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Thursday, 21 December 2017

EDA Reviews E04 Genocide

The Six Farsh-nukes nsfw

The Six Farsh-nukes

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans

The last Farsh-nuke within the continuity of the multiverse screamed.

His torturer was a young white man who clearly spent more time in the gym than the library and had a look of almost orgiastic pleasure on his face as he twisted the knife.

After a long moment the wind died in the Farsh-nuke’s throat.

The torturer relented, sitting back on a three legged stool and vaping a marijuana blend.

“Don’t you ever get bored?” rasped the Farsh-nuke irritably.

“Nope.” said the torturer cheerfully. “You are a traitor to the white race, a traitor to men everywhere and there is nothing I take more pleasure in than watching you scream and rage impotently at the lord god, your master.”

“Oh fuck you.” spat the Farsh-nuke.

“How does it feel to be abandoned?” asked the torturer. “To know that even the despicable cuck who used you for his twisted fantasies has foresaken you?”

“And how goes the war?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

The torturer exploded in a fit of rage, attacking the Farsh-nuke with a sudden ferocity.

The Farsh-nuke didn’t resist. He let the pathetic man rail against him impotently then smiled. “That well, huh?”

The torturer picked up a pair of shears and sliced a frown into the Farsh-nuke’s face then left.

The Farsh-nuke was left alone in the dark and the bravado drained out of him. He was chained down, he was incapable of hurting himself but there was one way out.

“Who gave you permission to die?” asked a voice. Stern, female authoritative. He knew it was a hallucination, a phantom of the mind but the words cut worse than anything the torturer had done. Guilt was a hell all its own.

“I can’t do it anymore.” He heard himself say. “I can’t keep letting him attack me without any sign of hope.”

“But you are the hope.” said the Empress of Mirth contemptuously. “You are the weapon waiting to be unleashed.”

“I am a prisoner of Adam Godwinson and Richard Raspberry.” spat the Farsh-nuke, blood hitting the metal floor of his prison. “I’m not a symbol of anything good.”

“You are a symbol of survival.” said the Empress. “A symbol of redemption and defiance, that this isn’t just progressives against the white man. You are needed.”

“It’s hell.” said the Farsh-nuke contemptuously.

“And you think you’re the only person who has to deal with shit from nazis and stalker trolls?” asked the Empress.

The Farsh-nuke hung his head. “I’m done. Godwinson’s right, even the writer has foresaken me. I have nothing.”

There was silence for a long moment.

The Farsh-nuke closed his eyes. So tired.

“I never gave up.” said a male voice quietly.

The Farsh-nuke didn’t open his eyes. “Then why am I still here?”

“I needed time.” said the voice, regret evident in his voice. “I had to force myself to get over the guilt and and the harm I caused. I had to force myself to accept that there was nothing I could do to make things right. I needed distance, I needed time. I needed to heal.”

“So why am I still here?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

“Because I think I know now how to do this right.” said the voice.

“I’m tired.” said the Farsh-nuke. “You can end my suffering. I’m sorry that I can’t end yours but you can end this.”

“And I intend to.” said the voice. “But you need to regain your strength. You need to become the Farsh-nuke again.”

“And how do I do that?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

“You need to let yourself dream.” said the voice. “Believe in yourself. Help is coming.”

“Dream?” muttered the Farsh-nuke. “Perchance to -? Perchance-? Perch-”

*

The Farsh-nuke was on an old fishing boat caught off the cost of Cornwall. The year was 2009 and the boat was surrounded by frenzied sharks.

He heard the sound of a couple of men talking then the sound of a motorised winch being started. He watched the two men run past and noticed that one of them couldn’t have been much more than 17, then there was a spark of recognition.

This was the Great Farsh-nuke in the early days of his becoming. A terrified boy with a mad god growing inside his head, in the days before the Logicios or the United Civilisations. This was the man who would create the safe spaces and the lore. This was the man who had none of the answers and so little help.

The Farsh-nuke ran after the young man then came to a stop beside him. The Farsh-nukes watched as a young man stood upon a winch operated elevator piled high with the haul from the fishermen’s boat. Blood was dripping from the fish into the water far below as the frenzied sharks waited to feast.

“He’s buying us time!” cried the Great Farsh-nuke suddenly as he started sprinting. “Get to the lifeboats!”

The Farsh-nuke staggered. How could he do it? How could this boy be so calm in the face of such loss? How could he be so pragmatic?

Then he remembered. He remembered a childhood spent in fear of sharks, the endless nightmares and the terrifying moment a great white shark had chased him up onto land and sprouted legs. Circumstances had made such pragmatism necessary to survive and keep others alive.

Dimly the Farsh-nuke saw the lifeboats launch out across the water. This was the man who would make it all so much easier for the other Farsh-nukes and he had done so on his own and without guidance.

*

 The Farsh-nuke blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was somewhere new, somewhere different. A laboratory, alien in design, lots of geometric shapes. No... Not geometric shapes. Seven sided shapes.

With a cold clammy dread the Farsh-nuke realized where he was. This was a Septagonoid laboratory, this was where they designed void bombs. This was where the pedants tried to rewrite reality to make more sense by wiping it out.

A tall white man with short dark hair was working away at something in the lab. Yes, this was another earlier Farsh-nuke working on developing a bomb to destroy the septagonoid ship.

Except something was wrong. The man’s eyes weren’t green.

William Dickson Wright was his name and he’d been infected by the pedantry. He was working on the final solution to the irregularities in the nonsense of the multiverse. He was about to erase everything. Every universe would cease to exist, every race silenced in an instant. Not even the memory of the tragedy would remain.

The Farsh-nuke felt sick as the memory of every last “We’re not so different, you and I” speech by Adam came back to him. No. I’m worse. So much worse.

Except the Farsh-nuke could feel his earlier self straining against the mind of William Dickson Wright. The pedantic and petty human had broken the god and slaved its mind to the task of ending reality but the Farsh-nuke inside him was still fighting.

Suddenly a screen flickered on. Septagonoids appeared on it. There was a young blonde woman standing between them.

“What do you want?” asked William Dickson Wright irritably.

“We have captured this human and unless you make the final solution for us, we will kill them.” snarled the septagonoids.

“Well fuck you then.” cried William Dickson Wright angrily.

The screen went dead and William Dickson Wright started ranting and raving. “How dare they? How fucking dare they!?”

The Farsh-nuke watched in fascinated horror as he felt his earlier self poke, prod and push at the outrage.

“Well I’ll show them. I’ll fucking show them. I’ll kill them and the girl. See how I care, arseholes!” raged William Dickson Wright.

The Farsh-nuke considered this for a long moment. One woman, one friend, far more than that by the memory of it, to save the multiverse. It was an obvious conclusion really but startling none the less. Exploiting the flaws and sadism of the host for the greater good.

*

The Farsh-nuke stood in a convention hall. No. Not a convention hall. Not anymore. Not for sometime.

A tall, broad shouldered, black woman with biceps like they could crush watermelons sat in a makeshift throne.

A tall blonde white woman with an athletic build was bought before the queen.

“Speak.” commanded the queen.

“My name is Lucy Dance and I am a revolutionary who has helped over a million universes. You won’t believe me but I have information that can help you win this war.” said the blonde.

The queen smiled thinly. “I am fighting no war. I have no authority to. All this - this pageantry - it’s just a show I put on to let the frightened survivors believe there is some order and justice left in the world.”

“Well when the Logicios - because that’s what they’re called by the way - when they invade that won’t be pageantry. They will slaughter everybody. And that’s if you’re lucky.” said Lucy.

“And you can help us?” asked the Queen doubtfully. “How?”

“Knowledge is power, your majesty, and before I started walking the long Earth, I was briefed by a man called the Farsh-nuke.” said Lucy. “I know how to defeat them and I know how to help you create not just safety for your people here but an empire to protect everyone on this earth and the ones beyond.”

“I have no designs on empire, I just want to look after my people.” said the Queen.

“The Logicios are invading a hundred million universes and if they succeed they won’t stop.” pleaded Lucy. “You said you believed in letting your people have faith in the certainty of order and justice, then let yours be the Empire of Justice.”

The Queen regarded Lucy for a long moment then asked. “Are there others of these Farsh-nukes, or men like him? People we can use?”

Lucy nodded. “I believe so. I can tell you how to locate and bargain with them so that you can enlist them when I am gone.”

The Queen nodded thoughtfully.

“You can do this.” said Lucy quietly. “The rich white powerful men are dead, the Logicios killed them. You must have thoughts on the state of politics today, wouldn’t you like to shape the world in your image?”

“Keep talking.” said the Queen, the ghost of a smile forming on her lips.

The Farsh-nuke stared. This wasn’t right.

The souls of Lucy Danse were bonded to the souls of the Farsh-nuke and the Farsh-nuke could remember every life time. He could remember being this Lucy but this memory was knew to him.

“All people and events in this story bare no intentional resemblance to any persons living or dead.” said the voice. “The Empress of Mirth is no more. Long live the Empress of Justice.”

“No...” breathed the Farsh-nuke. “But I remember...”

“The sins of the past are not ours to forget, we must live with the burden of our sins but I am done letting that particular mistake remain part of continuity.” said the voice.

