Have you met the divine Mme. Sosostrus yet? She’s preposterous, and yet…..such fun. She’s quite the character, and seems unable to pronounce, let alone spell, her own name. Still, she has all this weird knowledge, she claims, from these Kookistani people that nobody else seems to have heard of. She’s pretty vague about their whereabouts, but Mme. Slives half way up a local mountain, with a troop of Capuchin monkeys for company, and only ventures abroad down the town, on Alice the bike, when out ofUisce Beatha, apparently, or when there’s a chance of some silver crossing her palm. Oh, there’s a piano half way up there, too, which, by her own account,they gather ’roundin the evenings, to knock out a tune or two on.
We’ve heard her singing, unfortunately, at a recent seance we had. As a writer, I seek out these Kooks, to help me cook up new books, and Mme. S was quite the hoot, as she literally threw herself into finding the ghost myself and Mr. Poxley-Warner dreamed up. With all this free entertainment, and barely containable mirth, we almost forgot teeny Foxley Poxley’s wailing for the evening. The only dark spot on the ectoplasmic spectacles was the fact that that Donna Emerald beat me to making art out of the pig’s ear that Sosostrus made of the performance, by publishing a play of her own. The pigeon post must have been intercepted, or some malicious spirit put the evening’s entertainment gossip about via secret twitching curtain coded signals, or teatime tattling, down the local cafe. Still, there’s a book and several dramatic paintings in it still, I suspect. Plenty of time for clearing up the mouse remains from the cooker, too. One can’t rush art, and she’s such an inspiration.
Yipee. It’s that day I’ve been looking forward to. My new book is out, and I’m so excited, because I get to celebrate down at Café Emerald (leaps out of bed, and flings open the curtains). Well, the sun isn’t exactly shining, but that just makes it sparklier, down at the café, so it’s all good.
Didn’t know I had a little cafe, did ya? Well, I have a lot of things tucked away in my imagination, and “The Q Woo” is just one of them, that we’re celebrating today. It’s like a birthday party, for a book, what we’re doing today. This is Part 2 of “The Q Affaire”, of course, but I’m publishing it as a volume on its own, today, in the gift shop (points to an area you hadn’t noticed before, as I pour you a nice hot beverage, at the best table in the house, and they’re all great tables!). I make things. Books, art, craft, anything pretty or interesting, that I think will be fun to do, I’m sure to give it a go. I’ve even had a go at doing an ad for my book (titters).
I’ve arranged the shelves nicely so you don’t even have to get out of your comfy seat to see all the bits and bobs (returns from behind the shelves somewhere with a plate of fresh croissants and jam for you, smiling).
(The Gift Shop, over there- points vaguely towards the back, at shelves with all sorts of interesting knick-knacks, plus that book that you’ve been waiting eagerly on. You salivate with interest, then notice that Donna has obligingly brought a copy of it to the table for you): DonnaEmeraldArt etsy.com
Here’s the blurb on the back cover of the latest one. I’ll read it for you, if you don’t want to let your croissants get cold before the butter and jam go on (adjusts reading glasses and reads):
What’s it about? Well, it’s a continuation of a comedy thriller I published recently, but I’ve brought in this new character, Q, that you didn’t get to meet personally, in the first book, and there’s romance, and comedy, and adventure, all rolled up in a big puzzle plot, and it’s all set on YouTube, and it’s terribly exciting, and funny, with lots of suspense, and thrills and spills. I put everything I like into it, just like I do with the other stuff in life, you know? Put in things you get a kick out of, and hope other people get a kick out of them as well, you get me? Of course it’s very deep too (puts on serious author face, not terribly convincingly). He he. It’s actually a pretty hard to follow plot, so I recommend the Backchannel Reading Room, over there, for those who are anywhere past, ooooh, Chapter 5. It’s nice and quiet in there, and very secret, so don’t tell anyone about it. You, dear reader, are a special customer, so you get the key (pulls out an ancient looking key from a devastatingly attractive but tastefully understated cleavage area, and displays its rusty elegance against a deliciously curved clavicle). There’s a fire in there, on chilly afternoons (you haul your eyes up to my face, thinking of fires and cleavages, for a moment, until comprehension dawns. I pretend to not notice I know what you were thinking, and look back at the book. as you blush. So, let’s read what the reviewers said about the ol’ bookie book, shall we? This is from the blurb at the back, as well:
I’ll leave you to enjoy your tea, coffee, cakey, musicy, bookie nice time, on your own for a while, and go look after the other customers. If you need a refill, just raise a hand absent-mindedly while reading, and I’ll be over without you missing a moment away from reading, or having to talk. Have fun, and get up and walk around whenever you want to think. WCs are in the Top Level Clearance Rooms, for Q clearance customers’ eyes only. Extra fluffy towels and fancy cologne for handies available there, dear reader. See you later. (Goes to say hello to other arrivals, seats them, and heads off to make more tea and coffee, and fiddle about with gift items people have been enthusing over while they get settled down with copies of the fabulously Fnordish looking new tome, hot off the always wonderful Ms. Emerald’s magical tablet.
