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Tuesday, 26 July 2016

Sanders Endorses Clinton and Ask Me Anything

Back To The Abyss An Autoexposiprose

Back To The Abyss

An Autoexposiprose

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


I’m standing on the edge of a cliff somewhere deep within the bowels of my mind, the roiling raging abyss lies far below staring into my soul.

The Farsh-nuke approaches out of the shadows, paisley tie, three piece suit and emerald green eyes, the butcher of Britain come to talk me from the edge. “This? Again? I thought you were over this? I thought you were better?”

“I am.” I say, lifting a trainer off the ground to wave it curiously over the edge.

“And this is better?” says the Farsh-nuke staring into the abyss nervously.

“Absolutely.” I say. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

“The abyss is something you should be scared of.” says the Farsh-nuke. “This isn’t like spiders or girls. This isn’t a fear you need to conquer. The Abyss is fear and rage and cold, dark brutality. It is everything you are not.“

“I know.” I say. “But I’m not afraid of it anymore.”

“Just what the fuck happened with you and that- that- with him?” asks the Farsh-nuke struggling to find the words and biting back obvious contempt.

“We had fun and he was nice.” I say, idly.

“Uh-huh? Well something happened to get you here? So what did?” asks the Farsh-nuke staring into my soul.

“I scared him and he asked me to leave.” I say.

“So... what? You’re worried you’ll go dark side and become Darth Vader?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

I chuckle to myself quietly. “No. No, I know what happens if I go dark side.”

He looks blankly back at me.

“You.” I say. “The Great Farsh-nuke, the Butcher of Britain and the man who makes the impossible probable. You are every childish fantasy I’ve ever had. The Id that I fear, all lust and rage and violence. Except you’re not a realistic fear. My ex? Now he was a real mirror. The real shadow of the soul.”

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Arrogant, selfish, a complete idiot whilst also a complete genius and unlike you a man with a far more realistic mirror to my own frustrations. His was to submit selfishly with only pleasure for himself with a fruitless perfectionist desire for partners.” I say. “I met my mirror and I gave myself to him, dedicated to myself to his pleasure and I realised something very important. I’m not just you, not even with a willing submissive.”

“Then what are you?” asks the Farsh-nuke.

“I’m the submissive woman as well, or at least part of my mind fits that archetype.” I say. “He was mine and yet I was his, I lived to pleasure him, and did so knowing that if I wanted to work or pleasure myself I had to be elsewhere. I was not the monster I feared I might be and indeed as the relationship ended I realized I don’t just want a submissive woman. It’s a nice fantasy when you don’t have to think about what happens next but agency in a partner is just convenient apart from anything else. I want a partner who can think for themselves and make their own decisions, who can get into screaming matches with me if shit gets serious yet understand that the screaming is just like shaking a mess of cables to untangle them, it may seem rough but it lets tightly wound things shake free. Communication sometimes requires screaming and I will take that over soeone who hides under a blanket to speak to me any day.”

“Oh...” says the Farsh-nuke. “So I guess you won’t be writing anymore stories then?”

I shake my head. “When the whole controversy about the fanfic I’d written happened I thought I was a monster, I felt like I could never write again but now I see that I can and that I should. You see I need the submissive women of my fantasies to have agency and choice, I just want them to choose to be submissive and if people are going to say that my writing them denies them of consent then they can get tae fuck because that is a very peculiar logic which requires the assumption of sapience on the part of fictional characters which do not exist within our universe. Even if it is fanfic based on real people the act of artistic creation is the creation of a new universe, even one very like our own.”

The Farsh-nuke nodded. “I can understands that but you know they’ll come after you, right? This is going to annoy a lot of people, people you care about, whose positions you generally support. This won’t just be nazis and trump supporters telling you to kill yourself. This will be feminists and trans activists and lefties... They will hunt you down and try to destroy you for representing the patriarchy.”

“I know.” I say.

The Farsh-nuke stares at me. “Seriously? You? Mister I-killed-two-fish-once-now-I-shall-never-harm-a-fish-again? You are going to accept the possible wrath of the left?”

“That’s why I’m standing on the raggedy edge, staring into the abyss.” I say.

“Of course you could always just lie and not publish your fiction?” says the Farsh-nuke.

“I’m a writer, the videos may pay the bills and I may be an appallingly bad writer but I am a writer and a writer writes.”  I say. “No one ever has to read it if they don’t want to and if they want to keyword search to the part that annoys them they can know that they are in the company of misogynists, racists, tories and anarcho-capitalists. Let that irony burn them as they try to burn me.”

The Farsh-nuke sighs. “You aren’t capable of this. You care too much about what these people think. You like being the good guy.”

I lean over the edge and stare down at the roiling abyss raging far below.

“No...” says the Farsh-nuke seriously.

“If they think I’m a sexist transphobic piece of shit then they won’t notice the difference and I was never a good man anyway, not really.” I say idly then I look back at him. “I don’t matter. Feminism will not live or die on what happens in my fiction. My fiction will however make me better able to live through the bullshit to come and I need to keep making my videos to fight against the right wing media.”

“They won’t understand.” says the Farsh-nuke.

“Oh, of course they won’t.” I say with a chuckle. “But fuck what they think. I’ve made peace with myself. My videos matter more than my fiction so let the hatebase swell to include the left.”