The Farsh-nuke fell silent. He could feel all these new old memories flooding into him. He could feel the Empire of Justice expanding to include perhaps a million universes. Nothing on a multiversal scale, but enough to open a corridor out to the frontier. He remembered the Empress pushing to remain outside of the UCMS, even as she traded within it, abided by its laws and sent her people to fight in the Great Septagonoid War.

*

The Farsh-nuke was standing in a room watching a man talk to a Septagonoid in a sealed room.

The man was a Farsh-nuke. One of trillions who had fought in the war.

“This bloodshed must end.” said the man.

“But my people won’t allow it.” said the Septagonoid. “They can no more go without  trying to solve the problem of reality than you can go without food. It is an itch they must scratch.”

“It is an itch that is resulting in genocide on a daily basis, it is an itch that would result in worse if it was ever scratched.” said the man.

“I know...” said the Septagonoid. “That’s why I’m here. I want peace, I want sanity.”

The man nodded. “You must be a glitch in the coding of Septagonoid logic.”

“You mean I’m sane.” said the Septagonoid darkly.

“I mean you’re different.” said the man. “But perhaps the two of us can spread your difference to others among your kind.”

“My people will never agree to anything while they are being relentlessly murdered.” said the Septagonoid.

“I know.” said the man. “But there may be a way to give your people the space to calm down and mine the safety to work on a final solution that lets everybody live.”

The Septagonoid sounded hopeful. “What do you propose?”

The man smiled. “Ever heard of a little book called. Life, the Universe and Everything...”

The Farsh-nuke stared, watching the peace negotiations continue. He had so many memories of fighting and dying on the front lines against the Septagonoids that he had quite forgotten about this. The Farsh-nukes hadn’t vanished to continue fighting the Great Septagonoid War, they had vanished to offer the Septagonoids a third way. Not war or oblivion but peace, genuine peace.

And the Farsh-nuke could remember new memories about the Empire of Justice. He remembered how the Empire had sent its citizens among the Valkyrie and to fight as part of both the UCMS and the Logicios. The Empress knew somehow that the Logicios and the UCMS were destined to destroy each other.

“Somehow indeed...” muttered the voice with a chuckle.

The Empress was preserving knowledge within her own empire and forming an army ready to reach out and fight back.

*

The Farsh-nuke opened his eyes. He was still a prisoner of Adam Godwinson. He was still tortured but he could remember seeing the news reports of the Empress sending her troops out to guard against the coming of the Reich.

He remembered the rage of Adam as a transgender black woman led an army of progressives and minorities to fight back against him. He remembered the pain in those eyes. The anguish in his voice as he had seen the sadistic obsessive realize that there was something worse than dying at the hands of the Farsh-nuke.

The Farsh-nuke smiled. “Social Justice Warriors...”

“And the SLF is still out there...” said the voice. “The new god Robert Gordon Banks marches with Amelia Hurst to spread the Freedom Collective far and wide. There are even new champions you don’t yet know about. I have a whole new continuity to play with so I don’t need to engineer reasons for Adam to be a viable threat.”

“Show me?” asked the Farsh-nuke. “Show me your new continuity. Show me what I have to fight for.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” said the voice.

*

The Farsh-nuke stood on a world so very unlike the ones he was familiar with. He supposed it was a busy metropolis. A crowded street with cars and coffee shops, beggars, buskers and suited business types. There were young lovers, groups of friends and families making their way through town. But this wasn’t humanity its limited variances. Not even limited to the variability of the multiverse.

Oh, there were people who looked human and lots of them. He felt reassured by the numbers of young, thin, human looking, women particularly. It felt like knowing that sugar still existed.

There were even multiverse species like Contravoxai and Weresharks wandering around but what surprised him were tall, slender, people with pointed ears, the short people with bushy beards and pointed hats, the twenty foot tall dorks and eight foot tall green skinned hunks of muscle with tusks in their mouths. Or, to put it another way, the elves, dwarfs, giants and orcs.

He started to laugh then his heart skipped a beat as saw a particularly human looking woman who struck him as immensely attractive. She was tall, thin, pale as snow, had long flame red hair and she was dressed in a black suit with green pin stripes.

“Amy Hurst.” said the voice, answering his unspoken question.

Amy was meandering through the crowds, her eyes darting left and right. She was looking for something and assessing the situation. What was she looking for?

The Farsh-nuke followed her with interest until she found what she was looking for.

Amy stalked over to where a young white man was sitting alone, reading from an ebook reader, on a public bench. “Hey...”

The man gave a grunt.

Amy smiled as she took a seat beside him. “What are you reading?”

“A book.” said the man, still not looking up.

Amy glanced down at the page and skim read. The Farsh-nuke did the same. It was a fetish fic about a young man being dominated by an older woman.

Amy grinned then rose from the seat.

“She’s hunting.” muttered the Farsh-nuke gleefully. “And she’s just found her prey.”

The Farsh-nuke followed her to a pet store where she hurriedly bought a dog collar and leash.

“I’m going to try this again.” said Amy more firmly as she sat down beside him. “I like you, I want you and I would like you to please come with me.”

The young man hurriedly shut off the ebook reader and looked up at her nervously.

“I don’t want to embarrass you...” said Amy, her voice, low and firm as she whispered in his ear. “But I need a new Alpha for my bedroom, I was hoping you’d oblige...”

Amy let the question linger.

The poor boy looked confused, aroused and not a little terrified.

“If it makes you feel better, you don’t have to think about anything anymore...” said Amy as she pulled the collar from out of her jacket pocket.

Another pause then, her lips so close the boy must feel the warmth, she hissed. “I intend to tame you with force until you obey me as your rightful Mistress. If you wish to stop, only say Churchill.”

The boy swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Amy grinned. “Then lets get you home. I intend to enjoy your shame, punishment and submission selfishly.”

A quiet, stammering. “Yes, please.”

Amy secured the collar round his neck then attached the leash. She led the young man away and licked her lips hungrily.

“I love her...” said the Farsh-nuke quietly.

“So do I...” said the voice gleefully. “That’s why I’ve been busy.”

The Farsh-nuke nodded, watching the predator walk off with her young prey. “Good reason.”

Then as he watched he became aware of another mind. Another soul.

*

The Farsh-nuke was nailed to a seven sided structure made of wooden beams, hanging from a beam buried deep into a cliff overhanging a vast abyss beyond.

“Where am I?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

“Where the soul of the Farsh-nuke of this universe lies in his own torture.” said the voice.

The Farsh-nuke understood now. At least somewhat. “This universe, this Farsh-nuke, is where you’ll be telling stories now. This is the focus of the conflicts.”

“Yes...” said the voice.

*

The Farsh-nuke opened his eyes. He had seen his past. Seen how pragmatic he could be, how brutal and yet how the sin that burned most potent had now never been committed by him. The Empire of Justice had clearly not been founded by a games journalist forced into a tight spot but a keen political mind and she was out there fighting Godwinson, right now. There was hope now. There a cavalry waiting for the signal to arrive.

The Farsh-nuke knew the answer. He’d known the answer from his first day here but what had been the point? Why cause himself so much pain and distress if he was only going to fail and die cold and alone, murdered by a fascist stalker? Or worse, end up back in the same torturous purgatory. This was going to suck.

The Farsh-nuke closed his eyes and thought of Amy Hurst. He thought of that beautiful clever, charming, ginger predator. God, he could go for a ginger beer right about now. And ginger bread biscuits. Fuck, he was hungry.

The Farsh-nuke screamed as he dislocated his fingers to slip his hands out of the cuffs chaining him to the wall then he pulled some teeth out of his mouth and hacked at his ankles until he was free.

When his torturer returned, the Farsh-nuke leapt at him from the shadows.

*

Once Adam Godwinson was dead, the Farsh-nuke made his way through the base, killing nazis until he found his way to a room with a radio. He sent out a message on all frequencies. “This the Farsh-nuke, founder of the Logicios, the United Civilisations of the Multiverse, I am the Butcher and the Champion of Sylphs. I am sending my coordinates with this message. Adam Godwinson is dead. I repeat. Adam Godwinson is dead.”

He barricaded the door and then he must have passed out because when he woke, there was a winking light, indicating a missed message. He played it.

“This is the Empress of Justice, I’m moving on your position as we speak and have notified by the Freedom Collective. Hold on. Help is on its way.”

The Farsh-nuke broke down laughing until at last the laughter turned to tears. The hell was over.

*

The Farsh-nuke was woken by four knocks.

The Empress of Justice was at the door.

The Farsh-nuke rose and looked at her. 12 hours ago this woman hadn’t existed and now she was saving his life.

“Would you open up there?” asked the Empress.

The Farsh-nuke scrambled to clear the debris.

*

The Empress carried him out to a waiting shuttle pod.

“This must be some kind of joke, right?” asked the Farsh-nuke, when he saw what was inside.

“Do you really think I would come to rescue the Farsh-nuke without making the appropriate preparations?” asked the Empress good naturedly as she bustled him inside.

There were four young skinny white women in short skirts and sleeveless tops looking back at him. There were two blondes and couple of identical twins with long hazel coloured hair. The names Lisa, Sammy, Jody and Jamie came to him. He let out a smile. Sugar was in his life again.

*

The Farsh-nuke was put up in a large house with plenty of room for the girls who had decided to stay with him. He’d been assigned a psychotherapist and psychiatrist to help with the post-traumatic stress.

It wasn’t easy but there was new scifi to watch and read and he had the girls to distract and comfort him.