I didn’t write the whole thing at the café, as some writers do, you know, because the beeps and other weird noises can put you off, but then again, I’ve made sure nothing in my cafe beeps, and the customers, being the type that love books, are delightfully quiet and civilised. There’s even a noise cancelling button you can press, under the table, if the music distracts you, and you just want Raindrops playing. In fact, come sunset, if you are still tucked away in a corner, reading, you will mostly just hear seagulls and waves, as you drift away yourself, into your imagination, watching the sun set from our balcony, over a last cup. I do hope you had a wonderful time, and that you enjoyed the day. I hope you enjoy the novel as much as the novel time we spent together, too.
Well, that was a nice day. Think I’ll watch the stars come out before I wash those dishes, and clear up after the book launch guests. No hurry, after all. (smiles, and pulls up a seat, with a last cup of tea, to end the day).
Nothing’s perfect, they say, and our Friday night movie has ads. It’s free though, and free is good. I hope the ads aren’t too invasive. Oh, an’ watch out for those pesky bodysnatchers. They’re everywhere!
Yeah. I’m at it again. Writing another book. To be more specific, the second part of “The Q Affaire”, which recently hit my little shop’s shelves over here. The second part can be read as a stand alone novel, or as a follower-upper, as we used to say, on de mean streets of Dublin libraries, when we were scoping out those shelves like secret spies, peering through books, pacing the aisles in anticipation of some new thrills to keep us off those same mean streets, our collars turned up, and hat brims dripping puddles as we stalked the tiled flooring, searching out a comfy spot to slump, with brims pulled low, to hide out from the rain for a while.
Yes, you guessed it. Book two’s a little moodier in atmosphere than the first novel, with the first part a comedy thriller with some psychological twists guaranteed to melt your head with madness, as well as keeping you in a sub-hysterical state of mild giggles throughout. I think you’ll find the second part sucks you into the heart of the maze pretty quickly though, and presents many interesting puzzles, and you’ll be sorry when you finally find your way out again, at the end of the book, after being amazed and dazed, for at least some of the rest of it, I would think.
No more Q for you, though, after that. Two books are quite enough, and although Q tries to lead you through an endless maze of confusing twists and turns, and keep you lost, and puzzled, my job is to help you escape it, and give you a map of the territory. Take my tiny paw in yours, then, and we’ll claw our way in, before taking the journey to finding the keys that let us solve the puzzle, and get out in one piece again, but let’s start with an insight into how the book’s being constructed. I’m just hammering it out now, you see, and you might like to see how the thing’s being constructed. Big bits of paper are terribly important, you know. Very. Highlighters, fun, but not essential. Good ideas a must. Well, you probably know what a plan is already, but might glean something of the plot from the themes and metaphors I explain, while trying not to give away too much of the workings of the plotline, when discussing my creative process for writing the book, here.
Q pushers are starting to notice that there are big bits of paper everywhere, as they stalk the thriller section of the library aisles, while I take up the round table with my square papers.
The MuppetOfOz employs his handy Wafflinator , to foil rational conversation yet again, then departs confidently with his pals from the office, earing sparkling, to see if the latte post lunch is frothier than the breakfast one, which put him in the bit of a mood, to start with. pic.twitter.com/752VqP4MVI
I think you’ll find “The Q Woo” a lot hotter a read, a less stale bake, and certainly less hackneyed affaire than what Q has evolved into, in his second part, somehow. He’s got a oddly dragging gait these days, is distictly wooly smelling from being out in the rain, and generally looking a bit down on his luck. Don’t feel too sorry for him, though, as he’s still got some company, even if the birds don’t fancy him any more, a few coins in his pockets from last payday, and he still can parley vous oh la la the lads and ladies over on other platforms, admittedly in less salubrious surroundings. His rag tag band of patriots soldier on in their fantasy world, between snoozes, and manage to forget how wet their socks are, until the librarian moves them on, come closing time, with the rest of us. Where we go one, we go all, huh? Breathe in, on the way out, ‘cos you don’t want the smell of Q pressin’ up on you.
The first part of the book, which came out at the end of Nov., 2020, can be purchased here, in digital formats, with instant download. The next part I’m crowdsourcing funding for, to publish as one big blockbuster, comprised of the two volumes together, in paperback Kindle format, after part 2 is released as a digital version, for those who read part 1, over on Etsy. You can read about what the funding goes on, not just getting it to paperback, but getting that all important ISBN number, and other important bits and bobs, on the main post, over there. So, hopefully, there’s something to appeal to everyone, format wise, without having to go to the library in the rain, although, who knows, it may hit the shelves there, some time, too. “The Q Woo” will hopefully have reached the completion stage, anyway, with all editing done, by April, 2021, and I’ll be sure to let you know, here, too, when part 2 is available to read on Etsy. A big adventure for 2021. The next part of the adventure started here, and you’re in on it, like a secret library spy! Shush!!!!
“Watson, I simply must tell you, old man, the most extra-ordinary thing. You remember Moriarty dropped around yesterday, while I was at my pipe, poking around for information, as usual?” “Why, yes, um, yes, I do Mr. Holmes (hurumph) That awful man.Was he trying to find out why that attractive lady visitor was here yesterday? (thinks, pretty little thing, smiling).”
