Author: Dennard Dayle
Unlock with Patreon
Anyone know how to reach Lochlainn? There’s a job opening.
I’d like to make a referral.
While grieving matters, so does seizing the moment. My old rival Eric flamed out like a bald Duke Nukem, and I need a foil. Seabrook’s the third best Robert E. Lee scholar for children, and the only Nathan Bedford Forrest scholar for illiterates. He’d rock campus goose-stepping workshops. Defying the Volcel King sounds cooler than bullying a fake colonel (Col. Seabrook has an inherited title, like “Count” or “Alcoholic”). I can feud with a failed screenwriter—that’s all art school is. But slapfighting the Hitler Youth chairman impresses dates.
And Goebbels Jr. wanted Lochlainn to take his place. Probably. I only know he liked cribbing 7chan and cutting water fountain lines in half, but you can stick his name to anything this week. In fact, Chuck wanted me to enjoy a hand-delivered pecan sundae. Someone honor the late Fuhrer. He’d prefer Ample Hills, but Cold Stone works.
What has Lochlainn been up to since pitching Hollywood? Seriously, now’s not the time to nap. Yes, there are black people outside, but Lochlainn has nothing to fear. No one knows he’s alive.
Holy shit. Did he do it? Did Seabrook make Nathan the new T-800?
He didn’t! Even better.
Oh, we’ve got a real shitpile on our hands.
A confusing one! A pile of mindless nonsense. I sought Birth of a Nation 2, but I’ll live with Whiter Chicks. Any movie’s fun with a fresh sundae. Thanks, Ezra.
Lochlainn hooked up with Christopher Forbes, a veteran director of Confederate tax fraud. Highlights include two films on the Dakota War (the first has “Semicolon Revenge” in the title), at least three on General Sherman’s simple lesson, and one on Willilam Quantrell, the slave hunter contrarian nazis like more than Nathan. To stay organized, I’ll probably start with 2005’s The Battle of Aiken and then work my way through twenty years of white pride.
A Rebel Born limped out in 2019.
Forbes hasn’t learned much.
I’ll still be covering his flicks in 2035. Perhaps through another civil war, the kind of formalist gag I’d die for. A flag? A slogan? An economic model? Never. A historic punchline? I’ll defenestrate myself.
As survivors of Lochlainn’s script, we know which hate crimes to expect. First, the rough-edged, street hardened Nathan shoots two men to hide his uncle’s gambling debt.
I remembered it wrong: first a quiet, confused flyweight starts a blurry gunfight for mumbled reasons. I’m outside the master race, so I might’ve missed something. But this seems to huff shit.
The opening demands headphones. Though the visual failure’s classic, the sonic failure’s fresh. Pistols hit a sound between bubblegum and a light door. And the music’s the rumor of a soundtrack, preserved through generations of sign language. A baffling soup of failure, unless you caught Lochlainn’s music credit. Then you expected banjos, plus confidence, minus talent. Seabrook’s a multi-hyphenate failure.
That’s 1080p.
Nathan’s a heartthrob, if he’s the only teen on your plantation that survives eye contact. Ask Nathan’s future wife, who’s played as skillfully as she’s written.
Mary-Anne would sound less modern if she rode in on a stolen motorcycle, shouting “We have a city to burn.” Or, in Edgerunners, “We have a ditch to bleed out in.”
One of the better performances. See, Lochlainn’s type likes bell curves. Me too! Period dialogue fits an inverse one. Check it:
The production’s everything I wanted. Well, that’s a lie: a blockbuster would make America face itself. The production’s everything Lochlainn deserves. I hope the sequel’s in post.
Granted, making movies is hard. If Lochlainn ever does it, I’ll go easy on him.
The book painted Nathan Bedford Forrest as a chimera of folk heroes, Horatio Alger leads, and civil rights leaders.The film hews closer to mainstream history: Nathan meets Hillibilly Merlin in the woods, who says he’ll be King of Bigots if he can light the cross on the stone.
