Hey, market.
Hatewatch this.
It's a riot.
ＪＱＤ
m.v.d.
💙
I.
An Introductory Note Regarding a Cryptic Claim:
Paid subscribers, earthwalking angels that they are, were promised an offering behind a paywall a few posts back.
A same-day midnight dead-drop of what I believe I had termed "some real psycho shit."
I FAILED TO DELIVER.
I'll try to do it tonight.
I have produced a cursed object, and I really want to show it to you.
Stick it under your nose and see what you think.
[VIGNETTE BLIP]
I'm sorry.
Honey, honey.
I'm sorry.
Honey.
I'll make it to your next game, I promise.
Performance, I mean, not game, God I—
No, I—
Listen.
Honey, okay — listen?
I'm going to take pictures and everything, I promise you.
I promise.
[TRAUMA SNIP]
I'll take ownership.
Art's a partnership.
I'm a pirate.
I take over ships.
And I go over.
Like the Hindenburg.
Underskin.
Withlike everyword.
.
Forgive my lagging oaths.
Sackcloth tatters close.
Sacramental sacrilege.
Sacrificial growth.
Incremental inchworm.
Gross.
Lost.
Eros.
You treat that snake like a garden hose.
And tell me how it goes.
.
Now as for your attention:
Let's be sure to flip a mention of a factual fling:
An audience is a precious thing.
Conditioning's in listening.
You can drop the ball.
But the bell still rings.
.
Atlas-splat in spittoon sting.
Split your ass in a friccasee.
A fracas or an odyssey.
Evens out it goes odd for me.
.
If you ever doubted I'll show you.
Please.
Honey.
Honey.
II.
Pronounced
Harold and his hair had had a falling out.
So he was headed to Ankara.
Where the procedure was much cheaper.
Trying to move that hairline back up.
Fill it in.
"I'm going to Turkey," he'd told his daughter.
"It's Türkiye," she'd said, pointedly.
"What?"
"It's Türkiye."
Eyeroll scathe.
"Turkey."
He stared blank.
"Türkiye."
A scowl and a slammed door. Teenaged retreat.
He briefly considered stopping payment to the Country Day School but there's no way the ex would go for that.
𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑦𝑎𝑟𝑛.
→
III.
Real Real Real Manipulator Music (r.r.r.m.m.)
WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU DESIGNED MERCHANDISE FOR THE BAND FUCKED, KNOWN FOR THEIR EPONYMOUS DEBUT ALBUM (EPONYMOUS MEANS THE ALBUM IS ALSO CALLED FUCKED) WITH ITS UNDERGROUND SMASH HIT SINGLE "FUCKED," SINCE-REISSUED DOZENS OF TIMES, AND THEN THE COLLAPSE OF CONSENSUS REALITY ENABLED YOU TO RETCON THIS BAND INTO PRIOR EXISTENCE — LET'S SAY THE EARLY '80S, I DON'T KNOW, WHO GIVES A FUCK? — THEN CONVINCE THE PUBLIC THAT THIS IS A CLASSIC TEE (IT'S THE ONE THE SINGER OF FUCKED WORE IN THAT ONE PHOTO, YOU REMEMBER IT, IT'S THE FAMOUS ONE) ON THE ORDER OF E.G. THAT GODDAMN NIRVANA SMILEY FACE SHIRT OR HELL MAYBE EVEN THE STONES' LIPS
░░ T-SHIRT — "FUCKED" IN UNEVEN BLACK LETTERS ON WHITE ░░
Plain white t-shirt: "FUCKED" in large uneven black letters — irregular size and alignment, hand-written hastily scribbled appearance — displayed flat, no folds or creases.
░░ 16-BIT NEO GEO — PUNK CHARACTER / "FUCKED" WHITE TEE / LA STREET ░░
16-bit SNK Neo-Geo: vaguely punk character in white "FUCKED" tee — rebellious edgy appearance, mohawk or spiked hair, leather accessories, defiant posture — gritty Los Angeles street scene, pixelated buildings, streetlights, dusky urban atmosphere, classic 90s arcade style.
░░ 16-BIT NEO GEO — METALHEAD / "FUCKED" BLACK TEE (INVERTED) / LA STREET ░░
16-bit SNK Neo-Geo: rocker/metalhead/hardcore character, no studs or spikes — inverted colorway: "FUCKED" in large uneven white letters on black shirt — rock and heavy metal aesthetic, long hair or wild hairstyle, tough demeanor — gritty Los Angeles street, dimly lit, classic 90s arcade game style.