“Yes, and while he was trying to get information from me, I noticed something flew from his pocket as he retrieved his handkerchief, to blow that large snout of his in. It fell in the fire, as bad luck would have it, but I managed to distract him by cunning means, which, as you know, I’m a master of, and pointed out some new slides I’d obtained of dancing Gibson girls, at a side table. While he was busy rustling about in my intellectual mess, I reached quickly into the fire with a poker, and rescued this!”
“Oh, jolly well done, Holmes. Um, ah, what does it say? It’s rather scrappy and why’s it torn up?”
“Exactly, Watson! WHY IS IT TORN UP? It’s quite clearly something he doesn’t wish to get into the wrong hands, Probably intended to burn it himself, but doesn’t have a Mrs. Hudson about the place, to clear the fire out and light it, and such. I mean, he doesn’t have my charisma, and charm, when it comes to getting ladies to do things for you, when you want.”
“He he. Quite, Mr. Holmes (clears throat). Will Mrs. Hudson be serving buttered crumpets and tea soon, incidentally?”
“Try to concentrate for a moment, my friend, while we await the afternoon tea. This is a bona fide mystery, and I have been furiously playing my violin trying to cogitate on it. I believe I have decoded the document, after carefully unencrypting the scraps, and piecing the information together.” “Oh, really? What does it say, Holmes?”
“It’s an invitation, to a very secret affaire. That’s why he intended to destroy it. Allow me to read it to you.”
(Dramatic pause, while sounds of a teatray rattling downstairs can be heard)
“You are cordially invited to a “Portrait of Q” Art Auction Event, to celebrate Q’s favourite number, and the recent release of the new novel by Donna Emerald, “The Q Affaire”. This exclusive event has been arranged to thank customers who bought the book. Customers who bought the book are now eligible to bid on the only known portrait of Q in existence. Wish to own this beautiful Oil on paper portrait, signed by the artist, Donna Emerald? Then come along to the event where we officially party (and grift off Q) hard, via livestream, to open the one day bidding war in style, so you can start placing your bids on Etsy, and having fun in chat. This is your top secret Q clearance level invite, to the auction of the year, at 4.30pm GMT (check your coordinates, and synchronize your watches, for a zero delta) which promises to go down like an epic stQrm. Be there, or be square. Good luck, Q Patriots!”
“Goodness, Holmes. Q! Why the whole of London has been seeking him. They’ve been seeking him in Bankok and Mexico, too, with rumours of sightings from San Francisco to Moscow, and still he eludes us all, even Moriarty, who is not half so stupid as immediate appearances suggest.” “Yes, Watson. Someone knows his whereabouts, and someone wants to meet in secret. I’m rather curious to get a look at this Q character, finally, aren’t you? Where are my dressup costumes?”
(Door bursts open, making Watson jump, and Mrs. Hudson appears, panting heavily from the climb up the stairs with the teatray, laden down with tea and buttered crumpets, little pots of jam and sugar cubes, tiny milk pitcher of floral design etc.).
“Mrs. Hudson? We need to borrow your best dress. And bring me some glue, immediately.”
Some of my readers will remember Truth Convoy. She isn’t easy to forget, as she’s the lady that haunts YouTube’s dankest corridors, looking for folks to spook. These days, she seems to be the only one spooked, as she awaits a knock at the door of her Interior Castle, and rather like the drunken porter in Macbeth, the final knock may come when she’s sleeping, as it did, one afternoon recently.
The original livestream “Knock at the Door”, with a second of the same name up now, after the first being set to private, was a doozy, and 30 people got to hear the Halloween tale she told the Elderlemon Care person that called to her door to investigate claims of moldy walls and cockroaches, within the dark castle’s interior. In fact, we got a glimpse of one of the wee beasties, scampering up the wall, in alarum, when the stream went live suddenly.
The dead awoke from their drunken slumbers, and the rusty door hinges squeaked (well, not really, but I’m keeping to the spooky Halloween theme here), and the invader was held off from entering, ’till another day, with this tall tale (and, according to Truth Convoy, afterwards, a request for a warrant), before shuffling back inside, to get dressed, and set the stream on Private. I’ve summed up the wonderfully entertaining Halloween horror story told by Denise, here, in an abridged version, since it’s gone now, and you mightn’t have been able to follow it well, in the first place. What’s really scary is that I can follow her fancy horror stories at all, but she’s been telling the same story, with new actors, regularly. The plot features gay jewish nazis, forced abortions, and murder. Classic Halloween horror. Denise never disappoints, with her imagination.