We’re in new territory.
I should clarify where I’m fucking around, and what really happened. The movie really does open with an old witch, who rebukes a stock priest by declaring the moon and stars her temple. Nathan really does meet her, and she does exposit the soil-power handed down from her family and declare that Nathan can do anything. So I’m fucking around nowhere.
Confederate alt-medicine witchcraft. Lochlainn and I will do this forever.
Odd that this seer doesn’t define “business.” Weasel language like that usually follows something unseemly. Like embezzling humans, or undeclared humans, or mourning George Lincoln Rockwell’s cover band. Though she’s not into op-eds, so I’ll give her some slack.
“Business” returns in a Prezi slide that tiptoes past Nathan’s pre-war business. Starring wordart predating Nathan.
Forrest is all grown up, from a twinky Weevil to a man-owning Beedrill. Pokemon jokes are fun! I could talk about games all day instead of digging to the bottom of Nazi Letterboxd. I chose this.
Nathan’s rants about tariffs as backwards, mutually destructive economic poison are intact, and I wonder if that’d get the “business” treatment today. Alongside wooden dialogue his servant, who has interesting casting.
And refuses to show her face. A heartwarming moment: they couldn’t make a black actress touch this. And men showed the same soli—
Balls. What’s the scorecard?
We can come back. One Ruckus can’t fill Lochlainn’s imaginary army of Grey Panthers. If we dodge more unforced errors, it’s anyone’s game.
No-no-no–
There’s always next season.
After we’ve met his unpaid best friends/honor guard, Nathan’s business remains a mystery. The word slave is lost in adaptation. To make room for witchcraft, we even lose the auction. They couldn’t find a fourth Clarence to make this work. I can’t even call them sellouts. This movie visibly cost more to commute to than to make. They’re tap-dancing for the love of the game.
As for Nathan’s glow-up: Jerry Chesser’s a Christopher Forbes regular, and the eighth worst actor I’ve seen. Keep the URL in mind. Consider the number of Tuesdays in a year. It’s a dire milestone, and Nathan Bedford Forrest deserves it. If Jerry were sandbagging, he’d be the best actor I’ve ever seen. He’s played at least two other Confederate generals, so save your hope.
He says a lot, and then gives up. Only the first half of Lochlainn’s script really makes it to the screen, before other forces take over. His inspiring relationship with his son/future corpse Willie, survives. Unlike Willy.
I am not ugly.
The 3/5 Musketeers follow Nathan into the war against their freedom. Prompting new wordart.
The War Between the States. Rolls off the tongue, twice as naturally as The War of Northern Aggression or The Military Altercation Between the Gentlemen Minding Their Own Business and the Slave-Stealing Bullies (Bullying is Always Wrong, Especially in a Stovepipe Hat). I know Lochlainn can’t quite see me as a human, but hopefully he can hear a copywriter. Find a lie as short, or shorter, than “The Civil War.”
As a fan the fan of the book, I’m pissed. We’ve skipped Nathan’s entire takedown of a Real Racist from Boston. Delirious garbage like that gave the story heart. And there’s no mind, so you need the heart.
Otherwise, you’re trapped in an endless, meaningless montage.
Battle unfolds between a midi loop and your patience. It’s mixed just loudly enough to smother immersion, but not loudly enough to cover the non-gunshots. Still, this time, the visuals manage to keep up.
Without dialogue, we can focus on the beauty of this second-string reenactment group. A hardcore group would raise the aesthetic here from modern history channel to classic History Channel, so these must be washouts in rental gear. A group with afterparty hoods splitting the budget. The kind you join after saying Forrest practiced politics the right way.
Coon squad gets a few frames, shot separately from the others, without a hint of color correction. The film is rigidly segregated, the only question’s whether it’s de jury or de fuckup.
Look, I have a little extra default interest in the First U.S.Civil War. This is a bit much. Lochlainn’s remaking Glory in blackface, and can’t afford real polish. You need something to hold my attention.