“So what are you going to do?” asks the Farsh-nuke.

I start walking away from the cliff edge at a careful pace. “Exactly what the friend who tried to ruin me wants.”

“And that is...?” asks the Farsh-nuke.

“Take a running jump off a cliff.” I say as I come to a stop and turn around.

The Farsh-nuke goes pale. “You don’t have to do this?”

“Bollocks to the bechdel test, subby hot chicks in bikinis here I come.” I say running towards the cliff edge.



Alone Again

Thursday, 21 July 2016

Reborn

Reborn

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


A man is defined by his surroundings and experiences and how others see him. My boyfriend is a rock, an unchanging ever logical glacier. Compared to him I am a maelstrom of emotion and energy and ideas. With him I am calm and focused but let loose I am chaos. Today, that happened.

A 2 hour train trip back home to Woking, my own personal Lungbarrow. It was supposed to be simple. 2 hours there, get the injection then 2 hours back. Only public transport is like a real time strategy game. You can know hours in advance of a deadline that minor delays are going to cause you to be late and you have nothing that you can do. I had an hour and a half of slow building dread as like melting ice flooding an underwater complex, I realised that I was fucked.

So I am still in Woking, injection rescheduled to tomorrow. No laptop, no desktop, no headphones and no plan.  Bad times. Except for one small thing... I am not the same Alex Jahans that left for my boyfriend’s all that time ago.

My boyfriend is a genius, he doesn’t believe it but he is. Once his mind has the logic of a situation down he can become an expert overnight. I truly believe the only reason he isn’t the world’s best socialiser is a fear of embarrassment and an unwillingness to learn the fuzzy logic of social interaction. With him I have grown more confident and more knowledgeable about computers.

You see we fixed my desktop and gave it a graphics, card, ssd and fresh install of windows 10 then we replaced some faulty ram in my laptop and put it back to Windows 7. He also built me a free windows 7 desktop in case mine ever became irrecoverable. To him this is almost like running, tiring certainly but not something he has to think about. He has lectured me about the importance of backups but I have learned the opposite.

When I arrived at my boyfriend’s originally it was out of fear. I had no working computer. I was alone, isolated. Without a working computer I felt naked and vulnerable.  My computer is home, my computer is my safe space.  Except I’ve had many computers, each that have felt like home. And with the quick repetition of computer installations and setups I learned that my home isn’t MY computer, it isn’t even my data. I don’t need backups, I don’t even need much memory really. Everything that makes up my safespace can be downloaded in minutes, could possibly be fit into a portable bootable usb stick or even micro sd for flashing to a smartphone with usb on the go.

My home is Minecraft and Skyrim. Youtube, Tweetdeck and Facebook. My Itunes Podcast Subscriptions, my Amazon Music Library and Focus Writer. My home isn’t big or flashy and it isn’t important and weighty. It is free or already paid for, lightweight on the processor and easily downloadable.

So, Honey (if you’re reading this through your RSS reader with your massive server of data and backups), no I do not just like you because you fixed my computers. As I have learned I don’t need my computers, not really. I like them and they feel like home but what’s important is the information, information that (Thanks to the data gathering you so despise.) I can have on me almost anywhere without paying any extra money. Sure, it’s slow and unsafe and inefficient but it works. I love you for you, not for what you do for me.

Also it feels really fucking great to have a proper shower after all this time.

Friday, 15 July 2016

Things

Things

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans 


So things are weird. Better than the old shit but weird. I guess that’s only to be expected when two people on the autistic spectrum get together. There are a lot of webs to untangle so let me try to parse them out one by one to make sense of the madness that is now driving me to great darkness.

Think of the stress like a song. Each element a different instrument adding to the melody. In the background as a nice light tinkly piano or string section are my complex feelings for my closest friend. When all the false friends of college and uni had forgotten me she kept in touch and I fell in love with her. She is utterly my type and fairly flirty so there is a constant underlying tension there which is only complicated by the genuine depth of feeling I have for her as a person and as a friend for being there for me when nobody else was and for actually caring about my writing and encouraging me. When I talk with her I feel so much better but now her relationship is on the rocks and I’m unavailable in more ways than one.

Next comes the Shattered, a group I once called home and counted among my friends but has now fractured more. Think of it like a backing choir where some have got coulds so the harmony is missing, a constant jarring almost melody as those who are left keep me in contact with the real world with my brief brushes against it.

My family is an orchestra, at times sweet and soothing, at others, violent strings jabbing every moment. Get a job, get on benefits, babysit the cat.

Politics is an electric synthesiser, at times making melody of of disharmony with the hope of Corbyn and Sanders, at others forcing discord with the EU referendum, Trump, the Blairites and the vile Tories.

And of course then there is the baseline of my self loathing. Deep booming brass. The fear that my writing and sexual proclivities will have me branded a monster. A fear that has begun to subside with the presence of my boyfriend but comes back in spikes when I am at my weakest. Like now. A great booming fuck you from my neuroses.

Then there’s the hatebase, the sound of the crowd hissing and booing at the cacophony. Kill yourself. Die. Faggot. Spergy.