If you are a glutton for horror, you may wish to hear the unabridged version, which is quite an old story, retold with embellishments, from a 2010 forum post, that she came across again recently, and still stands by. We learn about the secret “forced” abortion she insists the gay nazi cult carried out, for their evil pineal gland harvesting purposes, and her own simultaneous pregnancy, which may well have yielded two extra pineal glands for sale for the cult, for all I know, since Denise didn’t specify whether the con-joined twins were joined at the head, or elsewhere. Denise, of course, used to be in a kidney donation cult herself, so she’d be an expert on all the gay nazi cults’ shady shenanigans. Here’s the rambling tale, told by the cult lady herself. She’s not mad, she points out, although she’s a habit of calling anyone who questions her stories mad, telling us again what we heard her tell the visitor at the door, that she did have a stay in an asylum, all expenses paid, curtesy of her family, once, after a “nervous breakdown“. I wonder did they have internet there, to help relax her (ahem)? This is not fit viewing for the childer, and there is some doubt that Denise’s daughter actually lived with her after her tender years, as Denise was only married for five years, and was displaying paranoia that the daughter’s teachers were out to kill the daughter, even while she was a very young child……..so yez will have to click on the image, to be transported into the mind of the spooky Ms. Matteau, for the full horror, in this tragi-comedy of horrors.
I’ve added a nice picture of Denise’s daughter’s besom (witches broomstick) on the left there, because, apart from the cockroaches and mold, her kitchen sink didn’t look spooky enough for Halloween, I thought, although she threw pretty much everything but the kitchen sink, into her story, pulling out all the stops, to get the verbal boot in, on her imaginary enemies, from down all the years, and all the dead ends of her dank and murky maze of memories ( I know – Shakespeare, I ain’t, but I sure give Proust a run for his money, with the length of my sentences, wha’?). Sadly, neither the broom nor the daughter exist any more, with the daughter having killed herself (not been murdered by the gay nazi cult, surprise, surprise, as Denise claims), and the broom literally gone up in a puff of smoke, as this photo was taken at a consecration ceremony by her pals in the coven, and published on her memorial page. It’s now taken down, probably Privated because of Denise inadvertently drawing attention to its existence , while pushing the murder story, and trying to hide the fact that it contained a suicide letter, and other letters distributing her items from her Wiccan altar to her pals. That didn’t fit in with Denise’s Christian lady image she was pushing on her channel at the time, nor her murder plot, but in a stroke of audacity she claimed the grave (which, I discovered from the memorial page, featured a slab with a pentagram on it, as well as a curved indentation from being run over by a lawnmower) had been desecrated by Satanists, and casts another friend she calls David Coagn (no such surname exists, in the real world, that I can find) as a jewish gay nazi murderer she owed money to, at the time of her “murder”. Riiiiight.
In a stoke of crazy genius, and that chutzpah she’s so well known to display so frequently when under pressure from murderous gangs, bent on taking down ordinary decent American families, she tried to put the imaginary dagger in my hand, and say I’d blood on my hands for the murder, abortion(s) and broom stick carrying, instead of taking ownership of the entire plot as her own work of theatrical tragedy, using items from her daughter’s and her own biographies as the raw ingredients, and her own persecutory fantasies to add some extra gore. Her Halloween fake dagger points at a lot of people, as she plays Pass the Pumpkin with it, going way way back in time, in her imaginative story, to link many entirely unconnected characters, accusing them all of murder, and it makes for a hilarious bit of theatrics, on her channel, as she plays the victim, constantly, while attacking others, then uses her own daughter’s dead body as a shield, to protect her against criticism. Reality, though, sometimes comes knocking at your door, reminding you that the outside world can intrude on your delusions, and plots.
Let’s hope Truth Convoy has some more convincing tales to tell, if she hears knocking at the Gate again, and has to run to hit the “Go Live” button on this livestream, up for a few days now, just waiting, because she points out that if she’s not quick about getting the bathrobe on this time, they might “crash the door in”. Perhaps she’s just being dramatic, in the spirit of Halloween, or perhaps we’ll get another exciting chapter in her Halloween story, yet. If not, the stream might stay up, as she says she finds it handy, as she’s too poor (oh, the poor ting!) to afford a high tech security system for her paper thin and funkily filthy front door. She would buy one if she had the money, she points out, in a subsequent livestream, looking meaningfully into the camara at us, in her best helpless, harmless, cookie baking elderlemon role. Perhaps she’ll flog some of her home-made stage jewelry, instead of having to beg for it, as Truth Convoy’s Wednesday nights are sales nights, online, but I’m not convinced the potential clients might like the look of the brown stones in those earrings, if they start to move, on delivery. Oh, the horror.
Denise, three days on from the first “Knock on The Door” livestream, is out of the bathrobe, and in her best moo-moo and chakra-calming stage jewelry, and up at all hours of the night (though, like many a keen thespian, not so keen on mornings), as she seems to think she may have visitors at any moment, and wouldn’t want to leave them waiting for more than a moment. We in the audience wait with bated breath, too, in anticipation of the plot getting even more convoluted, and impossible to follow, with the introduction of more characters.
The dramatic tension is building nicely, on the darkened stage. Will it be a cliffhanger, like this longest-ever up YouTube livestream, or will the story move along further?