That works.
After the minstrel triathlon, the witch wanders back onscreen. The soundtrack shifts to slide guitar worthy of a fast food ad, but not quite ready for a cheap truck. One composer’s trying, and I hope it’s Lochlainn. It’d be his first talent.
The still-unnamed witch tends to the white wounded—a reenactor that almost keeps a straight face as the root doctor chants in Nothing and waggles bones over his head. Her magick undulating builds into a confused, multitracked chorus, inspiring laughter that nearly killed me. I’m a little luckier than Nathan’s prisoners, so I lived to watch an AIMS witness in a very modern shirt rise like the Undertaker.
Mama Thorn–-finally named–then gives him a boot full of plot. With his +1 Boots of White Jumping, the patient can walk. I need to reiterate: this is fresh insanity. There’s no Mountain Gruntilda bumbling around the book. Something has changed in Lochlainn’s world, and turned him into a Gardenerian Klansman. Active club members might get “So Mote It Be” tattooed next to other symbols of white interest.
Note: the faith healing above unfolds three times, I just prefer these screenshots. During the first, it’s too dark to see shit. In the sequel, the shot’s more cluttered than Lochlainn’s psyche.
Mama Thorn seems like a saving throw against the script moving like a glacier. It’d work, if she weren’t more glacier. The root doctor even rattles off canards about the Yankees dividing people, since the spirits dig chattel slavery. Who knew?
It’s her movie now. Mama Thorn doesn’t quite have the screentime of a deuteragonist, but she’s the only time you pay attention. Everything else is Nathan and The Help riding in a diverse circle, or someone praising Nathan’s circle-riding skills. Like this:
In Lochlainn’s defense, Nathan’s the father of civil rights. You can’t free yourself without chains. Before a flash of bright, fiery rage lets you close the tab, we return to warfare. Dull, numbing warfare.
It’s really an achievement. War’s all pathos, explosions, and historic consequences. There’s something for every IQ. None of it touches A Rebel Born. Forbes reduces mass carnage to Halloween cowboys clomping through the fog. The shots tell a story: we lost at least half of A Rebel Born to a lens cap. You can’t see much, and what you can see sucks. Lochlainn’s script leaned heavily on action prose, the Fourth Horsemen of Film Failure.
Luckily, Nathan’s final discourse with Mama Thorn plays us out.
Anyway, in Birth of a Nation: Endgame, the inventor of racism gets groomed by a witch. Sheev is a genre.
I cut 40% of Lochlainn’s book, and he agrees. Nathan’s business in bedsheets gets one slide of wordart:
We yadda-yadda his founding Klan leadership. The two things children and manchildren know about Nathan Beford Forrest are horses and crosses. Forbes tells us he never did much with either.
I think Mama Thorn had a point about the stars, early on. Each dot of light is a new form of failure. I could recap a billion A Rebel Born without touching the edge of the abyss. Paradise. The second I learned some doomed bastard took Lochlainn Seabrook up on his dumbshit film pitch, I felt lighter. My world filled with color. Food tasted better. And now I have twenty years of Confederate cinema.
A relapse to joy. I love this stupid life. It’s my worst marriage. A nightclub I diss all week, and then line up for first on Thursday. I’m not kicking anyone out, but I’m not crying if the worst guests leave early.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Vooster, who tried to hire etsy witches to unmake this film, but they were, unfortunately, a bit busy at the time.
Categories
Upsetting Day: Strike It Rich
Categories
Learning Day: Utterly WickedđźŚ
I’m sorry. The internet’s for conversation, and I’ve monologued. Lichdom should be relatable. So today’s interactive. You just need a few small things.
No morals. Extra bitterness. A toy store. A marker. A power drill. Paper. Decent handwriting. A spade. A jar. Red wine. Nine cents. A shovel. Ziploc bags. A lookout. A lawyer.