Then there’s my boyfriend. A marvellous electric guitar for this one I think. He is so so sweet and so so lovely but so utterly hurt and so unwilling to try that which might cause more harm. I would bleed for him. I thought once that I wouldn’t, that I was too cold. I was wrong. I am his as long as he wants me, even if it hurts me and he can’t understand that. He keeps thinking I’m going to leave him when I have upturned my whole life to try and make him even slightly happier. Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe I’ll think differently in a year. For now though I know that when I am with him I don’t hear the noise. I could have alzeimers and terminal cancer and the world could be about to end and so long as I was with him I would feel okay.

But now that peace is ending. At least for a little while. He is moving so I must return to the house of discord and plate spinning. He can’t think about the future, not like you or I can. Games can help an imagination but only when the rules are solid but he knows all too well how to change the rules to fit him so he can’t learn to work within them, to plan each move that will likely need to be made. I can.

I feel dizzy, I feel like I’m jet lagged and there’s a thousand trains rushing past me because I can see the madness that awaits me when I leave him. I can almost hear the discord already. There’s a reason I scream so much in my videos, why I can’t write unless I’m listening to music, because I can hear that discord going on inside my head every single day. I can’t smell, I can’t see well, I’m paranoid about going deaf, I have no money to go out and see people and I don’t have a fancy sense of touch but I do have a brain that runs at a million miles an hour and won’t shut up... unless he’s in the room.

He thinks he’s a problem to me. That his autism makes him an extra burden. he’s got it all wrong. It’s like how us sleeping together means I can go to sleep on a schedule, his snoring is so loud it shuts out my thoughts and forces me to sleep. Neurotypicals are easy to predict so my brain is free to race but my boy requires me to even moderate how often I give verbal cues to show I’m listening to and am interested in what he’s talking about. I can’t afford to think about anything else and I don’t have time to either. When I am with him I sleep better and I live better because the madness in my head stops.

It’s funny really I came here because he wanted help with not thinking and he wanted someone to sleep in the same bed as him so his sleep would be better and I’ve found he lets me stop thinking and he lets me sleep better. I don’t know how he feels about me, neither of us do yet but I know that he is sweet and kind and adorable and he makes me better.



Wednesday, 13 July 2016

The Return A Nothingness Fic

The Return

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


An old run down bar in the middle of the American south west. An old black man stands behind the counter cleaning pint glasses as punters chatter quietly among themselves. A trio of old southern gents sit sipping pints as they play cards in one corner of the bar as two young men knock back shots at the counter and 4 young women discuss their plans for the weekend at a table in the another corner of the bar.

A man enters. White slip on trainers, worn and muddied from use. Pin striped black trousers hanging from red braces about thick shoulders. A lime green long sleeved button down shirt is adorned with a brown paisley tie in a windsor knot, a tartan waistcoal, a lime green suit jacket and a dark brown duster coat that hangs down to shin level. His face is hangered with age and dark spectacles hide his eyes as long grey curly hair hides his ears. “Do you do Diet Coke? None of that Pepsi crap, do you have Diet Coke?”

The bar tender looks the stranger in the shades and nods.

The stranger nods back and smiles, visibly relaxing as he takes a seat. “One pint of Diet Coke and 2 shots of your strongest alcohol, if you please?”

The bar tender nods and fetches the drinks.

The stranger looks across the bar at the young women and licks his lips as he reaches inside his suit jacket for an old dusty leather wallet and pulls out a couple of ten dollar bills.

The bar tender places the Diet Coke and two shots of Tequila on the counter.

“Keep the change.” says the stranger. “I know I’m an arsehole.”

The bar tender nods and takes the money.

The stranger knocks back the Tequila and winces. “That is some good shit. What is it?”

“Trump Brew.” Explains the bar tender with a smile. “The cartels make it from the cocks of any trump supporter stupid enough to go south of the wall.”

The stranger smirks. “So the fucker actually built the wall, did he?”

The bar tender smirks and shakes his head. “The cartels did when he renaged on his promise. Their economy has been booming ever since.”

The stranger nods “Because when America complains about immigrants the Mexicans shrug and climb through barbed wire to get there but when the cartels say no emigrants...”

The bar tender nods. “Every good Mexican knows not to mess with the cartels.”

They chuckle for a moment, then the bar tender asks “So where are you from then? I mean you don’t sound American...”

The stranger smirks. “That is a long story.”

The bar tender studies the stranger for a moment then pours out another shot of tequila. “I’m Earl and I own this fair establishment so if I say we've got time then we've got time. Who are you?”

The stranger sighs, takes a sip of his diet coke then starts to explain. “My name is Reginald Barklay and who I am is not important but what is is that I was part of a war.”

“What kind of war?” asked Earl.

“A mad one.” said Reginald. “You see our universe exists as part of a multiverse which lives in this place known as the nothingness. Beings known as the older gods used to watch over the multiverse and the nothingness but men tried and killed them. One of them escaped death and became reincarnated forever in the multiverse. That one became known as the Farsh-nuke and one of his number the Great Farsh-nuke founded the Logicios. The Logicios were empowered men. They were able to travel the multiverse and manipulate reality but they were founded by a lustful fool so they fell to the worst of temptations for a centralised powerful force for regulation. They became oppressive, arrogant and prejudiced, using slave labour just for sick kicks.”

“And they were the enemy?” said Earl.

Reginald shook his head and gulped back a glug of diet coke. “They fought the enemy while the good guys were getting ready. The Enemy were these beings of pure logic called the septagonoids who wanted to destroy all reality so that it would be more logical.”