VII.
Dead Kiddos
I lost two babies today.
Total humdingers.
Two completed songs.
From a strung-alung singer.
Son-of-a-bitch.
Files corrupted.
Motherfucker.
.
I HATE A DO-OVER.
I HATE MAKING IT AGAIN.
The new SCALED ALPS record should be done by now.
Should be fucking done by now!
Instead we extend the play for another hour.
My hard-drive's full.
And my head too.
.
What's your name?
It's nice to meet you.
Again, and again, and again.
VIII.
The Dialer
Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system.
If they found his body tomorrow you'd be wondering if they're missing him.
IX.
The Creed Fan
Almost sprayed the Millésime Impérial but took stock of my outfit and its sportiness and reached instead for Aventus.
Pineapple jizz.
Anonymous fizz.
Huff a fix from a spritz.
Perverse putz.
.
To take up space.
On the downstroke.
To lay to waste.
Triple-lutz.
.
Get your bets in.
Triple up.
Bear your soul.
Bare A-Cups.
What the fuck's up.
Been a minute.
Isn't it?
Ignorant shit.
X.
A Voice Memo (Work Flows)
ALOUD
(0:00) You've seen me for years, walking the streets.
(0:06) Now it's time to perform what I've seen.
(0:13) You've seen me in the galleries, at your shows.
(0:29) You've seen me backstage and in the front row.
(0:34) You've seen me in my clothes, at home.
(0:40) In alcoves.
(0:44) Droves.
(0:48) In love.
(1:06) Maybe you've been on the end of drunken late night memos.
(1:10) Maybe you've lain with me in the grass, green meadows.
(1:15) Just start talking and see where your head goes.
(1:19) It's not a rush job, we're just testing for echo.
(1:22) It's not a rush job, we're just stankin' like Limbaugh.
(1:26) I experience myself externally.
(1:30) Eternally, outside.
(1:31) Outside.
(1:38) Gate kept inside swept.
(1:44) Heartbeat down the middle.
(1:46) 7-10 splat.
(1:57) 737.
(1:59) Attack.
(2:02) Strike attack.
(2:10) Any given flight number can become famous.
(2:14) Any given date might become a famous one too.
(2:20) Any given date could be number one.
(2:24) Any given date could be just the one.
(2:29) We've been needing a new 9-11 to justify some decisions.
(2:39) Drive them hard for a partition.
(2:42) Drive their herd to condition.
(2:44) It's a suicide mission.
(2:47) They all are.
(2:48) That's a tragic admission.
(2:50) They all are.
(2:51) That's a lagging emission.
(2:53) They all are.
(2:54) You have to factor the fiction.
(2:58) It's true.
(2:59) Let's pick a sickly depiction.
(3:06) I've got true Hollywood stories and fake ones that are realer still.
(3:16) Headhunter to copper kill.
(3:20) Snake lines.
(3:25) With the opera feel.
(3:27) I struggle with state change.
(3:37) Understanding hunger pains.
(3:40) The presence of the venoms in the blood among the fangs.
(3:43) The presence of the venoms in the blood among the fangs.
XII.
The Saving of Fucked Face
Gotta save face.
Mouth fit for a foot.
Words came back.
Clerk'd dropped Bogdan a note.
Don't know his name either. The clerk's. Not like they wear name-tags. Fuck no. You don't want these creeps knowing your name. Type of people who come in here. This liquor store? Hell no.
Note found its way to Bogdan — Pseudobogdan, I guess, I don't know, is that too many syllables, too evocative of "Hobgoblin?", I don't know, I don't know, I—
Bogdan's talking:
"Because you thought I was Bogdan, you will call me Bogdan now. I accept it."
He's here with me now.
"Look, man, I didn't mean to generalize."
The liquor store's half-lit cold fluorescent.
"I don't care. It means nothing to me."
I'm lit as shit off scavenged domestics.
"I thought you were Bosnian, or Serbian, or some other type of people who hate each other, I mean I guess everybody hates everybody, right? I mean you hate me, right?"
Past a certain point you pick your pleasure.
"Why I would hate you? You hate me?"
I'm not here to lecture. Get the tape and measure. Steep inclines and surfing ventures.
"No, of course I don't hate you."
"Then why you would think I hate you?"
Steep inclines and surfing ventures.
"Obvious reasons."