We can split the lawyer:
While Beatrice slacks off a bit, Beatrice and Beatrice are legit. I haven’t been to jail this year. Remember Beatrice’s motto: no face, no bribe.
Though the law gets complex, our job’s easy. I’ll translate a magick textbook into sober adult, and then we’ll both apply it. Easy, right? Just follow my lead. It’s like a wedding dance: wave your arms behind me, and it’ll look like we both practiced.
Also, we’re casting advanced hell magick.
Summer’s winding down, and Shoggoths fit a vacation mood. Archangels have opinions about necromancy, but I have opinions on deez. We’ll find a balance.
We’ll voodoo the haters later.
For advanced hell magick, we can’t trust just anyone. Pedigree matters. I bought Utterly Wicked new, in a bookstore with new shelving and an intact door. The home of great leaders’ worthless memoirs, and proof of Dorothy’s prestige. She even has comps from other wytches. For instance:
Finally, a loaded wand. And Chris is right–don’t unleash wytch vengeance unless you truly need justice or get bored. Otherwise, they might pay. They might ALL FINALLY PAY.
Utterly Wicked has community support. Notable, compared to the siloed efforts of plasma experts and God’s cheerleaders. Multiple authors deem Dorothy’s ideas safe and sane, and at least one chain bookseller. A slight appeal to authority on my part, but I wouldn’t want us to do anything stupid.
Graveyard dirt? Wytch metaphors still lose me. I only get similes, like a club comic. Denise implies bitter fucks need Utterly Wicked, so I’m in the right place. I’m a satchet of recriminations stitched together with vendettas. With Utterly Wicked we can finish off our shit lists. Here’s Volume One of mine:
Get yours ready. We’re in an advanced class: no scrambling for targets mid-dick curse. Load, aim, and chant. Civilians are just combatants you scried early.
Don’t trust me. I’m hexing four versions of myself, and they’re all casual liars. Trust Dorothy.
I’ll admit, I almost flinched away from power. It’s hard to accept that magick’s real and magick’s inconvenient rules aren’t. But I’m the youngest Dayle sibling, so this scans. Honestly, it seemed odd that so much of magick wasn’t about me.
Remedial magi might hear the ramblings of a newly single teenager. The caption beneath half a barbell curl. Fair. That tone marks a master. Emotion powers witchcraft, and no one said they had to be mature. The darkest curses of all are lobbed by unchanged infants and borderline divorcees.
That’s all I need, but some of you are on that Chuck Schumer lifetime sub shit. Try one more reverse disclaimer:
Dorothy gets wordy, I’ll summarize: bytch darklings staye hĹŤm. If she sounds bitter, check your loins. They’re cursed. We’ve found the real deal.
With the Glindas gone, Dorothy warns against using sick curses on our worthless enemies. But we should use them, unless we’re mitch-bade. But don’t. While I’m not used to that mixed messaging in spellbooks, it’s good exercise for autocratic life. Absorb these three laws
Note that this rule shifts to fit your morals. If you’re an asshole in your day-to-day life, you can be Morgoth Jr. without consequences. Summon a shitcoin and curse everyone that believes in you. After that, cast a mean spell on them.
Again, your conscience is the limit. For a late American, that’s Gurren Lagann. Yours is the middle finger that pierces heaven.
Hey, it’s that disclaimer from 3D printed guns and key parties. Nice pull.
Obviously.
The point: dark magick’s only bad if you feel bad about it. I recommend feeling awesome about it. In fact, kill some shots before casting. At least, that’s my plan. I read every news alert in my inbox, and I’m primed for a relapse. Cheers.
As you’ve gleaned, hell magick’s first step is deciding if you should use hell magick. Yes. But is it real?
For a cynical clown, this quote would be a godsend. A perfect weapon in an endless war against believing in stuff. For me, it restates the obvious. Irksome. I haven’t seen this much pre-demon chatter since Sinners, and Dorothy doesn’t even have one Michael B. Jordan.
Though it leads to a point: magick offense is the best defense.
