over quickly.

As was now usual in Kelly's streams, I could see a mirror. The Zillion Specs were lying on the bathroom counter, and the sink was painted with red streaks. A previously white towel was now entirely damp and crimson.

I asked what was going on, but the chat was flying by at this point and I could tell people were already tired of explaining the situation to a constant stream of newcomers. I only found out later that someone had been funnelling an extreme amount of Z Points into Kelly's account. Someone who had apparently saved all of their points... they had donated to no one, until that very night.

They started coming in when Kelly got a paper cut and looked at the blood on her finger for a split second. She noticed, and, putting two and two together quickly, tried making a small cut on the palm of her hand.

Blood. Money. More blood. More Money. Lots of blood. Lots of money. Eventually, she must've hit an artery by mistake.

Zillion shut the chat down and the screen went black. Within moments, the URL wasn't even reachable. It was like the project hadn't even existed.

I mean, you'd have to be kind of stupid to not see what company I'm referring to, here. Go ahead and try to find any mention of them running a crowd funding social experiment using their patented internet-connected lenses and video streaming website. It's completely white washed.

Hell, this is probably why they stopped promoting those lenses in the first place.

Those of us seeking answers set up a small, private group to discuss what exactly had happened. Unfortunately, in our haste, we put it right on Zillion's failed social media platform, "Zillion Sphere", and it was found and deleted on the third day it existed.

What I did find out, however, was this... BlueMule was probably far worse than any of us even realized.

One member of the group said he had chatted with the user at one point, asking what he did or didn't give Z Points for. It was a common question at the time, since everyone was anonymous and we could only really connect with each other by discussing the project.

BlueMule's answer was innocuous at the time, but given his penchant for wordplay and pushing boundaries, it's taken on a much more chilling tone, now.

"I'm saving mine for when someone really opens up to me."

I don't know what Zillion was thinking, really. Someone as obviously sick and antagonistic as BlueMule should never have gotten past the first phases of test group selection.

What's more, it seemed like they didn't even take any action after the fact. I can't say for sure, since this isn't first-hand information, but multiple sources in the group remember BlueMule dropping a few hints about his true identity... again, something that was expressly forbidden.

"If you watch ViewPipe, you've seen me. ;)"

It's a disturbing thought, to say the least. Who would be so important to Zillion that they'd not only let him into the project despite all red flags, but would also protect him to that degree?

If Zillion has its way, I suppose we'll never know.

Creepy Media Picks / Welcome to
« on: 04:14:56 PM 02/11/17 »

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