I can't believe we won the fucking goddamn Powerball.
"Because you are white?"
$2.04 billion.
"No, because I steal shit. Wait, are you not white?"
Run that back.
"I'm Syrian, from Armenia."
$2,040,000,000.
"Those are different places. I'm not that stupid."
Four-Eight-Seven-Five-Zero-Five-Nine-Nine-Five-Zero-Nine-Eight.
"You keep putting words in my mouth. I never call you stupid."
"Do Syrians and Armenians hate each other? I don't mean to be ignorant. I just don't know—"
We hit on 4-8-7-5-0-5-9-9-5-0-9-8.
Looked like this:
④-⑧-⑦-⑤-⓪-⑤-⑨-⑨-⑤-⓪-⑨-⑧
"My sisters fight."
Looked like my lucky fucking day.
"What do you mean?"
But Bogdan had the other half of the ticket. Hell I hadn't even known we'd hit until an hour ago. Had to track his ass down, that other clerk'd been no help at all.
"You said it — everybody hating everybody."
He wasn't at the liquor store like I'd expected him to be.
"Sometimes."
Shit, he's always there.
"Sometimes, yes."
For all I fucking know the guy lives there . . .
"So I was way off, then, thinking you were Bosnian, what is that, what is that, like, 2000 miles? 1000 miles?"
Shit, he's always there.
"I don't know. Far."
For all I fucking know the guy lives there . . .
Thief pulls out the phone, jabs at it. A comparison:
"Says Aleppo — is Aleppo a good city to use?"
"Aleppo is fine."
"But are you from Aleppo?"
"No."
"Well whe—"
"Don't worry about where I am from."
"Oh— okay. I, sorry, I—"
"Don't worry too much about me."
Headshake yes.
"I am Bogdan now. I am from USSR now."
He laughs low.
"C'mon, man, you won't even tell me your real name just cuz I fucked up, you don't need to rake me over the coals."
"Raking coals?"
"Like, excoriate me."
"This means to kill you in a storage space?"
A smile that isn't one.
"So Aleppo to — uh, Ilidža?" (pronounced wrong) "Ilidža? Do you know Ilidža?"
Headshake no.
"Ilidža. Ilidža. Says it's 2483 kilometers. That's driving, though, I think."
"You don't want to drive that."
"I'm not sure, I'm not sure if that's as the crow flies. Could be as the crow flies. I don't know how to get it to give me that. What's that, what's twenty four hundred kilometers, that's like 1500, right, 1500 miles?"
More jabbing. A calculation.
"Shit, 1542.865 miles. I got a pretty good range on it . . ."
"You do understand some things."
"Curved it."
Impenetrable straight-smile.
"So you don't consider yourself white?"
"Not lately."
"Do you consider yourself, a, uh, MENA person."
"No I'm a nice guy."
No idea if he's just the most poker-faced joker. (don't think so)
"I wonder what Bogdan means."
The newly christened liquor clerk draws his own device. Curious at his new self. Search returns.
"Gift from god."
Bogdan repeated it.
"Gift from god."
Thief wondered if Bogdan speaks a capital-G God. No polite way of knowing.
"How's it suit you?"
Thief asked.
"I'll take it."
A thief's task:
"We are billionaires now."
Bogdan is stern.
"Not after taxes."
░░ 16-BIT — LIQUOR STORE / ARMENIAN-SYRIAN CLERK / SHADOWED THIEF ░░
16-bit era video game style: liquor store, cold fluorescent lighting — male liquor store clerk of Armenian-Syrian descent, clean-shaven, tucked-in polo shirt — thief in stylish trenchcoat, identity concealed by shadows, gender-neutral, long hair subtly visible — shelves of liquor bottles, late-night secretive mood — contrast between clerk's clear features and thief's obscured presence.
XIII.
Winter
It's six o-clock.
I thought it was nine.
I'd considered retiring.
To bed and sheets.
To my relief or rubbing.
The still of the early evening.
It feels impossible.
Time's short change.
presented in
FRAGMENTED REALITY
a subsidiary of
𝘟𝘌𝘕𝘖𝘊𝘏𝘙𝘖𝘔𝘈
"Inevitability — Delivered."
I AM A WARPED CHARACTER. IT IS OK. THANK YOU.
SELECT ME?
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 . . .
𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 / a / k / a ＪＱＤ
is a self-taught integrated media company
founded haunted and enchanted in 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚂, 𝙲𝙰.