Curse first, ask nothing. Dorothy’s less threefold law, more secondfold amendment. If it sounds like there’s a lot about how awesome melting the weak is instead of doing it, silence. Now. Or I’ll blight your bloodline for a thousand wytch years. Those are mortal years with cool skull rings. I have six, and I wear them all.
The Loa dig the look.
Oh shit! Doll time. I love these, get ready. Though Dorothy recommends Mattel, anything stolen from a child will do. Ditching your conscience really cuts down wizardry costs.
Time for human marionettes and/or white guilt.
Damn, that’s lucid. Bending reality should be cheap and effortless (for me, not my worthless enemies). A clown would want more white guilt or casual racism. As a Wytch God, I’d like hotep spells. I’ll explore that later.
Fantastic. I expected self-conscious voodoo, hoped for hotep magick, and found Reddit corrections. Voodoo dolls, which are real and work, aren’t a Caribbean invention. That’d be ridiculous, unlike stabbing miscarriages into dolls. Dorothy could run a show for skeptic wytches called MythTrusters.
Why were so many black people pissed? I can’t find the 17th century in my Freedom Textbook. Or 18th century. Or 19th—screw it. Back to pyramid magick.
Pfft, that doesn’t even rhyme. Darc magick’s come a long way.
To be clear on the genre of awkward: Dorothy’s not a klan wytch, or even Ed Wuncler’s palm reader. The tone’s more Pelosi kneeling with a pointy dashiki. Dorothy limps out of the history of doll appropriation for detours into ancient Celtic curses, Italian curses, and Bible curses. Hold on, me. Explain that last one?
Sounds like the cosmic hall monitor’s schtick. Rebuttals?
Fair. Back in the tangent, Dorothy goes on a bit.
Hope you’re taking notes, because I’m not. None of this comes up later. Though this detour’s refreshingly consistent with Dorothy’s stance that all theology, everywhere, is the absolute, physically active truth. She recommends borrowing diverse ideas in your own magick. Like cool hieroglyphs, or inventing cramps, or grave robbing.
Actually, let’s finish our dolls first.
Like all Dukes of Hell, Dorothy loves dolls. Not just wax caricatures from Cairo–the Margo Robbie kind. After a straight recap of Barbie’s history, Dorothy reveals our strongest weapons against our exes, former lovers, and bygone paramours.
That’s right, the industrial revolution’s hit wizard divorce. Hell’s blades are mass-produced, and cheaper than video games or food. And alcoholic warlocks can keep all their fingers.
As a master wax sculptor, I’m a little put off. Chances to show off are rare. Still, Mattel makes hexing much more relatable. You’re still following along, right? I’m doing this for you.
Fast and loose, as usual in the wytch trenches. It’s decades too late for my psyche, but you should take note. Shatter your manager’s mind, not yours. You don’t need to profile the toy aisle, thought it helps:
Done and done. Since you’re following along, try to find a pale, empty-eyed brunette. Any given American Girl product. Don’t sweat if you can’t. Mine’s perfect, so I can pick up the slack. Your art supplies matter more:
You brought modeling clay, right?
To abridge quite a bit of crazy: the gods want a crafts project to the best of your will and ability. I don’t have much ability, but I’ve got Rayner levels of will. An archmage’s journey starts in the library, and ends in Loew’s.
Suggested tools include, without foolery: permanent markers, scissors, modeling clay, duct tape, electrical tape, ribbons, cords, herbs, oil, cotton balls, fiberfill, fabric, and your intuition.
Now, this seems like a lot. But I have an example for you. Just follow along.
See, Dorothy suggests 11″ dolls. And sure, eleven’s a lot of crazy. My roots oblige me to go further. I’ll work with this doll:
To faithful readers, this is Elsie Dinsmore, the kindest plantation heiress Reconstruction missed. Did you miss her? I missed her.
To the spirits, this Kristi.
Right, that’s nuts. We have to accessorize. This is Kristi:
Or Kristi Jr. Mini-Christy? Misty. To the spirits, this is Misty.