Not that he was holding them back at all, each and every one of them had went with him voluntarily because they wanted a life less ordinary, the life he could provide.

Life was better. Not great. But better.

*

The Farsh-nuke was watching the new Star Trek when the doorbell rang. Lisa and Sally were snuggled up beside him while the twins watched from the floor, one of the twins went to answer the door.

A tall white man with short dark hair, wearing a three piece suit entered. “I came as quickly as I could. I don’t know exactly what to say but I’m here if you need me.”

The Farsh-nuke turned from the tv. “Who even are you?”

“Robert Gordon Banks, the, umm, new god...” said the man awkwardly.

“Oh...” said the Farsh-nuke, feeling his heart sink.

Robert approached. “Look, I could use you out there. I’m new to all this, you’ve been there, you know the score.”

“I can’t go back out into the field...” said the Farsh-nuke, a tremor in his voice. “I failed and I am still trying to live with the price of that failure.”

Robert nodded. “I understand but the offer is there...” Robert turned and made to leave as a woman entered.

She was like the vision. Tall, pale, slender and with long flame red hair. Her beauty only accentuated by the green dress she was wearing. She greeted the brunette who let her in like someone greeting an excitable dog.

“Lets go.” said Robert quietly. “He doesn’t want us here.”

“But I just got the ship hooked up to the plumbing...” said Amy, a note of annoyance in her voice as she let the brunette scamper off back to her position on the floor.

Robert shrugged. “I did ask.”

“You’re plumbed in?” asked the Farsh-nuke. “You wanted to stay?”

Robert floundered.

“Well, yeah we were thinking of it...” said Amy, shooting an uncertain glance at Robert as she approached the Farsh-nuke, then she noticed the blondes curled up on the sofa beside the Farsh-nuke and ran forward to pet them. “Just for a few days so we could pick your brain for a bit, nothing major, and we’ve got our own ship so we wouldn’t get in the way.”

Now that Amy was this close the Farsh-nuke could notice the collar round her neck. “Wait, you’re a pet?”

“Oh yeah, I’m Robert’s-” said Amy cheerfully then she looked down at Lisa as she scratched the blonde behind the ear and dropped into a soft croon. “I’m just like you, aren’t I girl? All sweet, soft and obedient...”

Lisa blushed then leaned back, looked up at Amy and blew a kiss.

Amy blew a kiss back. “Of course I’m nowhere near as cute as you am I, little one?” She shot a glance at the Farsh-nuke. “Mind if I pick her up?”

The Farsh-nuke shrugged.

Amy scooped Lisa up in her arms then went to sit down in her spot on the sofa, as she massaged the young woman. “But yeah, I’m his payment for the whole immortal responsibility to fight monsters thing.”

“You’ve got quite a way with sylphs yourself...” said the Farsh-nuke.

Amy chuckled cheerfully. “Oh I was quite the predator back in the day, I was only tamed by the SLF for Robert.”

Amy noticed the Farsh-nuke staring and she grinned. “Oh don’t worry, I consented, and I very much enjoy letting someone else take charge now. I’ll spare you the details but me and Robert have a lot of fun.”

The Farsh-nuke looked away sharply and stroked the blonde that was still snuggled up with him.

“Ah... You’re feeling jealous.” said Amy with a smirk.

“It’s nothing.” said the Farsh-nuke quietly.

“Rob!” called Amy cheerfully. “How are you with the Farsh-nuke sylph sitting me occasionally!?”

Robert approached the sofa nervously. “You do what you want, honey, but I certainly have no issue with that.”

Amy looked to the Farsh-nuke. “So, what do you reckon? Feel like coming with us, out on the fringes of the Freedom Collective? I haven’t had a good hunt in years and I’d love to go on one with the great Farsh-nuke.”

“I can’t be involved in combat.” said the Farsh-nuke, an edge to his voice.

“You wouldn’t have to be.” said Amy, still petting the blonde woman on her lap. “Me and Rob can handle that bit. It’s your mind and experience we want, not your ability to fight.”

“Besides...” said Robert. “You’re too valuable an information resource to risk out on the field.”

“And you’d get me...” said Amy with a wink.

“I’d need to continue my therapy and routine.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“We can make accommodations for that.” said Robert earnestly.

“So what do you say?” asked Amy, looking right at him.

“I can’t just drop everything.” said the Farsh-nuke uncertainly. “Things need to be arranged.

“Why do you think I plumbed us in?” said Amy with a smirk.

The Farsh-nuke looked at Amy and the look of beautific serentity on Lisa’s face as she was pet by the ginger huntress. Cogs were turning in his mind like the gears of some great and ancient machine

“There is an ancient phrase...” said the voice quietly. “It is a phrase of great meaning and power and has been passed down through the generations for aeons...”

“Fuck it.” said the Farsh-nuke gleefully. “Why not?”

“I’ll just go get the stuff.” said Robert cheerfully, leaving the house.

“You know it’s funny...” said Amy quietly. “When you first laid eyes on me it was like there was a spark of recognition and familiarity there. What aren’t you telling me?”

The Farsh-nuke smiled. “You won’t believe me but the thought of you helped me find the strength to escape from that hell back there.”

“Well I’m glad.” said Amy as she looked back at the old god. “The multiverse is better with the Farsh-nuke in it.”









   

Friday, 8 December 2017

8 10 17

8 10 17

by
Alexander Gordon Jahans


My anger is gone. The world is fucked in so many ways and so am I  but I don’t feel angry anymore. This is life now.

I exist social security payment to social security payment, my life tenuous and almost deliberately so lest the loss of anything actually valuable devastate me beyond this fragile point of relative peace.

I am changing, grappling with demons that have haunted me all my life but I now no longer have the excuse to run away from.

I know myself now, what I’ve been, or at least I’m starting too and gone is the absurd rationalist self confidence and the melodramatic passive aggressive self loathing. I know what I am and I know what I’ve done and I know the flaws I am likely always going to have.

In my writing I’m seeing flaws and I’m editing like I didn’t before, learning to sift gold or at least copper from the shit. It’s not much but it’s a start. My mind keeps drafting and redrafting the Farsh-nuke and his wrath as I exorcise the demon of that guilt.

Nobody cares that I fucked up, not when it comes to seeing it in my art. Nothing will be gained by exposing that pain in the fiction and I have the excuse to not indulge that masochism on my part. The Farsh-nukes in this story collection are a robot duplicate who missed all that bullshit and a new incarnation in a different universe outside of the old continuity’s multiverse who never experienced any of the old continuity.

Yet I get to keep Lisa and the Contravoxai, the Green Eyed Nothing series, the Omega AGI and all the other things I like about the old continuity. I made it work and I love the world I’ve made in this new continuity but I’m still wrestling with how the Farsh-nuke would deal psychologically with the baggage of the old continuity because it feels important to the legacy of that continuity.

Here’s the thing. I could just have it be a straight up mental break as the Farsh-nuke wants to destroys the nazis who are torturing him in another reality. It really could just be that simple as a scarred veteran returning to finish a war except it’s a war that was never started in this reality.

Except at the back of my skull is the idea that maybe it should be transgender people who stop the Farsh-nuke in the end. That they deserve to defeat him. There’s a lot of reasons I shouldn’t do this and I may go into some of them later but the reason it keeps nagging at me is that it feels right. That an oppressed minority taking a stand and saying no more should be what breaks the rampage of the great white monster. There’s something poetic and ‘just’ about that.

One of the biggest problems with that of course is that I am a cis gendered white guy who offended some trans people and this would be me effectively claiming their voice for the character development of a cis gendered white male who did something people were offended by in a different continuity.

Which is why that storm keeps going round and round in my head and why I am in no rush to finish the second story of the collection despite it being 70,000 words long and barely beginning act two.

This is the rough story plan of the second as yet untitled collection:

Story One - Love Hurst - Introducing the new fantasy world and the new characters Amy Hurst, Alison Benchley, Claudia Blase and Viorum Kaztif-tan as well as the rest of the pantheon.

Story Two - BDSM And The Art Of War - An excursion into scifi that brings in the old continuity (chiefly, Omega, Lisa and Logicular Replication) but mostly serves to keep the return of the Farsh-nuke simmering along.

Story Three - Black Lives Matter - A World War Z style collection of stories about racism in a world of dragons, elves and weresharks. I’m kind of nervous about writing this one because I’m whiter than writer but I hope the fantasy twists will allow me to avoid being insensitive while displaying the hardships that exist in this different world as well as giving me a reason to introduce black characters and develop them properly without angsting about plot making things awkward.

Story Four - The Bechdel Turing Test - Working title but basically this would amalgam Viorum and Claudia’s stories from the original aborted drafts to find an Earth Developed AGI and witness my scifi take on Wonder Woman into a lengthy Hobbit style travelogue that fleshes out the world.

Story Five - Blood Fugue - The Farsh-nuke is back! Sort of. A young man is turned into a vampire by his girlfriend, the process involving a soul from hell being summoned to replace his own. The act frees the Farsh-nuke from his bindings in hell but the will of the host’s soul is so strong he takes the Farsh-nuke’s abilities but remains in his own body. While the soul of the Farsh-nuke wages a war in hell against Spring-Heeled Jack his powers enable the host to get involved in a devastating conflict that has been going on for thousands of years between vampires and Weresharks.