Earl stared at Reginald for a moment then whistled. “I guess the good guys won then? Who were they?”

“The United Civilisations of the Multiverse.” said Reginald. “Led by one Lucy Dance, the Paragon of Virtue. She and the United Civilisations were the Great Farsh-nuke’s attempt to undo the damage he caused. And you’re right, they won but at a cost.”

Earl nodded. “War never changes.”

Reginald knocked back a second shot of whisky. “As the war went on the elder gods that had survived like the Farsh-nuke started to regain their old power. They didn't need technology anymore, they could warp reality with their minds, conquer whole armies with a look. Eventually the war took all but the strongest and wisest, which was when they saw what needed to be done.”

“Oh?” said Earl, a quizzical look on his face.”

“I said the Great Farsh-nuke was a lustful fool, I never said why.” said Reginald. “You see the Farsh-nuke wasn't a man to begin with. The Farsh-nuke was just a semi-sapient proto-universe wandering the nothingness until the soul of the original Lucy Dance appeared before it begging for an end to her existence. The Farsh-nuke became a man and gained a lust for women when it absorbed her soul to end her suffering.”

“And how does this information help anyone?” asked Earl.

“The Farsh-nuke didn't just gain a lust for women when he absorbed Lucy’s soul, he learned everything about her.” said Reginald. “He became the ultimate pickup artist. He knew how women thought, how they felt, what they wanted and just how easy it was to trick them.”

“He sounds like an arsehole.” said Earl.

Reginald snorted with laughter. “Oh, he was. One of them met my sister at a party once, next time I saw her she was smiling blank faced as a living statue in his home.”

Earl stared at Reginald then shook his head sadly, “So I’m guessing the idea was that the Farsh-nuke absorb the soul of the Logicios and thereby know their weaknesses.”

“Not quite.” said Reginald. “Similar things had been tried before and the Farsh-nukes had sided with the septagonoids. The logic was too corrosive.”

“So what was the plan?” asked Earl.

“For every Farsh-nuke that existed there would be a matching Lucy.” said Reginald. “This is because at the moment of absorption the Farsh-nuke bonded her soul to his. If he is born again so will she be. The plan was to bond the logic of the Septagonoids to the Farsh-nukes then commit suicide in a very particular fashion so that all Septagonoids and Lucys would similarly be trapped beyond life.”

“But that’s horrible.” said Earl.

Reginald nodded. “You’re right but it was also the only way. All new Farsh-nukes, Lucys and Septagonoids generated by the multiverse would become similarly trapped if ever any of those they were bonded with realized their potential.”

“Shit.” said Earl. “So what are you doing here?”

Reginald placed the index finger of his right hand to his lips then pointed to where a young man with piercing green eyes was getting up from the bar to approach a beautiful young blond woman over in the corner of the bar.

“No...” breathed Earl quietly.

Reginald nodded.

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Earl. “They’re so young.”

“Not for them.” said Reginald. “But the Farsh-nuke escaped death once and he doesn’t like to lose.”

Reginald lifted the still mostly full pint of diet coke to his lips and drained it in five seconds.

“What are you going to do?” asked Earl.

“My duty” said Reginald simply as he rose from his seat.

The young man with the piercing green eyes wore a leather jacket and jeans. “The name’s William”

The beautiful young blond woman wore a short skirt and a leeveless shirt. “Lucy, pleasure to meet you.”

“I was just wondering if you wanted me to buy you a drink?” said William.

Lucy smiled warmly. “Alright, I’ll have a JD and Coke if that’s okay?”

William nodded, a wide toothy grin upon his face. He turned to fetch the drink.

Reginald blocked his way, towering over him. “On your orders, Sir.”

“Orders?” said William.

Reginald pulled out a revolver and shot William between the eyes then he spun the barrel and shot Lucy between her eyes.

*

William woke up in darkness. There was a mattress beneath him, or what felt like one anyway. He wondered if he should call out but remembered the weirdo with the gun and thought better of it. Besides he was naked. He scrabbled to his feet and felt around for a light switch on the walls.

When he found the light he found he was in a small room with a large double bed and a chest of draws but the draws were empty.

A short young blonde woman wearing a bikini entered the room carrying clothes.

William stared at her. “Who are you?”

“Lisa.” said the young woman brightly. “Master wanted me to give you these.”

William frowned but accepted the clothes then threw them on the bed. “Leave!”

“As you wish.” said Lisa. “I’ll just be outside.”

As William got dressed in the clothes he noticed something rather curious among the socks, handkercheifs and boxer shorts. Some kind of remote control with strange commands had a piece of paper elasticated around it. When he had removed the elastic bands and unfolded the paper he saw that it read:

William, excuse the manner of our meeting, all will be explained, I assure you.
For now please accept the gracious gift of my toy girl Lisa.
She is a fully sapient and sentient human being but I have spent a lot of time and effort ensuring that she will respond to commands given to her either verbally or through this remote control.
Enjoy her, I certainly have.

William stared at the note for a long moment then swallowed and placed it and the remote in one of the draws. He did not want to even think about what that meant.

When William had dressed he exited the room into a long corridor and saw that indeed Lisa was standing patiently outside the door for him. She didn't even blink. She just stood smiling brightly into the middle distance.