Misty doesn’t like imported plastic. Which, if I check her box, likely includes her. I’m not sure why buying Misty felt smart. Maybe Grok told me she’d save Duke and Shipwreck’s jobs from progress. Either way, now I can’t find Snake Eyes and Misty’s throwing Sieg Heils like she’s trying to karate chop a fly.
Nah. There’s more hoodoo to do.
Not knowing would be nice. Ah well, here’s Kristi’s legal name:
How are the skate parks in El Salvador?
Aight.
The bottom doodle’s a broken thumb.
You’re still following along at home, right? Or work? You’re making an 18-inch Kriti Noem voodoo doll? Dope. I woke up today so that we could make 18-inch Kristi Noem voodoo dolls. I bought this book so we could make 18-inch Kristi Noem voodoo dolls. I learned magick to make 18-inch Kristi Noem voodoo dolls.
For extra curse, Dorothy suggests using…I’ll let sensei explain. She looks saner than me today.
She’s still way ahead. And has some recommended filler:
All fantastic, if I had any at press time and/or in my life. Mint causes impotence, but the grocer said to leave immediately. Coins make the mark “sickened by his or her own greed,” but that’s a dead end. Luckily, we still have arts and crafts:
Sold. Not the tummyache, we’re making a Manchurian candidate. It’s brainjacking or bust.
Then again, why not?
Extreme, but that comes with the times. We started with dumping our conscience for a reason. Even Dorothy gets antsy before teaching us to fill Misty with hell ghosts.
Some wytches turn back now? After filling a Ken doll of their new dad with black onyx? Couldn’t be me. Make sure to follow along. If your doll didn’t have a cavity, use a power drill. I’ll wait.
Right, Dorothy wrote this before the SS ran more ads than Pepsi. If the Rule of Three exists, I’ll cut off an arm to break the thumb cranking off her boss. Preferably mid-action.
The on switch is called a death date, and it’s almost as scary as looking outside. Let’s rock.
This hell magick feels off. Something’s missing.
Real shit.
Great question. I guess Nazi Chucky kills me? I thought I’d die ripping off Yossarian, so it’s nice to go with some originality.
Yeah, Nazi Chucky kills me. Dorothy’s more surprised by haunted dolls than anyone reading. If Misty wasn’t at least a half-Chucky, I’d call Dorothy a fraud. Fortunately, there’s a cure.
Shit, the magick swamp water. Mine’s back at work. Let’s try something else.
Admirable impulse, since an unburned doll’s like an unfinished. One snag: I’m not quite ready to burn down my building. Based on volume there’s a full day care, church, or dancehall upstairs. I’d never do that to a dancehall.
Is Dorothy fucking serious? Dumping M3GAN 3.0 on the curb like an old couch? That’s how you get Chucky’d and fined for littering. I’m starting to worry, we’re all out of classical elements.
Right, earthbending. I always forget the style that loses unless you’re blind.
Say less.
Thank fuck. I have just the thing.
I kept it. Again, Dorothy’s the sane one here.
Now we just need a fuckton of graveyard dirt to kill this doll. Field trip! You’re following along, right? Tell your boss you’re off to bury the monster you created. Or that someone died. Both are true, really.
Dramatic! Bring some normal dirt. Dorothy wants us in the graveyard, but it’s just going to be some quarter-assed metaphor. Probably lint after a poem.
Man, fuck brick jokes. If Krazy Kat was so good, why didn’t corpos exploit it forever? It should be three film abominations deep by now. The kind of DVDs you bury in graveyard dirt.
Still doing it. I’ll admit, working with me’s a pain. I’ve always got ten more questions than necessary. Today, with Misty in tow? They’re just a reflex. I need this doll out of my world. Let’s keep trucking.
After one more question. In your Hollywood-poisoned minds’ eye, what’s that old wytch look like? Dorothy’s wise old hoodoo tutor? If I seem pissier about this now, it’s the plantation doll.