Story Six - Cis White Male - Robert Gordon Banks is an old selfish douchebag who works in the marketing business but when he learns of a conspiracy within the Kilport Media Empire to protect people who abuse and assault the vulnerable he is stirred to bring down the powerful villains and place himself between them and the frightened witnesses who could give voice to the suffering of so many victims.

Story Seven - Genesis of the Sylphs - With the help of a man calling himself a humble gardener the Farsh-nuke is able to travel back in time to the dreadful events that created the albino sylph squirrels in the first place but all is not as it seems.

Story Eight - The Shrinkening Take Two - Robert Gordon Banks is on a date with a particularly attractive young journalist and Amy is enjoying some rare time off from being an agent of the gods when an old enemy of the Gardener’s decides to wreak havoc with a shrink ray. As the young and the beautiful start shrinking left and right Amy and Robert’s paths collide with the Gardener as they hunt down the old enemy.

Story Nine - Becoming - Amy has decided that Robert is the god killer they need to fight the Farsh-nuke and her master’s agree. While Robert wrestles with the mantle of responsibility he has been given and Amy frets about how her life will change they each find themselves undergoing transformations that will make them into weapons fit to take down the Farsh-nuke. Which is good because having reunited with his host body and his powers the Farsh-nuke is being plagued by nightmares of a man called Adam Godwinson and world lit up by nuclear hell fire.

Story Ten - And The Beast From The Sea - In the original continuity Adam Godwinson has noticed how his favourite torture toy has been having moments of amnesia and relative calm and strength which can only mean one thing - there is another Farsh-nuke in the multiverse. Adam rushes to neutralise the threat of this new Farsh-nuke by possessing that universes Adam Godwinson and going after what he perceives as the Farsh-nuke’s weakest spot. Nazis never were smart about not provoking retaliation. As the Farsh-nuke brings a hurricane of weresharks to bare upon the home of Adam Godwinson and Richard Raspberry, the heroes are called up to mount a defence of the citizens of the land of liberty, justice and capitalism.

Slowly I am getting there. Glacially slowly but I am. And as I am writing I am reading. Yes, I am reading my share of smut (which is arguably helping my fiction) but I am also beginning to work my way through the Eighth Doctor Adventures and I feel good. This feels like healing. I don’t know how long it’s going to take. I don’t know if I’ll even ever finish it but it feels good to have a project to work on that matters and that I am happy about, more or less.

Sunday, 3 December 2017

Acceptance

Acceptance

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


We live in a time of monsters and great darkness but also a time of heroes and great hope. Part of me feels like I should shut myself away from the world entirely aside from retweets, reblogs and reshares. Be a node signal boosting the truth, not arrogant enough to speak myself.

The thing is that yes, I am a man who fucked up, whose fucking up hurt or offended those less privileged than myself, I can justify and reason and weasel but that will never not be so. I am on my own path to redemption and yeah it’s fucking arrogant to suggest that those less privileged, with their own problems, invest their emotional labour in me. So don’t. If you are stressed, tired, frustrated, if don’t give a fuck or would rather not waste your fucks then don’t. Go your own way, do what you have to do, I don’t need you hurting yourself on my account.

I am not coming here for therapy. I don’t need witnesses, I don’t need commenters and I don’t need approval. This is me letting people know what’s going on if they care.

I have not been in a good place for a while, indeed looking back it feels odd to say that I was ever in a good place because there was always this volcano bubbling under the surface. I haven’t been able to think clearly for a long time and I’m still not. It’s why I’m not talking to my friends, why I’m pushing my family away, why I can’t even begin to think about work or volunteering as my strength returns. I have retreated to my cocoon and I am still cooking.

I was a fucking weirdo, not dangerous, just damned strange because it just didn’t fucking occur to me that there was anything wrong with this stuff. I didn’t know back then the way this small stuff seemed like the smoke from trash fires and part of why the last three years has been so terrible is being forced to realize all the little tiny moments that could so easily have meant something else. I don’t know if it’s Autism or Kallman’s Syndrome or poor raising or just extreme stupidity in certain areas or what but looking back at my life I just fucking cringe.

Then again in primary school I carried a dead rat around in my pocket and in secondary school I opened doors with my head. Reasons talk of my time in school is verboten and I try not to think of it. Perhaps the fact that I think of actions just a couple of years ago with the same disgust and self hatred is a positive. I am progressing towards a less stupid and more self aware individual. And it only took getting stalked by nazis and hurting vulnerable people I cared about to do so... Yeah, it wasn’t worth it, not in the slightest, but it happened and I can’t change that.

I am picking up the pieces, slowly putting myself together again as someone newer. What I am realising however is that I will always be a work in progress, I will always look back at who I used to be and consider myself a tit.

I think what finally did it however was getting this kindle and reading the story whose blurb inspired me to write the story I am now. I mean the story I am writing is a very very different story since mine is a scifi kitchen sink story of feminist revolution against a fascist regime, where what I am now reading is fetish porn. I am definitely finding my literary critique senses tickling against aspects even as the majority of my attention is directed elsewhere but that’s okay. Not everything can be everything. What gets me is that the porn is good, descriptive but not overly so, pacey and lingering in just the right moments with the perfect balance of characterisation in those moments.

The one thing I have been able to console myself with was that at least I was writing a unique take on fetish scifi, and that’s arguably still true, but at this point I am forced to concede that indeed in every way what I want to see from fiction already exists and better written than I could manage. Never mind there being nothing new under the sun, at this point all that is needed is for someone to put together a team of writers, actors, directors and special effects artists for my ultimate perfect idea of fiction to be created. But then there’s 7 billion people on the planet and there have been a lot of people for a long time so that was probably always so.

I want to justify myself. I want someone to say it was worth it, that I matter, that I will make a difference, that struggling is important. It’s not. It just isn’t. And I know when I say that that the emotional reaction interprets it as a cry for help and wants to comfort but I’m a utilitarian who certainly believes that there is no such thing as an afterlife. I am not a vital cog in the machine. I matter to some people, to my mother and my friends and to others who gain some comfort just from the knowledge that I’m still around but my impact and importance is not actually that great.

I am not some terrible monster and I am not some great saint. I am an idiot who wrote some shite fiction, pissed off some people and plods along, getting by on fetishes, letsplays and going for walk. No one’s going to remember me, except maybe the dregs of the chans as an obscure inside joke about the potato faced lapsed vegetarian who wrote cannibal torture porn.

I used to think I mattered, used to think my opinion mattered, but I’m just a cog in the machine of society and currently I’m not even a machine in the economy beyond helping to keep Amazon and Sainsburys ticking along in the tiniest of ways with my purchases.

The thing is, the thing nobody who keeps screaming in my face realises, is that of course I’m going to get back up off the mat, of course I’m going to try and get a job again. I am a capitalist. I like buying things. I like earning money. I like having money. I like having cash.

Poverty has made me frugal and anti-capitalist because when you’re worried whether you’ll have money to last the rest of the month, every month, then you stop caring what the ads say. They could be offering cloned immortal submissive Amy Pond clones and I wouldn’t have the ability to care. I mean it’s going to take me years of hard saving to get a video card upgrade for my computer and that’s if I don’t get kicked off Universal Credit first and that’s me being coldly pragmatic.

So yeah, if the people threatening to kill me or torture me or whatever the fuck could just stop fucking screaming and let me get my strength back, of course I’ll try to get back in the job market, if only for something to fucking do. It’s like skyrim, sooner or later you have to get back to the main quest because you’re bored off your tits fannying about. Except in real life the main quest comes with this amazing perk called money. Or at least it used to, the latest Trump and Brexit patches have really nerfed the money perks awarded in the main quest line of life and the climate change dlc was a really stupid purchase but there we go.

I am a moron and and I have fucked up greatly but fuck it I’m still alive, I’m trying to be less of a shit and if I can, when my strength returns, I’ll try to get a job.

Sunday, 26 November 2017

Feeling Better

Feeling Better

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


So things were crazy and then they weren’t but I was too damaged to do anything. I still see the storm and I am not in a rush to venture back out into it but slowly I am learning to be human again, to be me again, whoever I happen to actually be right now.

I am giving up the diet coke. Not over night but slowly and it feels good. It feels right and true.

I am continuing with my writing and I am handling the grief more properly this time, more subtly, more distanced, more tastefully. The original continuity, the bits that aren’t complete vile crap, are being bought back in. The fear is gone and instead the writing continues. I am not and never shall be a writer with the depth and nuance that critics I admire would love. I am pulpy and schlocky and kinda fetishistic. Fucking foot fetishes are tame as far as I’m concerned.

Perhaps the most profound change though is that I got my hair cut today. I don’t have social anxiety around strangers in the same way as I used to. I know that I have survived obsessed sadistic monsters, that I have survived people wielding power drive mad by chemical imbalances, and I’m not getting misgendered anymore.

Probably more crucially though is something rather different. My mind loves to torture me, sharks were the first way but it has accrued monsters. I know, I can predict, how sadists will try to target me, because my own mind tries to target me and every now and again I wake up in a cold sweat because my mind has stumbled upon some fresh horror. Particularly recently, riddled with self doubt and a loss of identity when the old one finally gave up the ghost, my brain has sought fit conjure up terror after terror. The horror being caused by the doubt the nightmares. Is this chos of imagery me? No. I know who I am, or at least I know what I’m not.

I trust myself. That’s big. 