William coughed. “Lisa, umm, could you... Umm... Could you take me...? To...? To your master?”

Lisa nodded “If you’ll follow me. I'm afraid lifting you might be tough.”

William rolled his eyes. “I’ll follow you.”

The place was a vast labyrinth of winding corridors but eventually Lisa led him into a seven sided room filled with complex instrumentation and screens. The man who had shot him was standing before a big screen and operating the controls.

“Apologies for shooting you but it had to be done.” said the strange man.

William glared at him. “You said on my orders? What orders? I've never met you before in my life.”

The strange man chuckled darkly. “It’s true William had never met me before but you did give me the orders, Farsh-nuke.”

William suddenly felt a ferocious pain in his head. It was like having a migraine while hungover as workmen dug up the road. “Oh god...”

“I did as you commanded, Sir.” explained the strange man. “I didn't like it but I did as you commanded. I killed William and Lucy just before they were dragged to the null place. The Septagonoids were sent there upon their deaths as is normal and then I remade you, Sir.”

William closed his eyes as memories from lives not lived flashed before his eyes. “Oh god, I killed her, I killed that girl, Lucy.”

“Don’t start feeling guilty for those who have diet because of you. We don’t have time for that.” said the strange man. “I have bought her back and implanted her with the same abilities as my own fair Lisa. Her body and her mind is yours to command if you wish.”

William nodded grimly and stiffened up. broadening his shoulders as he remembered the weight upon him. “I'm not that man anymore, not that monster. I will not command her. I did not use the loophole just to abuse som,e poor woman.”

“No...” said the strange man turning from the screen. His eyes visible without the glasses were revealed to be a bright yellow. “No, you never were content tto just play were you. You always had to get concerned with the needs of the little people. The Logicios, The United Civilisations and now this? Why can’t we ever just have fun?”

William smirked bitterly. “The Bam-Kursh? After all this time?”

“Always.” said the Bam-Kursh. “Did you think I was just going to let you sacrifice yourself without so much as a goodbye?”

“You saved my life...” said William.

The Bam-Kursh shook his head. “I killed a young man and woman. There’s a difference. So what is it? What great need calls the Farsh-nuke out of sacrifice?”

William sucked his teeth then strode over to examine a monitor. “Do you know that old joke about going back in time to assassinate Hitler?”

The Bam-Kursh snorted. “Didn’t you eat him once?”

William sighed. “Obviously you can’t change time. We live in a multiverse but you can change the present. I have spent more than a quadrillion lifetimes saving humanity from aliens and logic monsters and anomalies but never have I actually stopped to look after the people I was with. If they wanted to vote in Hitler who was I to stop them?”

“You’d be fighting against democracy.” countered the Bam-Kursh.

“What’s democratic about genocide!?” snapped William.

The Bam-Kursh snorted. “You just committed genocide against the septagonoids.”

“I had no choice. The septagonoids are hard wired to want to destroy all of reality.” said William.

“Fairly certain Hitler felt the same way about the Jews.” said the Bam-Kursh.

William glared at the Bam-Kursh then went back to studying the screen. “People are being oppressed and they’re being lied to. Where is democracy when the populace is informed by the party with the biggest budget?”

“Point taken.” said the Bam-Kursh. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Counter-song.” said William idly.

“What?” said the Bam-Kursh.

“Counter-song. It’s a bardic power from Dungeons and Dragons. If someone is using an auditory power to screw over the party a Counter-song can let the party think clearly.” explained William. “The media can influence the world to vote for people who will screw them overt so I will Counter-song with my own influence.”

The Bam-Kursh snorted. “And just what influence do you have exactly?”

William looked to Lisa and smiled. “The age of man is over, the patriarchy is dead and throughout most of the western countries in the multiverse feminism has all but won.”

The Bam-Kursh stared at him for a long moment then a smile spread slowly across his face. Her approached Lisa and kissed her on the forehead. “In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king.”

Lisa asked “What do you mean?”

William shrugged. “Feminism is a very powerful tool, like any ideology, to whoever is clever and wicked enough to exploit it. Which I think means me.”

The Bam-Kursh chuckled then looked serious. “You can’t do this alone.”

“Oh I know.” said William.

“But I can’t help you either...” said the Bam-Kursh.

William nodded. “Thank you for doing this for me old friend. I know how far along it is. You don’t need to explain.

“You’ll take good care of her won’t you?” said the Bam-Kursh pointedly.

William nodded. “And I’ll take care of the girls. Thank you.”

The Bam-Kursh nodded. “Thank you.”

The Bam-Kursh pulled the revolver out of his pocket, pointed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger. His corpse fell lifeless to the floor.

William stared at the monitor for one last moment before he went to the controls of the ship. A thirty year old brunette was undressing a young ginger woman on the monitor as he left it.

*

Lucy woke. She was lying naked on cold metal. William was standing over her, he was dressed in some kind of strange tailored suit.

“Honey...” he said “We've got a lot to talk about.”

Lucy nodded. “Where am I?”

William smiled awkwardly and started helping out of the cold storage draw the bam-Kursh ha left her in.

*

The middle aged brunette led a young blonde woman in through the front door of her house then bolted the door shut behind her as the blonde woman giggled. Then she heard a polite cough.