While the web’s great for finding Hot Victims Near You, let’s go with “old.” Retiree ghosts might be kinder to strangers than people murdered by them.
This better be worth it.
This isn’t worth it.
Beyond the ethics-and-dignity stuff, there’s a god to deal with. Dorothy says we need Oya’s hall pass to step inside. Note the West African pick—in Utterly Wicked, black magick’s a pun. There’s also some guys with whack-a-mole flashlights staring at me, but one problem at a time.
Shit, fun-loving gods suck. All their jokes end in eternal torment. And their romances. And their sewing contests. I might end today as a tarantula. Good thing we’re not here to rob graves.
His and hers necromancy, cool. Gotta stand out when you’re robbing graves. Thank Oya I’m George Lucas’s stalker:
Can we commit this moral crime/normal crime now?
Done—I don’t leave home without my cash-poisoned wine. So mote whatever.
It looks like a waste of money, but it also feels like one. Oya has a quality extortion racket.
As in ancient Yoruba terms and conditions? Oya has a GitHub page? Otherwise, this sounds like begging at the cool gods’ table. I’d hate to miss heaven because they think I’d ruin the party.
We’re finally ready to pick a grave. Good news: your job determines your ghost’s prestige class. Forever. It’d be nice if they mentioned that in high school.
Good news for law students, hospital residencies, and spree killers: the nightmare never ends.
Exorcism options do go a little beyond career:
I get the logic. I get the broad symbolism. I like the idea of cosmic justice too. But the executed and murdered are my last choice for matters of wrongdoing or justice. They are the Detroit Lions of wrongdoing or justice. Consider someone that didn’t die screaming.
As for dead child dirt: the fuck? How much incense does it take to advocate, test, or think of collecting dead child dirt? If you need a friend, join a class. Strike up a conversation at a bar, about leaving fun-sized graves alone.
As a wytch (warlokk?) at Greenwood Cemetery at 6 AM to steal exorcism dirt, Dorothy strikes me as unwell.
Whatever, no graves get robbed riffing. Time to pick one.
Elsie’s a nice name. We should bring that back.
I guess the line exists. After all the porn gambling and fake poets and nazi bedtimes stories and Sucker Punch, I’m at my limit. Without an alternative to robbing +5 infant coffins, I have to let the doll kill me.
If you’ve followed along: sorry. At least we’ll die for petty spite. I bet the whole thumb snaps off.
Other dirt!I knew this shovel had a purpose. What are some sane graveyard alternatives?
Home dirt is, sadly, preventative. We’re already in the shit, and Misty lives there too. I want the opposite of her safe return. The church is why I’m stuck hexing Darth Botox in the first place, so they’re out. As for digging around a school, during a nonce panick? I’ll take my chances with Misty.
Granted, I’m sure some comedy writers have a shot against the Secret Service. I, on the other hand, can land a flip sometimes. With three tries, and single viewers. Give me more to work with.
Fine. Might as well get there early.
Meet the Metropolitan Detention Center, a.k.a. the MDC. Where the 13th amendment’s fine print kicks in. Sometimes they skip feeding people, to focus on reform. Hard to beat for bad juju.
Nice and haunted. Can you believe it’s only two blocks from Greenwood? Normally you’ve got to walk three to bump into an indoor plantation. We’ve got 25% of the prisoners, thanks to 25% of the hustle. Misty should like it here.
With this, we can lay Misty to rest. In a box full of prison dirt in my home, where I will never fuck again. You’re following along, right? From now on, you have to explain the political caricature sealed in Freedom Dirt. It’ll make you stronger.
Say bye to Misty before you go.
Almost cute, isn’t it?
We’ve mastered 71 pages of dark, forbidden magic. Out of 232. I might come back.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Elliot Watson, the most powerful of all magick users, who uses their powers to guide these hexes on their important journey. Also plays a mean harmonica.
Categories
Upsetting Day: Truax