Already, she’s adding new touches, with me being added to the gay nazi cult as a regular paycheck receiving employee, mentioned in an im-por-an’ court case, which sadly, or perhaps happily, like the rest of her “proofs”, she doesn’t produce for us, but leaves to our own imaginations, clearly thinking they are as fertile as her own. I wonder am I supposed to be on the pineal gland shipping end of things, or installing bugs, or what? I’m slightly more unsettled, ‘tho, by the discussion of my Irish troll underwurs, by Denise, on her subsequent video, than these puzzling details, because of the gay end of the cult, and Denise’s recent big girl crush on little ol’ me. I doubt I even have a suitable gay nazi costume to throw on, for that Halloween party, if she invites me. Perhaps the gay nazis are a bit of a psychological projection, when the truth is too horrible to imagine ( am I the Alice B. Toklas to her Gertrude Stein, in her mind, with all that claiming to be “channeling” me, and all that wondering about whether I was getting my underthings bunched? Yikes!). No wonder I wear trousers, and not skirts, when out and about, as these gay nazis are circling everywhere in the ether, trying to get their hands on your body parts, particularly at Halloween, it seems (is paranoia catching, do you reckon?), and they sound a fright. Happy Halloween, dear reader. Enjoy the tricks and treats.
On Wednesdays, after a hard morning’s shopping for wine, I like to wind down and uncork a good movie. Seeing as how I was thinking about the Truth Community, and how they like to hold people hostage to their silly scripts, I thought immediately of one of the great movies by Sidney Lumet, Dog Day Afternoon, while I lay around, like a dog in the sun, basking in the glow of the organic wine I’d purchaced. But first, some thoughts on the Community of liars, whose plans to keep me hostage went so wrong.
Ah, wining bigly against the liars that want to keep me hostage. Now, lets kick back, and enjoy a classic movie, in the peace of a Dog Day Afternoon. Here’s the trailer, before the matinee starts.
The script is easier to follow than anything Truthers can come up with. Mind you, truth is often stranger than any fiction scriptwriters, such as those concocted in The Truth Community of the YouTube studios, and the movie was based on a true story, with sensational elements that will make you say Whaaat? Click on the image, or the link below, to be brought to the free matinee. Should liven up your midweek, with a little drama, nicely.
In the Truther Community of YouTube, folks can be touchy. This guy, although he likes to think of himself as the sensitive, touchy feely type, who just likes to “reach out” to other people, is mostly just touchy about his own favourite topic, alchemy.
What the heck is that, you may say? Well, it’s a medieval fascination, which passed for science in its time (Dark Ages, as they call them now, followed by the great explosion of innovation and re-discovery of architectural triumph and art of the classical world, and a good synthesis of old and new led to better results than messin’ about in dingy basements ever had). Outmoded, bad ideas tend to hang around for a while afterwards, like the funny smell from the stove top, when you’ve had fried fish for dinner. Now, while nobody’s stupid enough to think you can turn lead into gold with any profit accruing from the mess stuck to you when you try (wash your hands VERY carefully after messin’ about with that one!), the occult has become trendy among a lot of folks, who regard themselves as alchemists, and like to look at the pictures in old books online, that have pictures of people kissing the devil’s behind, and muckin’ about with Mason Jars, and so forth, in them. Now this guy, below, didn’t like the idea of being asked about another modern-day alchemist, a certain Mr. Crowley (AKA Baphomet), by me, when I popped by ask about his beliefs, and a self-triggering alchemy ensued. As I say, touchy. Maybe all that mercury goes to the brain.
I can’t say the livestream got any friendlier after the question was asked, but I did discover that it’s fine to be a Mason (not the jar type, presumably), but not so hot to be asked things about Crowley, the Mason.
Not sure why; maybe it’s some mystical reason I just haven’t the mind for, as I didn’t appear to be self-triggering, like our alchemical friend. Anyhow, on it went. It had been a 5 hour livestream, which would have given me the vapors, had I endured the whole thing, but the last hour or so seemed to revolve around the question I’d asked. Or just around me, since my question wasn’t appreciated, it seems, by anyone, not his pal “The Dude” in the chat, nor by the rest of those in chat, who seemed to know a lot about the magic scripts that were written about me, cooked up in the Truther-Tube kitchens. They should. They wrote them.
Now, I didn’t manage to find a man to help me understand what he was trying to say (not in there!), in answer to how he managed to cook up so many alchemical scripts, without reading Crowley, but I did learn that I was an “evil bΨtch” for asking.
The chat section, from which I was magik-ed away, agreed, and it was Khaos in there, with prescriptions for me being made up, and old formulas flying about, while I was trying to figure out whether this was their idea of a joke, or whether the mention of Crowley might be summoning up something darker, and far dank and dirty, with the fumes they must have inhaled in their experiments in the basement of YouTube. It was “Do as thou wilt” time in chat, and everyone was doing their evil bestest to wilt me, with the power of their mindlessnesss, and a few incantations. Oh, the beasts! Every rumour going around this small circle of jerks emerged from the odoriferous chat, as the pals worked together like a herd of goats chewing a ouija board, trying to make someone the butt of their accusations, as had been seen in many another channel they had “reached out” to, that like to mix things up, and shuffle truth with lies.