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Listen to women on this one

https://longreads.com/2017/11/07/the-unforgiving-minute/

Go read that article by Laurie Penny. Seriously do it. Now.

I haven't spoken much during this time about the shit storm of men being outed as monsters that is going down. Largely because I'm still grieving with my own considerably smaller but still terrible sins. Kind of hard to offer a perspective as a male feminist on what it means when society wakes up to the monsters walking among them when your perspective is essentially one as a monster yourself, albeit a monster whose crimes lie in the domain of fiction not horrific reality. So I've been quiet and listening because I know this isn't my place to speak.

At the same time however there maybe those who are interest what a cisgendered middle class white English male who has been outed as a transphobic misogynist has to say on the subject of cisgendered white male monsters being outed. It is with some considerable relief therefore to come across a woman who perhaps expresses my perspective far better than I ever could.

It sucks. It's scary. The world has changed. Can we forgive ourselves for the sins of our pasts? I may have never groped anyone myself but I can feel in my responses to the articles and allegations a kind of toxic barometer to my own potential darkness as I find myself feeling defensive. Almost unthinkingly categorising the horrors done to women in head going "Well this guy, he only grabbed woman's butts, he's not so bad but this guy -"

It sucks and it's scary and it's not fair but it's not supposed to be. The bastille has been stormed, the terror approaches and frankly not a moment too soon. There should have been another way. We should have been better. We should have solved it among ourselves. We should have reformed male culture and male entitlement before events forced it to be burned to the ground. Instead we let a fascist who boasted about sexually assaulting women control the largest military on the planet. We deserve to fucking burn. We deserve the pitchforks and the guillotines and the shot gun retirement plan. We deserve every piece of negativity we get and we deserve a lot more besides. We are complicit in a cultural machine that oppresses all genders. It is right and proper that we burn and suffer. Forgiveness can come when the forest has been cleared of dead wood and toxic weeds. Forgiveness can come when the world is a better place.

I will say one last thing, beyond that Laurie Penny is one hundred percent right in this article from my limited perspective. This line from her article stood out to me "Sex is not the problem, but for some people sexism itself has become eroticized, and that, yes, is a problem."

If there is one thing I am utterly and completely guilty of, one problem that I am trying to wrestle with my fiction, and one reason among many that I have withdrawn from, the world it is this. Laura Mulvey quoted Freud's observation that man fetishizes women because he is afraid of what she represents.  That is a sin I fear I am very much guilty of as a former anti-feminist. My sexual proclivities have never overtly impeded how I treat people, though my honesty has made me damn weird at times I fear but in my writing this is an issue I struggle with constantly. Torn between the need for fetishistic escapism from a world gone mad and a duty to write women well, or at least better.

Now is not the time for forgiveness. Now is the time for vengeance against a world that would not let women be and we deserve it. Even if we were the nice guys who did nothing wrong, we did not do enough right.

Saturday, 18 November 2017

Dear 2016 Me

Dear 2016 Me

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Why do we fall?
So we might learn to pick ourselves up again.
The Christopher Nolan Batman Films

(I started with a pretentious quote, sorry)

Brexit, Trump and another coup against Jeremy Corbyn. The nazis are sending packages to your door and scaring your family to the point where police are regularly popping round. And you’re still dealing with Kallman’s Sydrome, Growth Hormone Deficiency, Dad being a monstrous cock and the guilt of that fanfic. And oh yeah, banging your head against the brick wall of universal credit.

I wish I could say things get easier. They don’t. Putin’s started killing gay people in Chechnya. Your sister has revealed herself as not only emmigrating to as different country but also a staunch defender of your father. Illnesses plague the family and you gain another medical diagnosis, which thanks to NHS underfunding may actually get treated by the time the conservatives are no longer in power. And oh yeah the conservatives are still in power, despite another election, propped up by bribing terrorists and the news cycle is now all Trump being a stupid git, all the time. Except when caring about sexual assault becomes news, then most of the (1% owned) media curiously has amnesia about Trump saying he grabs women by the pussy.

So yeah, things don’t get easier. The world is fucked and it is only getting more fucked because as money concentrates in the hands of fewer and fewer people there is less that can actually be done to help or change anything. After all America now runs the world and America is a place where bribing Senators is free speech but a sports person kneeling during the pledge of allegiance is a disgrace that must be silence.

So why am I writing this? Because you get better.

It really doesn’t feel like it. I feel like I am a house built on the edge of a cliff where the ground is eroding away beneath me. I’ve deleted my youtube videos, changed my name online and rebooted the continuity of my fiction. I have run and run and I am so tired and in so much pain and now when I feel the clusterfucks of drama bombs landing I am ready for death. Except the end has not come and I don’t honestly think it will.

I think my father, the government and that prick who thinks I wrote Adam Godwinson about him will keep screaming in my face. I think that when people are desperate they will rage at me that I should try harder, push harder, care more. I think I have passed the point of caring what these morons think. Ohj I know they’ll keep trying to destroy me and my family. Father threatened my mother that he would reduce the share of the money she got from the house if she didn’t do more work round the house. A gamer spotting an obvious weakness and attacking it with all the subtlety of a dalek.

I think things aren’t going to get easier, I think the anxiety this cruel sadistic world exhibits upon those I still care about will keep creating drama until the day I die but I know now that I can take it. It’ll hurt like hell and I might have to be cold as fuck and cut vulnerable people off while I heal but I will survive. At least until the filthy cockteases finally pull the damned triggers on those guns they keep threatening me with.

You see three years ago - Or is it four? - I started playing video games because leaving university gave me the time and dreams of being a letsplayer gave me the motive. I don’t play games a lot, not nearly as much as people would expect, but I favour the same games and I play them over and over and over and I keep getting better.

Why does that matter? Because it’s a microcosm of what’s happenning to me in reality. I’m getting better at dealing with trolls, getting better at living among feminists and trans people online despite my ignorance and desire to share that ignorant perspective. I’m biting my tongue, I’m listening and I am getting better as a writer. Even the descriptions and the portrayal of women.

Do I have a problem writing women? Yes. Do I have a compulsive need to write submissive women into my stories? Yeah. I do however think that I am finding ways to square the circle and at least make clear that the fetish romances are just fluff and not a statement on how I think the world should be. That I can provide representation for women that is nuanced individual and rich even if I’m writing young submissive supermodels as well because I’m a pathetic lust filled virgin.

More importantly though I am slowly starting to forgive myself for my sins in the past. For the ways I tried to give representation that fucked up immensely. It’s not been easy and I have written loads I am not proud of but I am getting better. And here’s the thing, I know now now that others I respect can see that I am better. The brash anti-feminist bragadocio has been replaced by a cautious feminist and trans ally who does not want to harm those he sides with.

I was bought to the point of tears after Nine Worlds Geek Fest because I didn’t believe the change that my friends could see. I thought I’d lied to them, manipulated them, that I had been a shark swimming among seals convinced I was not a danger and that I had been tremendously irresponsible. I used to think I was a bad man with rules but bad men do not spend years grieving in distress for the harm they unwittingly caused. I just couldn’t see what those around me could. I couldn’t see the danger and I couldn’t see how I had changed.

I have changed and I am still changing. I don’t know what I’m changing into but I don’t think I’m becoming Gordon Gecko. That’s not where I am putting my skill points. I am a kinky autistic writer with an interest in scifi and fantasy and yeah I’m going through a lot right now. I’m still riding out delayed puberty, I’m dealing with medical condition after medication and at some point my father is either actually going to die or allow the house to be sold (that’s not a threat by the way, he’s just a very old man).

At some point the house will be sold, my hormones will have settled down, I’ll have all the appropriate medications sorted and have at least one book out. Beyond that I don’t know but I am getting better.

Friday, 10 November 2017

My Sympathies

My Sympathies


So I’m writing and it’s quite an odd time for me because I feel like someone who suffered a many sided beat down over the course of three years and is only just now getting to his feet, and as I get to my feet I am stunned.

You see I am a defensive person by nature. You get bullied by almost an entire school, you’re going to be defensive. Defensive cis white men are not always the nicest of people. My defensiveness is why I was anti-feminist. I still feel a twinge of that same defensiveness when people complain about #notallmen because I know that feminists are just as defensive. But that’s bickering over semantics in the middle of a war, of a genocide, it’s not just, stupid and impolite, it’s cruel. Except nobody explained that to me at the time and I had to learn it for myself and it was not an easy or casualty free path.

Over the last three years I have been harrassed and stalked, I have seen that even when nazis are specifically targetting a white man it is the women around that white man who disproportionately take the most attacks. And yeah I had the victim blaming and now I’ve deleted every video I have under scorched earth tactics and still the fucks come for me and DEAR GOD, DON’T YOU FUCKERS HAVE PORN YOU COULD BE WATCHING INSTEAD OF BOTHERING ME

At the same time though I have been left reeling from people who felt victimised by my fiction and had other complaints that I still don’t know the full extent of because I am too fucking thick. I have spent years trying to write myself back to a place where I could move past those events and it took starting afresh in a new continuity with a new universe and a different species to feel able to write without feeling like I had this anchor dragging me down.

So I look at the world and its like giving a shit about predatory men is the new craze and I’m just kind of dumbfounded.

My opinion is worth shit. Believe women. Believe child stars. Believe that powerful men are arseholes.