William and Lucy were sittting on the bed in formal suits as Lisa admired the beautiful ginger woman in a bikini who was staring into the middle distance with a bright smile upon her face.

The brunette turned to run as the blonde woman looked confused.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” said William.

The brunette froze, staring at him.

The blonde looked to the older woman as if for guidance.

Lucy said “Lisa, make the girl a mug of tea why don’t you?”

Lisa nodded and approached the blonde woman.

The blonde woman looked to the brunette.

The brunette nodded.

The blonde woman followed Lisa into the kitchen.

William said “I was just admiring your collection. Do you know their names?”

The brunette nodded.

“That one’s Amy and she’s Emma.” said the brunette. “They consented.”

“I’m sure they did. I’ve eaten many a consenting date.” said William.

“We aren’t here to stop you engaging in your activites as consenting adults.” said Lucy. “We want your help.”

The brunette staggered backwards. “With what?”

“Politics.” said William. “Pig fuckers, fox hunters, racists, narcissists and creeps. Reckon we’d fit right in with that lot don’t you Bam-Kursh?”

The Bam-Kursh stiffened. “What do you want me to do?”

“Work with me, help me start a movement, together we can be unstoppable.” said William.

“What’s the catch?” asked the Bam-Kursh.

“You can’t keep trying to kill me and we aren't leaving this world, not until we've set enough organisations up to ensure its ongoing political stability.” said William.

“Okay...” said the Bam-Kursh “But if I don’t permanently harm them I can do what I like to your pets and I get to fuck you without her getting jealous.”

Lucy snorted. “Jealous? I’ll be involved.”

Bam-Kursh glared at Lucy. “Oh I could just carve you up like a christmass turkey.”

“Try it sometime.” said Lucy.

William sighed. “Deal but for heaven’s sake be gentle. I’ve not had this body long.”

Lisa led the blonde woman back into the room.

The Bam-Kursh smiled. “Honey, this is an old friend of mine and his girlfriend, they’re going to help us enjoy you.”

The blonde woman giggled.

The End

For Now

Monday, 11 July 2016

I Predict A Riot

I Predict A Riot

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans

I am not a violent man. I am the kind of idiot who has watched way too much Star Trek, Farscape and Doctor Who and so will always no matter what do the moral, kind, heroic thing. Not because I'm some sort of saint but because I'm a malfunctioning imbecile with a messiah complex. Father physically and mentally abuses you when you're feeling suicidal? Best ask if he needs to talk about it when you hear his sister is ill. That's the kind of man I am.

I do not like violence. My favourite Murray Gold theme is Words Win Wars and I can't really get please from mindless death match multiplayer fps games. I write and I talk and I preach for peace.

But if Corbyn cannot be peacefully re-elected leader of the Labour Party because of undemocratic refusal to put his name on the ballot paper then there will be violence.

I voted green at the last general election because I refused to vote for the lesser of two evils and simply get austerity-lite in blairite flavour. After just one year of undiluted tory cuntishness I know that I could not bare for them to win the next general election. Which is fine if Corbyn is leader but a problem if we get yet another austerity loving blairite.

I am scared. I am genuinely scared.

I'm English. I can't pray for an independence referendum to save me from the tories. If it's a choice between austerity or austerity I will have to vote green and we will be guarranteed austerity, whichever flavour of tory delivers it.

There is one solution. One dreadful terrifying solution that is only concievable if the noose is unavoidably tied about Britain's throat, if there is austerity promised from both the left and the right: Revolution.

If the blairite fuckers will pervert democracy to enact their vile policies then why not pervert their sham of a democracy to save Britain from those policies? There are lives at stake. People who are dying now because of austerity and cannot afford another 5 years of it.

I know the costs of revolution are high, I know the chances of success are slim but if we are certain to be fucked then the need for change is so much greater and if the establishment won't allow us to receive it using their system maybe it's worth taking?

I don't know. I just don't know.

I hope Corbyn gets on the ballot and I hope he gets reelected leader. I don't want to think of that possibility.

Thursday, 7 July 2016

The Attempted Assassination Of Donald Trump

Personality Is A Well Rehearsed Song

Personality Is A Well Rehearsed Song

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans

I used to believe in free will, in the soul, in the uniqueness of human perception. I thought there was something fundamentally unusual about human consciousness. It's that old lie we all tell ourselves. We are not machines. We are not preprogrammed. We have choice. We can consent. We have agency. What agency?

We are slaves to a system of momentum and a complex web of interconnected needs. Douglas Adams once said as a joke that the grand mystery of human life was that we were organic components in a grand machine. He was right. Only the machine has no purpose. There is no grand plan. There is but order in chaos. Individual actors performing out of their own reasons and affecting the grand melody produced by the great machine of life.

Quantum foam washes into particles that become molecules and cells and the fundamental resources of life. DNA and nuclei decide how we grow and our form decides our role in life as all the others judging us creates a groove for us to fit in. New cogs slotting into position within the great machine as soon as they are made. And yet we think.

We are robots obeying instructions given to us through biological pre-programming and the other organic robots that litter the earth, yet we think we are free. We think we can consent, that we have agency. We are aware when we don't and angry when we think our agency is threatened. We go to war, we hurt and we kill when we fear our agency might be threatened. How can we justify bloodshed in defence of agency when we have none?