Good grief, the little demons had fun in chat, as Bob the insect man become more venomous, not to mention verminous, in his self-triggered rant, rather different to the impression he wishes to convey when he’s off with the birds, in Twitter. It’s all love and hearts there, with the demons kept in check, and pinned down, while they escape out of the Tubes, with a vengeance.
Who’s Tafoyovsky? His pal, Lestat, the Mexican vampire, who accused me on HIS livestream of paying a guy they don’t like (featured in chat, above, in an impersonation account, as Th Stg, to seduce me, although in Bob’s chat they said it was the other way around, and that he paid me. I wonder at times if Lestat is jealous, and wants the man to himself, as he likes vamping up pictures of him, dressing him up in women’s clothing.
The Virgin Mary, to be precise. I don’t think that’s necessarily a vampire thing, but I do know it’s a Crowley fans kind of thing. Reversal, and mockery, and all that, like the mockery of the Christian rituals they’re so hot on. Not that I would know a lot about these things, not being a Satanist myself. Now, theeeriousthly (as Truth Con would say), who’s going to believe that; as if such a gorgeous creature as myself would have to pay for such services. Are they blind seers, that they can’t see my lovely avatar, or do they just like old goats and oujia boards? Where do they get this nonsense from? Why the lady many call “The Tooth”, of course, who is the go to oracle for all sorts of visions and dreams to conjure with, and plenty of spit and venom to put in the Tube. And 100 percent reliable, apparently. Yeah, right.
Can’t follow what they’re talking about, still? Don’t worry, it just means you aren’t as stoned as them. Or not into alchemy with reality. To continue (and they did)…..
He must have to do a lot of tidying up, too, after his kitchen mix-ups, because he suggested I should knock the dust off that pussy. At least he likes cats, and chickens. Just not me, I take it. I’m sortof glad he doesn’t, in a way. I don’t think alchemy would be my thing, if you end up like this, all self-triggering, and all over one question.
The other alchemists loved it.
Remove your children from the room for this clip……..
At least he admitted that he was being a “total asshÓle. Ole, as Lestat might say. The admissions got thicker as the humors were still on him, and I learned a lot about how the bug thinks. He blabbed that he was just talking jibberish about the gang thing he’d been pushing, because he could say anything he wanted. He was right, because the video stayed up, despite my reporting it to YouTube. You can pretty much say anything and everything you want about someone on the Tube, and they’ll do nothing about it, when you complain to them. However, he wasn’t exactly apologizing for the lies, no. He was saying he was enjoying them greatly. It’s fun, the ol’ do as thou wilt thing, after all.
After long diversion from the question of whether he’d read Crowley, that I’d asked, he eventually came to the real answer. The answer to why he’d been telling such awful stories about me, and hanging out with others in the dungeons, who were. He wanted rid of me, off YouTube and Twitter. Aha. Perhaps he wasn’t very lucid in his thinking, saying it, but he was, for once, being honest. All this, to get rid of someone who he just didn’t like, because he saw them talking to someone he doesn’t like. No, Bobs. I’m afraid I do what I like too, I just don’t think anything goes, with no boundaries, and no respect, like you.
Bonus: If you’re interested in giving these absolute charmers more views, the whole 5 hours of fumed out nonsense is here. Viewer discretion is advised, but insanity might be more helpful, if you intend to watch the whole thing. If you just want to watch them berate me, here’sthe last hour.
Update, 2020: It seems that one of the people in this post, the winged beetle guy, has changed his ways, and gone to the other camp, having “found Jesus”, as they say. Well, there are two sides to every coin. Whatever his reasons, and whatever crutch he’s currently propping himself up with, it’s a big improvement from the self-triggering days, and he’s pretty much staying out of online arguments, despite his old adversary, Thomas Schoenberger’s best attempts to drag him into the virtual ring that keeps arguments going around in circles forever, like an oroborus chomping it’s own tail. He prefers bible stories to occult tomes now, and that ain’t so bad. Hopefully, no bible-thumping will ensue. Always gives me a headache, that.
Anyone who reads my blog regularly will already be pretty familiar with this lady, who runs an endless Con she sells as the Truth. She’s kept on truckin’ for over a year now, and the narrative has taken some twists along the way, with anyone who tries to use the other lane getting side-swiped or just plain run over by her inventive fictions and colourful language, all geared towards adding her perceived enemies to the story of the international stalker gang that’s pursuing her for her secrets (told nightly in detail) about the conspiratorial workings of paint factories, unions and cults of all types. Oh, and murder plots.
Lately, she’s garnered a new fanbase, made up of those who love stories, and wish to borrow some for their own ends, and others, who just like a laugh, and a drug free trip with the steamroller Convoy. Lately, she’s taken to Twitter to follow the fun, as others who joined the con convoy, hoping for a free ride on the tailgate of the lies, are tweeting away like mad, about stuff she really cares about. Emails. Yeah. Doesn’t sound exciting, does it? Some, though, like Denise, have an obsession with discovering who owns a particular address on the interwebs. One that she wouldn’t block, as you or I would, when we don’t want to write back.