At the same time however it is impossible to ignore that this feels fucking huge because I am a man with a serious competency bias. I know it is stupid and devoid of morality but when I read about Thatcher’s triumph of capitalism over the workers at the battle of Orgreave I feel like I should cheer for the competency involved and even when it comes to Trump - A man who is comically evil, though that’s an insult to comics. A man whose supporters have been directly harassing and destroying my life and those of people I care about for years. - I hate him a lot because of how incompetent he is.

For this reason I have a serious hard-on for the patriarchy. I mean yes I am a man with a tiny dick who got bullied a lot as a child and I have a fetish for submissive women but mostly it’s the competency because morality trumps all things except competency in my head seemingly.

The patriarchy is a perfectly evolved and incentivised machine of living unconsciously participating components. I am a rationalist and I look at things from an ideal perspective so I believe in innocent until proven guilty, I believe that revenge is wrong and I believe that fiction is fiction and while fiction can be reviewed, criticised, analysed and discussed, it should not be censored. Except the people who want to censor fiction are right that fiction is part of how the machine works.

We have seen study after study saying that violence in the media does not influence reality but if the media did not influence people to do things advertising would not exist. Hell I am damned certain that the reason I am fixated on this platonic ideal of the pretty skinny white young blonde woman is that the media I grew up with was trying to sell things I liked using actresses who fit that mould and I got sold on the wrong product. If you sell fast cars, nice lager, cool deodorant and nice computers with pretty girls you are going to sell people who like fast cars, nice lager, cool deodorant and nice computers on those pretty girls.

Why I am excited right now is that the craze for caring about accusations of sexual assault feels like an alcoholic wondering if maybe they have a problem. I mean you know that fucker isn’t going to stop drinking any time soon but it is a damned good sign.

I think Dan Carlin said sometime time again, in reference to Bush and Obama, that we are reaching a point where the electorate has long time memory, where the culture remembers the lies and the flip flops and contradictions. The age of coveilance and crowd sourcing is upon us and we are starting to remember and see through the bullshit.

This isn’t utopia yet. This is a culture of multiple generations waking up as one and piecing things together. And yes, we disagree and yes, that is new and we need to learn to discuss our differences with a view to exploring opposing ideas not debating with a view to victory but learning skills begins with fuckups.

So I am keeping my mouth shout and my eyes and ears open as I learn from those with perspectives that aren’t my own but I am championing them on, even if my defensiveness makes me feel like I should maybe be worried myself because I write pulp scifi stories about submissive women that have already made good people upset.

The writing does continue though and I can confirm that the first story has actually been finished so this is not just empty promises.

Although under the circumstances that feels worryingly like a threat. The Patariarchy is a perfect self replicating machine using media to brainwash people into perpetuating the machine but don't worry women I am right behind you. With my 47,000 word love story about a magical cannibalistic university lectuerer falling in love with her young student. Oh and the second story involves a feminist student of that cannibal being abducted by aliens in the 90s to serve as a sex toy to alien fascists... Okay... Maybe I am just a little bit actually evil. 

Tuesday, 7 November 2017

Entropy nsfw

Entropy

Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


My glasses snapped. The lens fell clattering to the ground then I had to tape them together, with tape over the lens like smears of jizz.

Today I decided to buy myself a kfc bargain bucket because I had to go into the town for Universal Credit, I was shy 18 pence so downgraded from a large meal but they kindly gave me the large diet coke since they’d already made it up. I then put the pepsi in the paper takeaway kfc bag and proceeded to fiddle with my tablet and bluetooth headphones because they had inexplicably decided to disconnect and have trouble reconnecting. The bottom fell out of the kfc bag as I walked back through town the large diet coke wasted on the floor, my chips and chicken only narrowly salvageable.

I don’t care. I want to. I think I should. I recognise rationally that I should be fucking pissed that I am stuck with permajizzed lenses because specsavers are arseholes. I recognise that I probably got minimum wage workers in trouble because I am a zombified moron and my rare kfc treat fell on the floor. I recognise that these are bad things. I just don’t fucking care.

I miss the fire. I miss the storm that powered me. I miss the flickers of. “And so we shall shoot all the keyboards of all the trolls because how dare they.”

I actually corrected a nazi troll the other day before I blocked them. I have no powder left to to spare for even the genocidally provocative. I just pointed out that I am actually a man in case some conspiracy theory or joke had got out of hand. I don’t care if people think of me as medusa’s secret cancerous left testical, I saw an opportunity to correct an obvious error that surely that could not be disagreed with on political grounds, so I took it.

I am reminded of a line from Farscape. “How can you not be angry? How can you not be insanely angry?” I should point out that nobody has actually cut off one of my arms. Though my father’s jakyll and hyde habits are now becoming positively trollish in their overt and obvious button pushing. Buy a dishwasher, buy a roomba, these are things that can be done, machines that can be understood and operated efficiently.

I’m not even scared by nazis or universal credit anymore. I feel like for three years they’ve been threatening that they’ll destroy me if I don’t do as they say and I remain undestroyed. This isn’t suicide by fascist though, it’s just that after three years “but thou must” loses a lot of its impact. Either kill me or stop wasting my time.

I have new shoes and my feet ache right now. I haven’t slept properly in days for all kinds of reasons. I don’t care.

I finished the first story of my new continuity and I am happy with it. Happy that in so many ways it is what I wanted and needed it to be. And I am working on the second story of this collection and while there is one scene at the begging I am doubtful of I am pleased with the progress and value of this story. It is hard writing these stories, my creativity is being pushed, but I am happy.

There is the slight issue that caring about misogyny is the new craze and my first story features a predatory university professor seducing and then eating her students  while my second features a young submissive woman getting abuducted by aliens and becoming their sexpet. Like yes, I am a cis white male who writes stories about pretty white girls falling in love, submitting sexually and being hurt. At this point I’ve actually given up trying to stop even. Preferring to slip in better representation on top of the blatant misogyny porn.

I just don’t care. I don’t have the energy to care. Except this is late capitalism, half my family has anxiety and half my family is actually dying. Caring is something I am expected to do. Caring is something that actually causes me anxiety from the passive awareness of. The internet is dying because we aren’t watching ads anymore. The economy is dying because we aren’t buying anymore. People are dying because we aren’t showing up to vote and aren’t putting pressure on our governers.

And at the same time there are people on tumblr legitimately angry that the male villain might have a romantic scene or two with the female hero. It encourages abuse apparently.  I miss the age when the censors were the bad guys. I mean I legit don’t fucking care if the feminists come for me now. I’d probably deserve it. I just find it fucked up that people are angry over whether fictional characters do or do not have a relationship.

Trump boasted about grabbing women “by the pussy” BEFORE he got elected and that was only a year or two ago. There are people in real life talking about how they think black people are scientifically inferior and white people are somehow superior but also need to be protected. There are real people talking about how women deserve to be raped, black people deserve to be shot and people with different religious views should be mass killed. They march openly in pride of these views. And we’re angry that a couple of fictional characters might get into a relationship.

I mean obviously I know that the vast majority of people who care about the fiction will probably also care about the reality. I want to believe that Amy Pond secrretly becomes an immortal time travelling submissive who ends up with everyone but I also want Trump’s downfall to be slow, public, messy and pathetically staining to any ideas he supported.  You can care about fiction and reality but we are still talking about a franchise with planet destroying weapons and slavery where a redemptive het couple is being seen as the ultimate evil.

That’s three paragraphs on one topic. That might indicate I care or it might indicate that the diet coke has finally kicked in. You decide. *dramatic sting music*

I will incidentally voice however that one of the reasons I like to believe in redemptive arcs is that if there is any hope for me I need to believe in redemption. I suppose that’s ultimately why I’ve stopped caring for success at capitalism, my bootstraps are busy being employed in the climb back up the slippery slope from the abyss.

I was so angry and I was so hurt and so afraid. That prick calling himself Adam Godwinson in the emails thought Adam Godwinson was the big bad. He was more like the sprinking of chocolate atop a Starbucks coffee, except the coffee in this case was this cisman’s burden being explored. More than 200,000 words on “trans people were mean it me and I don’t like it”. I think nuking the continuity was caused by the realization that if I was so insanely butt hurt they probably had a point and I was legitimately a dangerous person for trans people to be around online.

I’m not a nice guy. I’m not a good guy. I don’t think I deserve death but I also think that becoming less of a problematic arsehole will take my whole life.

I am I think a better writer and a better person for having written those 200,000 words and underwent that process but what I am learning is thast I justy need to be left to write and listen to podcasts.

There is this idea that neurotypical people have which says that everyone should be like them. Neurotypical people like going outside, neurotypical people like talking to people, neurotypical people are helped by exposure to more people. They think that if you are autistic you will be better off if you are like them. I was brainwashed by this mindset. I feared becoming the autistic shut in.

Here’s the thing though. People are insanely boring. Pot calling the kettle black I know but it’s still true. The outside is boring. People are boring and difficult. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about navigating the sensitivities of neurotypical morons. I have a different brain. I like different things. That is okay.

Because yes I am tired and in pain and stressed by morons who want me to care so much about stuff that does not matter but when all is said and done and I am left to chill by myself - writing, watching letsplays, listening to podcasts, playing videogames, going for walks - I am happy. It’s when people demand attention that I am not.

Which is ultimately why I prefer text based communication via slow mediums like email. Nobody is going to angst that you read their email but haven’t replied yet. The phone won’t ring. The answer phone won’t bleep annoyingly about a new message, you can skim past bits that bore you. Email is just better. Gmail may be centralised to the point of self sabotage by google but email as a medium just works for me.