Because like the robots we might produce we can alter our programming. There is no god, no soul and no ineffable essence of man. We are meat robots working on instructions so we can change what those instructions are. A robot can never be free because a robot can never be wrong or taking a path that leads to greater suffering for itself but a robot can choose what it defines as being right and what it defines as greater suffering.

I am suffering a great crisis of faith right now. The capitalistic system, the only system I have ever known, is dying and I have almost no value within it. I know, by morality, that I have a right to life and liberty. That doesn't stop the feeling that I am worthless and pointless. Yet I have a boyfriend now.

My boyfriend, he is a robot. He cannot be anything other than logical and cannot process the chaotic wash of social interaction. He lives, he makes money working from home and he has fun. Damn the politics! Damn the Social Injustices! Damn all that which is not logical! Such a seductive idea. He is a human being, just being. Not like everybody else.

Personality is like a well rehearsed song, it is a tune your muscles perform effortlessly as you reinforce your core ideals time after time. I could be a conservative, I could be a member of the far right, I could even be a communist. With the right perspective and info to learn from I could be everything and anyone. Maybe not for long, my muscles might get cramp but I know I could be anything for some sort amount of time yet I have never wanted to be anything other than I am now.

I'm serious. The hatred for myself? The disgust at my own body? I know how mutable my own mind is, I know I could change it. I know that under the right circumstances I can even ignore pain and things that make me deeply uncomfortable. I don't do this because I know that these things all make me be me. I don't have value to the economy. What I have is my unique perspective. The outsider everywhere, jack of all trades, master of some. That is what is so dangerous about my boyfriend.

My boyfriend can't not be moral and even if you make him really angry he would never lift a finger against your person. The danger is that he doesn't like to think, that he seeks out not thinking, that he shuts off all but his most immediate needs and desires because nothing else matters. He is kind and sweet and I love him deeply but the seductive simplicity of his life is toxic to my mind.

I have a relative timetable. I wake, get changed, clean my teeth, get changed, check facebook, gmail and skype, apply for jobs and watch youtube videos. Then I'll write or record a video, possibly both, then I'll binge a podcast series or audiobook whilst playing minecraft or skyrim before checking facebook and youtube again before bed. My life is a churn of ideas and concepts and news.

My head is filled with nightmares and self hatred and angst about my desires. This is what drives me to be better, what drives me to be more innovative, more creative. Lust without self loathing leads to pleasure, not productivity. I am driven by frustration and by stress. Anger energises me like a can of diet coke, a pack of mentos and good music. Note how rarely I make videos talking about things I love. Happiness does not drive creativity, it simply fades.

I love my boyfriend and right now I can think of few things I would not do for him. I am sure that will fade and I have already begun to devise an exit protocol to prevent him being hurt if it ever does but for now I am here as long as he wants me. He makes me happy, so ridiculously happy. This is a man who can out nerd me and be ditzy enough that I feel needed. He is a man who wants and needs me to do things to him the likes of which I would have never dreamed of. I am almost completely satisfied by him and I am finding his needs surpassing my own in priority. The world is going to hell and I don't care because I am with him. All I want to do is stroke him and hug him and help him with his life.

Except I am not him. I am not the man who lives for fun. Fun is nice but I live for conflict and drama. I am the bard, the great storyteller. I am not interested in politics because I think I know better. I am interested in politics because this is a story that matters. I have a complexity addiction that would make Steven Moffat seem like a high concept writer.

So what do I do?

What any good robot does when zee realises zed's code is out of date. I patch it with updates.

Time to step back out of the shadows and embrace the light of day.

Haters to the left of me, haters to the right, here I stand, preaching stories to whoever wants to listen.

Whether you think I'm transphobic, sexist, a cuck or a leftist, I'm back with a working desktop and laptop and I am ready to start pissing people off again.

Pleased to meet you, I think you know my name.


Monday, 4 July 2016

On Universal Credit And Existential Dread

On Universal Credit And Existential Dread

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Things are good. 

For me, in many ways, they are objectively better than they have ever been.

I had a really shit year last year, really fucking shit, but now I am volunteering, making more and more money from youtube despite a continued absence due to technical difficulties, my desktop is working again, better than before in fact and I have faith the laptop will be fixed. I have a wonderful talented genius boyfriend and he is upstairs as I write this.

Things. Are. Good.

But I want to ram a steak knife through my chest and drink diet coke until I choke. 

Fuck life right now. Fuck responsibility. Fuck the corporate bullshit of capitalism, fuck it all.

I should not be feeling like this. I have responsibilities. I have reasons to live. I WANT to live. 

So why the urge to die? Because when I am faced with a choice I can't see a way out of my instinct is to find one, even if it means a final fatal one. Fortunately however I am also very good at fighting against my instincts. I won't kill myself. Not so quickly anyway. 

So what caused this? What was the choice that caused me to have such a final negative reaction?

Universal Credit. Iain Duncan Smith's expensive legacy. If you want to be optimistic it is an attempt to reduce bureaucracy and pave way for a Universal Basic Income. If you want to be cynical it is an expensive rebranding exercise to overlay bureaucracy upon bureaucracy so as to provide an excuse to retrain social security providers to fuck over the poor in the chasing of targets.