It’s not a game, folks. These people aren’t really pretending to be mad. They actually are; it’s a Truth Community thing. You just wouldn’t get it, unless you’d lived it, but lemmie explain how this Bedlam ward of YouTube is run. It runs on lies, and if you aren’t a liar, the inmates get very worked up indeed, and you will find them turning on you, in droves. Or should I say, convoys. Maybe I’m the crazy one in a mad, mad world, because I keep telling the truth, even when nobody in the asylum will listen, even though I don’t have the word Truth emblazoned across my channel name, in an effort to convince people that I haven’t just been turning the truth on its head, to steamroller people into wanting to get off the Tube, so I can tell tall tales to the other inmates. I’ve been assigned to the back office, where I take notes on the patients, and make sure the drugs are locked up (though a few channels seem to have managed to forge the keys, as the opiates levels are constantly dwindling).
It’s a solitary life, but I don’t mind it. Once the patients are (b)locked up in their own wards, they aren’t any serious danger to anyone else, and they scrawl happily on their walls, with only the odd mumble heard down the corridor. My filing cabinet is stuffed though, and I find I must re-organize. Perhaps you could lend a hand, seeing as how you dropped in, or just put the kettle on, while I’m clearing up. Nice cuppa tea makes the medicine go down, I hear. Or is it sugar? You won’t find much sugar in the tweets I’ve got to go through, but you’ll spit your tea out, laughing. Here we go then (opens the cabinet of horrors labelled Corsi Emails).
Now, this is inmate No. 23’s favourite cabinet. Denise is obsessed with the “Corsi Email” in which she was cc-ed, months and months ago. She used to fancy Jerome Corsi somethin’ rotten, after Roy Potter lost his place on her pinup wall of her cell. Now she decided that the Jack Quin that signed the Email simply must be this Jack Quinn, based on a Google search of the name (spelling close enough, right?). And he is silver haired and attractive, and most of all, “impor-an'”, as she likes to say, in her best Boston/Texas crossover accent, Everything’s impor-an’ in Denise’s mind, and everything involves the gang that’s been stalking her, for oh, forever.
We have lots more files in the cabinet, ‘cos she toted the Email around all the cells on the ward, to get the other inmates involved. Several have now got the same obsession, and are tweeting all around the corridors, about the sender, whose identity changes constantly. Sometimes s/he’s a guy called Brian, sometimes Jack, sometimes Tom, sometimes he’s even on Twitter, disguised as a vet, serving as the alter-ego of one of the inmates who believes that you can be more than one person at a time.
Sometimes you have to humour the inmates, so when I’m not in the office, de-cluttering the cabinets I play along, nodding and smiling to all and sundry. They can get quite ratty if you don’t pretend that this is the normal world, after all. When this one, who just won’t take her calming meds, insists that an Australian vet is a858, I don’t point out that that’s actually her cell number, I just say, yes dear, and walk her back to her bunk, or if it’s not lock-up time, the recreational lounge, where she can mingle, and gossip with her friends. I leave it to the porters to break up fights, and go back to the office, locking the door behind me, in case they try to break in, to get at the opiates again.
Sometimes they play word games, or argue about pi (OCD patients in particular), but always the story told about the darn Email address changes. One minute it’s here, one minute there. It’s him. No it’s her. Honestly, these people could argue about anything, or nothing at all. They don’t seem to want to settle on a version; I suppose the days are long, and you have to pass them somehow, but they will keep sneaking into to the nurses’ lounge when they’re fagged out from a hard day herding nuts, and accessing the computer to send secret messages out to their Email fixations. The target of their fixation got so fed up with the endless stream of fruit and nut mails, that they replied with a missive that added even more confusion to the already confused recipients.
Now, just as misery loves company, this inmate had some friends, like the guy that identifies as a vampire, playing along with the tale, until the Email fecked it up for them, and sent them into a spin. I’m afraid I got a little short too, as they’d been at the medicine cabinet at midnight again, and I wasn’t happy to have to get a new key cut for the third time that week. I enjoyed the tweets they’d posted up so much, I teased them gently, about all their stories, and nodded away for all I was worth. Nod, and smile. Yes, dear. Back to your cell, now. Yes. I know.
An Australian vet that does puzzles, and is a composer too, living in America, that might be a transgender person, and that person you were talking to on Twitter’s just a liar. OK then. You know? How? Oh, I see, your vampire friend googled a858 and something about pi puzzles came up, right after the Lenovo phone result. And Denise says he’s in a murder gang, and is called Brian as well as Thomas and Jack with two nns. And Pi has a lot of numbers in it, sooooo……(rolls eyes, feeling headache coming on. How I resist the lure of the medicine cabinet myself, I don’t know).
Confused? Yeah, you will be, after emerging from a day at the office, here. And there’s no telling these people; they don’t want the truth. It’s not as interesting to them as the tall tales.
Time to scan the online ads, and see if there’s an easier way to earn a living. Oh, cripes! They’ve been at my computer too. Now I’ll have to change the locks on my office again, for the 4th blinkin’ time this WEEK!