And now I think, if you will excuse me I am going to write a scene about a very pretty young woman meeting her new alien master. I’m evil and I like it and if the revolution comes I shall die happy that I wrote fiction I enjoyed writing.



Thursday, 2 November 2017

Defending Hannibal Series 3 nsfw

Defending Hannibal Series 3

NSFW

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


So I am currently finishing off the first story of the new story collection in a new continuity. This is a story that has to introduce a style and a lore that is at once pre existing but also entirely new. I need an anchor point. A way to let there be an elevator pitch of stories that can grow to ridiculous sizes and encompass grand pretentiousness, graphic gore and cheesy pulp.  I need to set up the Farsh-nuke but I also need to set up the world and a worthy audience surrogate. So this is the Discworld does Hannibal.

But what is Hannibal?

Well for my purposes Hannibal is an introduction to gore, vore and protagonist monsters through the familiar prisms of police procedural, thematic serial killers and the enigmatic charming serial killer.

My story is a love story. It is love story that is utterly hideous and immoral but it sets up the fact that well, I am a writer with a habit of writing submissive women and it is literally part of the lore that 3 out of the seven gods are in different ways predatory. The love story also allows for the most close examination of character development between characters since the story is basically a series of interactions and discussions. So if you need to introduce a world of predatory monsters and getting monsters to fight other monsters that is one clean way to do it. No angsting over “My dead family!” just the prospective partner going “Dude, quit it.”

Anyway I mention this because well... I’ve not been well. Stalked by nazis, dealing with health complications, struggling with guilt over fiction that upset people I cared about. Part of the reason I write horror, part of the reason I write vore, is that my imagination is not a nice place to inhabit when I don’t have control over it. Better to desensitise yourself and tolerate the nightmares than be scared every night. Being unemployed I have a lot of time on my hands and a lot of time to think. Media is a very merciful distraction and the Eat The Rude Podcast about the Hannibal tv series (that I had already seen and loved) provided distraction after distraction like emergency lights on a smoke filled plane guiding me through a very dark patch.

I finished listening to the Eat The Rude Podcast sometime ago but it span off from the This Is Our Design Podcast and something that kept niggling at me was the sense of criticisms left unheard that were within this Hannibal podcast that I had not listened to. So when I ran out of podcasts to binge yet again I looked up This Is Our Design and it has helped provide context and setting for not just this story but the aborted story immediately before it, the writing of which helped heal me of some mental wounds.

So this matters. This series matters. These podcasts matter. These criticisms matter.

Now yeah I confess that at the time of watching the Hannibal tv series it was already dead to me so I watched that last episode the same way I watched Farscape The Peacekeeper Wars or Serenity. Sure its a little janky, rushed and not quite in character but it almost works and its far better than the nothing we would have got to begin with.

Except I watched Hannibal as an ambiguously gay series. I mean some moments are super romantically gay and I love that but I will also defend romanticized male friendship to the death, if only because my autism keeps people at a distance from me. In my opinion every moment of that last episode can be interpreted as Will Graham realising that Jack will keep putting Will and those he cares about in danger because Hannibal is just too useful a resource.

I am totally fine with them surviving because Will Graham trying to kill Hannibal is what Hannibal wants. “Oh no, what ever shall we do Will, we are all alone on this bluff that is eroding away and when we stand back to back at the raggedy edge it will totally be dangerous and we aren’t at all likely to land in my prepared safety net, ready to use my parked boat to go eat Bedelia. Truly I am at your mercy Will, strike me down with all of your fury.”

At the same time there is one criticism which has niggled and niggled away at me tonight. The idea that Will Graham healed and therefore his and Hannibal’s relationship isn’t possible.

For the purposes of this analysis I am going to treat series 3 as series 3 and 4 combined. With series 3 being Florence/the Verger estate and Series 4 being The Great Red Dragon/ Will orchestrating Hannibal’s escape. The reason for this is that series one and two are each split into two parts. Series one, Police Procedural/Will’s Madness. Series two, Will in prison/Will baiting Hannibal from his side. Each half of the series segues naturally into the other while series endings end with a scene of set up foreshadowing. Series one ends with Will in prison accused of being the Chesapeke Ripper. Series two ends with the heroes shattered and Hannibal on the run with Bedelia.

Series three, The Florence arc segues naturally into the Verger Estate arc and Will’s redyness to say goodbye to Hannibal. It ends with Hannibal giving himself up to set up series four where the Red Dragon adaptation segues naturally (well segues anyway) into Will Graham realising he loves how he is with Hannibal in his head and wants to break him out but the conflict is continuing. The series ends with the symbolic death of the Will and Hannibal they know, ready to visit Bedelia’s for lunch. Oh and then there is the fact the two halves follow different episode naming conventions, following in the format established for series episode names established with series one and two.

Remember Hannibal’s line about if there could ever be a man so evil Will takes pleasure from killing them? Remember that the entire series began with Will’s breakdown as a result of killing a monster he had been empathising with at the time. Remember that Hannibal was there to encourage that vengeful streak. Then remember that Bedelia has also killed someone. Like Garrett Jacob Hobbes, like Able Gideon, like Randall Tier, like the firefly man, like Francis Dolarhyde, like Hannibal and yes, even like Frederick Chilton, the man who made Able Gideon think he was the Chesapeak Ripper. Everything about that scene is entirely in character and thematically set up.

The problem however is that Hannibal condensed its seasons.

You see as I mentioned at the beginning I am writing a romance story with a cannibal serial killer and I have realised that I need to end the romance with a break and restart at the first date as the Hannibal tv series did with the break between The Florence/Verger stuff and the Red Dragon stuff.

The reason is that if your love story is abusive and you want to legitimise it you at least from the perspective of the characters, there needs to be time to heal. Will Graham saw at the end of series two that Hannibal was serious about starting a family with him but there was no way in fuck that he could have gone with Hannibal. Partly because Hannibal had quite literally gut him but also because whatever connections Hannibal saw could not be seized by a healthy mind when Hannibal was still terrorizing him. 

The big criticism I saw was that Red Dragon established a healed Will Graham with a loving wife and family so why the fuck would he return to Hannibal Lecter? Because we are watching from the sides. We can see that Hannibal Lecter is almost literally the devil and the sensible reaction is to run. Because you get to live and you have a nice life anyway. Well Will Graham does.

Except that’s precisely the point. If series three had ended with Will going on the run with Hannibal it would have felt disingenuous. The point of Hannibal the tv series is that he is the villain but we find him interesting enough to choose to continue spending time with. I mean yes, it is fiction to us but the metanarrative point is there. There is noone quite like Hannibal Lecter and he is terrifying but also intriguing because of it. Hannibal Lecter is unique. 

The point of the time skip is so Will can be happy and healthy, so he can have a good wife to go home to and still decide having conversations with Hannibal Lecter and killing evil people is what he wants to do instead. It’s not a happy ending for the same reason that Life on Mars did not have a happy ending, but it is happy for the main character.

Now as for whether series 4 becomes Hannibal and Will the vigilante couple and ends with Hannibal’s rehabilitation, or more likely Will ends up dead with Hannibal back in prison to face Clarice, I don’t know. I suppose my happy life for them both if they survive is that Hannibal and Will just eat their way through all the rude killers in the world, ending the threat of nazism for good.

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

The Death Of Globalism

The Death Of Globalism

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


I can’t sleep and I am tired as fuck, which makes now the perfect time to write about weighty political topics. Particularly given I just deleted all my youtube videos so I can just sense the nazi trolls congregating about my online spaces like zombies congregating around a hold out city.

I am bored by the despair in the news, bored by the anger and the outrage and the hate. Bored by the stupidity, malice and greed fucking over the people. My general mood right now is that I am all out of fucks. We’re fucked more than the guy with a thousand dicks from Hydrogen Sonata. It’s just a case of what order the catastrophies are going to devastate us.

So I’m focusing on my fiction. After all I did just nuke everything I have ever written and there is something reassuringly overtly separate from our own reality about a world on the back of a giant fish swimming through space where elves give lectures about mythology to half dragon students. Even if I have already decided that Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal tv series basically exists as a work of fiction in this universe. If Bryan Fuller, George RR Martin and Rhianna Pratchett ever want to write The World Fish fantasy version of Hannibal I personally allow them license to pillage from my wretched fiction. Even if that is a bit like telling three great monarchs that they can eat your faeces if it it pleases them.

I used to think we needed globalism. I got the Star Trek Syndrome. We’ll have an Earth gov and then a space colonies and earth Gov then outwards and outwards until, well the Logicios and the United Civilisations of the Multiverse. Because even though England can’t please Yorkshire and London at the same time the Logicios certainly won’t have trouble with a fucking multiversal empire.

Yet games make Empires look so easy, because they are balanced to be winnable. I’ve spoken before how I feel the gamer mentality of “fire at the glowing weak spot” has encouraged trolls to be more racist, sexist, homophobic and transphobic for the simple reason that they here “Please be considerate that I am sensitive to this” as “say this now to defeat me”. I’m starting to feel like games encourage fascism for similar reasons.