Before I let loose with the almighty piss and vinegar that is currently making me want to vomit I shall be fair and point out that under Job Seekers Allowance I could not claim without my youtube work being restricted while I can under Universal Credit and it is less likely to trap someone out of work since Universal Credit incorporates Tax Credits to top up low paid work and claims remain open but paused in the event of temporary work. Also I will point out that this is somewhat dependent upon who is assigned to you since my advisor in Woking was kind and fair, the system however is not.

Do you know what Universal Credit reminds me of? The worst aspects of Communism, and I say that as a former Regulated Capitalist. When you walk into a Universal Credit Job Centre it's as if Steve Jobs designed communist propaganda. This is where people go to not die, where there go to earn money for food, toilet roll and rent and what they are greeted by is a minimalist open plan office environment with signs saying things like "Working is Earning" and "Work More, Earn More". I swear upon Adams, Cartmel, Pratchett and banks I would not be surprised to see "Work Sets You Free" and "Big Brother Is Your Friend" there. If you want to see how soul less fucking with the poor can be made to seem cheesy and bland then this is it.

I realise of course that a Job Centre is not a place for admiring the decor but the bastard spent eight and a half million pounds designing a mascot for adverts so you'd think some thought might have gone into developing a warm welcoming environment, not a soul less working environment that brings to mind dystopias and makes one feel vulnerable and watched.(http://indy100.independent.co.uk/article/this-multicoloured-cuddly-monster-is-the-dwps-new-mascot-it-cost-85m-to-make--bkNuGbZZ_g) - [That's right, I'm citing my sources I'm that fucking angry.]

So what does being on Universal Credit actually require? Time.

Time.

Time.

Fudging Time.

Bloody Fudging Time.

How the flip is time supposed to be a fair and accurate measure of effort?  

Oh but it's how wages are calculated, you say? Why? that's a stupid metric to measure what is required for this particular task. Universal Credit is about helping people get into a job and ensuring they put the effort in. It is about working more to earn more. Working is not a factor of time.

To be clear I am not complaining because I don't want to put the effort in to finding a job. I am complaining because this metric of Job Seeking effectiveness is completely at odds with effort. I am going to list off genuine things given in their example of the life of a job seeker as viable thiongs done to fill time:
  • walking to and from the Job Centre
  • Browsing social media for "Job Opportunities"
  • taking the bus to and from recruitment agencies
  • Accessing emails
  • Ironing a suit.
  • Trying on clothes
  • rewatching videos
Do you know what that is? That is not looking for jobs. That is wasting time in a manner that seems appropriate because it's within the context of looking for a job. And this is within the example outlined to new claimers of Universal Credit. Capitalism incentivises that which creates the most money for the least actual cost an effort. By setting their measurement of effort as a weekly timetable of hours they are changing the goal from putting in effort towards finding a job and making it into, thinking up acceptable ways to fill up the time. So some advice for future Job Seekers under the Universal Credit System:
  • Try and calculate the farthest possible distance you can live from a Job Center practically and live there then walk there. 
  • Join every single social media network under the sun and have a unique username and password for each one that you can only remember by looking in a book that is kept in a safe every night for security, the key to which is hidden in a different location in your house every day.
  • If you must take a bus to see recruitment agencies take the slowest.
  • Access your emails from a computer that is technically safe and can do all you require but boots incredibly slowly, runs incredibly slowly and has the shittest yet constant internet in your area.
  • Get an incredibly inefficient iron and wear at least a three piece suit but preferably have a cape, hat, scarf, and handkerchiefs.
  • Follow the latest fashion trends and be sure to try on every single one of your clothes before attending an interview, after all first impressions count and maybe a jockstrap, branded tshirt great coat and fedora will win you that job. You just don't know until you try it on an look in the mirror.
  • Collect videos and articles on looking for jobs and reread/rewatch them all before any interview or job application. Better to reaquaint yourself with this data overtime. Nevermind that this is an exponentially increasing task. 
Now obviously I am taking the piss, no advisor will seriously accept these tactics of padding out the time but that's the point. Universal Credit Job Seeking is not a job and it is not about putting effort into finding one. It is about wasting the time of the desperate unemployed while providing nebulous criteria for remaining on the programme that can be easily disregarded depending on the "Employment Advisor" who is verifying that the criteria has been met.

I am a problem solver. I am a compulsive worker. I am stubborn as blood stains. If I can get a job done through sheer brute force of effort I will. I will chug diet coke, eat mint imperials and listen to music until the job is done. I cannot brute force time.

Any other measure of effort I can do: Jobs applied for, cvs drafted, cover letters written, interviews attended, research performed on companies. 

I just can't brute force time.

I could maybe do it once. Apply for enough jobs, draw up alternative cvs, draw up cover letters and research companies. But I can't do it forever.

And that's the thing. This is forever. Or at least I have to concede the possibility that it could be.

There are 3.95 million employed young people in Britain in 2016 and three million two hundred seventy-one thousand unemployed and not working/economically inactive young people in Britain in 2016 and of those who are supposedly employed include unpaid family employees and people on government supported training and employment programmes. So in other words just under half the the people my age in the country aren't working and even those who are might not actually have jobs.
http://www.ons.gov.uk/employmentandlabourmarket/peopleinwork/employmentandemployeetypes/bulletins/uklabourmarket/latest

Fuck.

Now if you'll excuse me I have a dire need to forget that I ever was on this shitty arse programme and that I am in such a crap situation.