Seems Defango has latched onto some new narratives along the way, and teamed up with some new people, for his Hoggbelly and QSlayers campaigns. His old pals, like Cheri, his favourite mod and second mommie, have been left behind for a while, to hold his teeny fort, while he trots through a variety of airports, to escape a subpoena in the Aaron Rich (brother of Seth Rich) lawsuit. The subpoena caught up with him on the same day he managed to avoid falling in an alligator pit, after being nearly trodden on by an astronaut. An exciting holiday, then, for DefangoTV, and he’s been updating us from his hotel rooms, and trying to read those complicated legal documents. Seems the court wants him to hand over all his internet communications, and it all proves to be far more interesting than even the tall tales he and his subs have been putting about of late.
He’d had them well trained already, mind. Years of slavishly following made them dog-like in their devotion, and he set them loose on Twitter, to try to cut a swathe through any conversations anyone else might be having with Thomas, well armed with a Chronically inaccurate map, compiled by a buddy, on what Defango has taken to calling his “BlackTeam”, the maps produced are designed to point out who is on the “other side”, the “White Team”, I guess, although the map colours change regularly, as confusing “layers” are produced exhaustively, by Chronic, who clearly has a bumper pack of felt-tips and a ruler at his disposal, or at least a handy little appwhich helps you target people with precision-ishness, assuming you have a high enough IQ to be able to spell their twitter handle correctly. Defango left the spelling to Chronic, and the other work in his chat to others. They tried to slay my good name in chat, but failed in Twitter, where they couldn’t control the conversation, and all sorts of info about the Black Team started to emerge.I suspected already, since the impersonation phone call and murder allegations had been made against me, that Defango and crew had indeed gone to the dark side, but some of the characters that emerged from under their rocks on Twitter looked like they hadn’t seen the light of the sun in a long time. This tattooed terror, Lestat, I knew already, but some new and disturbing things emerged into the light, along with the tattoo, along with darker aspects of his video work.
Turns out that Lestat likes ’em young, and although the age limit is 16 in some parts of his native Mexico, I’m pretty sure it’s not quite this young. I had heard allegations on Twitter, during the back and forth spats with Defango’s cultish subs, over my refusal to participate in the rather vicious anti-Thomas Schoenberger “Hoggbelly” campaign, and receiving all kinds of insults, started to realise that the people I’d not known very well before, had been tweeting out stuff like this, when I had thought the creepy back tattoo and dark videos were quite enough to be dealing with, let alone having to find out this kind of thing.
While I was still reeling from the idea that Defango really didn’t care what type of folk he associated with (well, it didn’t come as that much of a surprise, but it wasn’t pleasant, finding out just how bad), I found more Nazis, Satanists, and Anarchists crawling about with them, than you could shake a stick at and say shoo. I’ve never had to report so many accounts before, for tweets I had directed my way, like Diane’s lovely friend Anna, who is a Nazi, and has other Nazi friends that wanted me to know how awful Jewish people are, and how ecologically sound Hitler was, in getting rid of quite a lot of them. Diane turned her on to the narrative about Thomas, that he was an awful person, and probably Jewish, and away she went, a woman on a mission.
Turned out that Diane had been recruiting anyone and everyone that would listen to her stories about Thomas, on Twitter, by telling them he was an abusive man, and she the victim of his terrible deeds. She also had a major crush on him still, it emerged in her voluminous tweets on the topic, although she’d never met him. She begged to be unblocked by him, in tweets, before continuing on to berate and denigrate him to anyone she could get to listen.
I came in for a lot of her tirades, as she was convinced that I’d been up to some kind of jiggery pokery with him (though I’d never met him either), which she’d obviously wished she’d been up to herself, the general tenor of her tweets making it obviously that sex was on her mind a lot.
She wasn’t the only lady friend that was giving me what for on social media; back at the ranch, on YouTube, there I was, innocently commenting under a video, when who should spring out of the bushes, but Elizabeth Vering, and she was in a fit of hysterics as well, or at least put me into one with her complaints, as I couldn’t help posting this dittyin reply, though I suspect she’s more the romantic poetry type. I don’t think people will ever really appreciate my sense of humour as much as I do myself, somehow. I had to apologize to the channel owner for the mess in his comments, and back out gracefully, picking leaves from my attire as I retreated, smiling, and luckily, free of any scratches from the prickly bits.
The channel owner had the wit to remove the comments, as they were entirely unrelated to the content of the video, but I, of course, kept them, for my own amusement, and yours. The threat made me giggle, since I know her love of poetry, expressed in rambling comments under various Sofia Musik videos of Thomas’s, and I imagined she might wish to bore me to death with some epic poetry, perhaps Milton’s “Paradise Lost“.
Back on Twitter, the not so epic battle continued to rage, and there were tears tantrums on that rage therapy couch known as Defango’s channel, with everyone in a funk, and Lestat advising Defango to be smarter (how could he, one wonders, since he claims an IQ of over 200?), and say less. I wonder how he’s going to do that, now that everything he’s said over the last while will be all out there anyway? Maybe Cheri can perform some “emotional alchemy”, as she promised me in comments. She’s very keen on that sort of thing , with this the book she’ll use, from her single volume playlist.