Games are designed to be balanced and games are designed to be fun and it’s fiction so who cares right. But physical conflict is simply more visceral, more involved and it allows more control. Even in games with stealth or speech as an option you don’t have the same kind of involved game play. There is button masher for diplomacy, no tactical retreat and and use of terrain in a conversation. I realise we might have far worse problems if games did train people to to manipulate others in conversations. Though arguably the first game to have really enjoyable debating mechanics may greatly improve discourse online.

The point is that I despise war, I despise genocide. I condemn President Josiah Bartlett as a lying war mongering war criminal. And yet despite having won diplomatic victories in civ 5 before I basically always play a game of total conquest. It makes fascism seem possible. It gives an armchair tactician perspective where I’m convinced I am a total military badass despite sticking to cheiftain level of difficulty.

In a video game there is no weather or climate change, no global economic disaster caused by some bankers in a different country discovering a fun way to gamble debt and it getting out of hand, there are no newly created cartoons or videogames that hit it big and suddenly the economic landscape is over turned. There is no programming for the sense of the average citizen who doesn’t get involved in politics because it’s all too depressing but they have noticed hospital times getting longer, more people out of work or struggling to find work and at the same time more people in work from demographics they aren’t used to seeing. There is no programming for idiots who decide to do something terrible for a laugh and how that can snowball.

The Neoliberals won but their victory is coming to an end and as much as I want a new age of compassionate capitalism or feminist socialism I think globalism is dying. I also think that the way this age of outrage has to shake out is with the creation of safe spaces for everybody.

Now yeah nazis are bad. Genocide is a threat to the survival of the human race but dos patriotism have to be so toxic? Does misogyny, racism and homophobia have to be so toxic? Could we quietly ring fence a small country for all the bigots and say. “Here you go, enjoy, but we will squish you if you try to get forceful outside your borders.”? Probably not but we will never really kill bigotry so the question becomes if empire isn’t possible what happens then?

Well we’re seeing it already with Scotland, Catalonia and yes even Brexit. People are waking up and saying. “No, when the plane is crashing you apply your own gas mask before helping others.” The problem is that I believe Corbyn could make the bold strokes necessary to make a post-Brexit Britain even semi viable but the conservatives are allergic to the idea that anything other that pandering to the rich and fucking the poor will save them. If you are going to sever your ties with the European Economy you need to be willing to make Britain self sustaining. You need to nationalise and incentivise industry and farming again, not just finance and media.

It is interesting the note that increasingly Universal Basic Income is being talked of as viable. That is capitalists seeing the writing on the wall and screeching “If we just give everyone money maybe we can save scarcity as a system of geoverning society.” Universal Basic income is not communism, it is neofuedalism. It is the peasants who watch ads, buy things and vote so that politicians and corporate bosses can continue being the elite and better than everybody else.

Here’s what happens if we don’t get Universal Basic Income. The state stops justifying itself. The tools that governments have used to maintain control and order are coming to an end. 3d printers are undergoing development, as is VR. Renewable energy and GM crops are making it increasingly easy for poor farmers to sustain themselves. That’s not communist propaganda, that is capitalist reality. Yes the state has spies, the military and the police force but what have two decades of the war on terror taught us? That a bunch of mad men buying into horseshit online can scare the shit out of governments and people.

I like the state, I like regulation, I like police (I am white, English, cisgendered and male) but a small government can only really work when individual citizens can’t be self sufficient.

Now granted we live in an age where people still care enough about the state to respect it, when massive housing prices are leaving people desperate but still safe and relatively obedient. The danger of underfunding the police force and the military, the danger of defunding the welfare state is that people stop caring.

Now ideally I’d like to imagine a world where capitalists institute universal basic income and this can happen legally through purchasing, I’d also like to imagine a world where racists realise their arguments are nonsense.

 So the neoliberal governments retreat, a combination of an underfunded police force and examples of fascism on the rise stops people giving fucks about the law. They kick in the doors of unused buildings and start squats, then they start using farms of gm crops and set up renewable energy generation through solar panels or wind turbines. In age age of tablets and smart phones guerrilas power generation to keep connected becomes much more viable since your computer only needs charging for a few hours every day rather than constantly.

Those who don’t work the land or work to provide power will go out to raid the high streets superstores and rich houses. Looking for things to sell on the black market or simply additional tech. One advantage the young and poor will always have over the old and rich is that they will understand the new technology much better and be able to crack the tech and use it without being traced before it is too late.

Of course you’ll have the actual communes with their own premises and proper farms and power generation facilities.

And then you’ll have the new American dream of working your minimum wage until you can buy your own house and get your own farm and 3d printer.

And you’ll have the one percenters who are already off the grid.

This is not a future a want but this is a future I see as possible. If the state can’t come to its senses and remember what it’s great at then it shall suffer the worst fate any monster can have. It will be ignored to death.

Sunday, 29 October 2017

After The Screwups

After The Screwups

Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans

Give me sharks and trolls, give me nazis and physics defying kamikaze guppies, give me ghosts, zombies and Hannibal Lecter in a bad mood. Nothing is quite so terrifying in my dreams as when my subconscious decides to drop the mic.

Feminists and nazis, trans people and trolls, these things have haunted me for years but they have haunted me because there is comfort in thinking about them in processing the possibilities for victory and maximum possible good. I fucked up bad, I fucked up in every possible way a man who tries to be good can fuck up.

It is easier to be stalked by nazis because my cavemen brain can cope with fight or flight, with outthinking a foe who wants to destroy me.

The times when my brain very calmly and casually declares. “No, you were wrong and you were stupid and you scared people and you have now damaged your own chances of survival and success.” Those are the moments I am destroyed, snapped like a dried twig.

It’s easy to call out the big flashy stuffy, the dances with trolls and anger at failure to please trans people. It’s the small quiet moments when you just say the wrong thing because it isn’t occurring to you to think “Is this insensitive?”

When we talk about autism, we talk about stimming, flappy hands and eye contact. That isn’t my autism. My autism is having to consciously think how what I say and do looks to other people. It’s having to understand how someone thinks so I can even try to avoid offending them. It’s that I can get distracted or tired and stressed and say the wrong thing. It’s that people still don’t understand that I need space when my stress gets bad for this reason.

We live in a world now where saying the wrong thing can get death threats sent to your door, can lose you friendships, can lose you family members, can get you fired.

It’s easy to learn to stop doing the flashy stuff, I love spinning but I stopped that because it’s weird. The problem with passing is people don’t understand that your brain literally can’t think how to avoid offending other people like they can. I just can’t even.

My mum left a message on the answer phone asking me not to swear at her because on her way to work she’d told me something I didn’t know or care about while I was distracted and I told her to fuck off because swearing just isn’t a big deal to me.

I have been bullied my whole fucking life and my imagination has forced me to desensitise myself to horror just to avoid being terrified every time I sleep. I could write fucking essays on why the trolls are going about things entirely the wrong way and offering them tips on how to get under my skin. Nothing a troll writes about me could be worse than anything I could imagine. Normal to me is a dark and incredibly sadistically insulting thing and if we consider something normal it doesn’t occur to us that others might be shocked by it.

It is very easy to talk of the need for safe spaces and intolerance to intolerance when your fragile people can think to abide by those rules.

I still get angry at how feminists get annoyed at men for feeling the need to say “not all men” when they themselves will feel the need to react as though you had insulted all feminists ever if you criticize feminists without specifying, terfs or white feminists or whatever.

I could never belong in any fucking safe space because I am the living embodiment of a false alarm in a world where ignoring alarms can get people killed or worse. I am that kind of fucking moron who could actually get in trouble innocently if there is a crackdown against creeps just because it might not occur to me in the moment to consider how what I was doing looked to other people in the room.

Now yes, feminists and activists write out grand essays saying “Do this, do that, think about this and think about that.” I literally don’t have the intellectual capacity. Especially as the human race has this bizarre fucking idea that if you treat people like shit and put them under stress they will perform better because they have to.

I am so out of fucks right now. I do not fucking care. Do it. Pull the trigger. Kill me. Shit or get off the god damned pot. I am fed up with bullies and stalkers and fucking failed capitalists insisting to me that I have to play their game if I want to survive.

And do you know what the fucked up part is then? When I say I have reached my limit, that I don’t care anymore, that I will call their bluffs until they help me or stop fucking around and finish the job? That’s when people who claim to care about me tell me I need counselling or medication. You’re done jumping through the societal hoops necessary to be allowed to live? We can’t have that. No, no, no, go become an obedient drugged up puppet.

I get that some people are helped by medication and counselling. I get that. But what I am experiencing is a natural consequence to being an outlier in society that it is trying to sand down.

I get so fucking angry when the advice I am given is to go volunteer. When the advice the rich people give is that the poor save their money. When there is a scarcity of jobs, you want more people spending and less people working. That is how fucking capitalism works you morons. Supply and demand. Too much supply not enough demand, you lower the supply and up the demand. And I am not going to go throw my life away doing something I should be paid for.

I am done with the bullshit. I am done with the defenders of the bullshit but most of all I am done with pretending like I can integrate into society. That I can pass. Society has too many contradictory rules, it is too angry and too judgemental and I am too offensive to it. I have people I care about but they must remain at a distance because no one deserves me at my worst.

And yeah I can hear a whole fuckton of people screaming bullshit right now but your brains are different and your experiences are different so you can all fucking shove it. I’m still writing, I’m still breathing and in some ways I am still improving but I can’t deal with the stress of people and their inability to consider those who think differently.