Weaponized De-Enlightenment (for Profet)

Boom-whiz-bang! Kids of all ages, boys and girls, victims and oppressors, step right up and experience the raw, flesh-crackling power of the PKD-23,000,000: the fieriest death ray ever installed into a human forehead by government alienists! You wanna melt the faces off of your so-called friends for tittering while you talk? You wanna see the brains of cattle and other passive herbivores fall directly from their gaping assholes and onto the ground like horse placenta only to realize that it is fully cooked and ready to spread on some lightly toasted crackers? You wanna toast crackers more fully for a charred (but not too charred) taste and a corpsey mouth-feel?

Well, just step right into my sanctioned parlor and I will merely put you in a box, punch a hole in your skull right into your frontal lobe, extract the pineal gland and destroy your goddamn, bullshit, hippie imagination zone making you into a lethal assassin to whom even popes and bankers bow in supplication. Your mind can become a weapon, more than a weapon, the best weapon! Isn’t this what you’ve been yearning for ever since Chet Crockerocket kicked you in your exposed, malformed testicles in a board meeting and you were too stupid to find his family and feed them to each other? It can be yours.

The PKD 23,000,000 is available only in the back of this van for a limited time of right now or I hit you in the head with this bat and do it anyway. You see, you simply must have this installed in your skull. A witch told me and, whatever this crazy world has become, I will still always place my faith in the cards of old Maggie. You are destined. Your brain was ours when you were nothing but sperm and star dust. So go ahead. Get in the van. Your beautiful transformation awaits.


The dirge played through too few teeth, a stale, sputtering whisper of a song as they hauled off the last of them. Splashes, squirts as they hit the mud until the bodies were piled up higher than sound. Their moldering bones would be their only testament. The last men strong enough to kill and to dig graves and to squeak out a few meaningless syllables would find themselves, in the morning as the air warmed, unable to keep their skins about their skulls.

The birds overhead were silent. There was nothing to communicate. They would feast and fuck on bloated bellies until the raisin-eyed chicks chirped impatiently and unknowingly in the nests of hair and mourning rags. But no more would men walk, hear, or think that, perhaps, these new beaks were singing for them.

Alien Bre(ed)athing Card

Listen, you’re not getting off this ship without me, one way or the other. You signed up for this trip. You dotted and dangled I’s and such. And they didn’t tell you about the License to Breathe? Well, fuck you for not reading right. That’s the scam, baby. This trip might be free, but the air ain’t. At least not down on Earth. Sounded exotic, eh? All those fleshy bipeds, driving exoskeletons full of liquid fire around the crushed stone. Trees as tall as monoliths. Real nice.

Look, don’t give me this sob story shit. You aren’t welcome down  there. The air don’t care who the fuck you are. Without your LB suctioned to your flap, your bug eyes’ll explode after a few minutes. But I got you. Don’t worry, my man. I can hook you up. I happen to be a Independent Licensing Agent. I know, I know, you’ve heard to never, ever get tangle up with us, but what choice do you have? I can get air into your lungs. That’s it, that’s what its all about.

See, payment comes later. You know that. Once you establish yourself and find a host womb and such, then you can start breeding your little baby brain slugs or whatever your case is and we’ll only take 15 of the first hundred, just like it outlines in Form 584 that you filled out for your License to Impregnate. Why you looking at me that way, partner? Don’t tell me you don’t have a LI either.

Shit, you’re lucky I’m here.