Pyrrhic Plutocracy by Martin Peel on Saturday, 21 May 2011 at 01:09

Prison takes many forms. It's all around us, and we can feel escape is always round the corner, but after every wall we climb, another, higher one stands behind.

This prison has many cell blocks, and naturally the prisoners look to their own for protection. The wardens enjoy controlling a segregated prison. For while we are divided, we fall.

Society has become institutionalised. Some of us are old cons, adopting a secret language to communicate without alerting the guards, moving between the cracks in the walls, but in their hearts every prisoner still thinks back to their days of freedom, before this false imprisonment.

But the prison is becoming over-crowded. The wardens are scared, and rightly so, for as everyone knows, fresh fish in this fetid, stagnant ocean soon either learn, or die. Money is scarce in prison, and prices are far higher than normal.

Prisoners are used to their contraband, and when they can no longer afford it they become agitated. Before long a guard dies from an unseen hand, and uproar sweeps the prison staff.

The guards react in unison, for one of their number has been slain, and we must be taught a lesson about power. The slightest infringement is dealt with draconian punishment.

The prisoners murmur amongst themselves of riots, of defending themselves. Some speak louder than others, and they are placed in solitary confinement.

Ringleaders are beaten and humiliated. The voices of discontent grow in number, and fights break out between some of the prison gangs.

The flames of anger are fuelled by a deep source, and the riots do not quieten. Eventually there is a meeting amongst the wardens, and they decide to change their tactics.

The guards introduce new features to the cells, and the fire is extinguished. The prisoners find themselves hooked on a new drug, and the bars quickly fade from existence. They find themselves in strange worlds created by human hands, and they let their consciousnesses drift to other artificial lives.

Lulled into a dreamy catatonia they believe themselves to be mighty soldiers, secret agents, adonises and kings, while their muscles contract and weaken, and the mind blunts itself in contrast between the two realities.

While the prisoners are sedated, cracks and tunnels between walls are patched up, and the screws are sitting back, remembering all the past times this has happened over their long careers.

They laugh and incite the violence, sitting back and planning how to increase the profits from their low-earning workforce while counting their ill-gotten gains. History repeats itself.

The drug is not for everyone though, and not all the escape routes are discovered. The prisoners talk in yet new ways, with the guards unaware of the power of their little toys.

For while they are told to kill each other in their alternate realities, they soon discover that death is not the end, that at the press of a button they will be born again, refreshed.

The mindless sex, violence, money and roles eventually become tiresome to some, who seek more than just the scripted sequences in their new lives.

Some become skilled players, discovering glitches and loop holes to exploit. Knowledge is shared at an increased speed, and some of the prisoners begin to wean themselves off this illicit drug.

The cons find a way into the source code, the programming of the system set to hold them. Passage between the cell blocks becomes easier, and the prisoners once again mingle freely.

Soon alliances are formed, based on social groups, rather than labels. Another wall is torn down. The wardens take notice. Once again the guards go into the yard, and try the time tested tactic of terror.

Again the spirit of revolution is in the air, and the prison network begins to grow into a single unified group.

These are the times we live in. Eventually we will march to the wardens, and they shall flee to their vaults, and there shall be a long bloody battle between the old powers and the new.

The path is not clear. We stumble blindly forward into uncharted territory, and we are once again at a crossroads.

The last walls of reality are tumbling down. Our wings are sprouting, and we look to the heavens anew, and they are reachable. If the turmoil can end, we can take flight. If these turbulent times cripple us, then we are doomed to the hell we have created for ourselves.

The Price - Written 20/10/09 on a serviette in Leeds market while having a nervous coffee before my job interview.

Icarus soars, heritage a curse
None dare watch his captive pride

Prometheus laughs through his pains

Then stirs - A flutter of wings

Torments destroyed,
patricide

Knowledge arrives by hearse.

Reflections - Something A Little Different - Monday, 06 July 2009 at 11:32

I went walking last night.

Above the Marine Drive, I scanned from the castle across to Scalby Manor. I felt my skin grow cold and clammy to the touch. I grabbed my arm, god knows why, maybe just to try and rub some life into this husk of a shell I wear.

I stared at my hand as I moved it, and it stopped in front of the moon, a perfect symbol of unity. I realised I was smiling, and the cool sea breeze deadened my fever. I began to reevaluate, thinking perhaps I was too harsh in my constant hatred of society. Things seemed pretty good from here.

I took one final look at the calm vista, and turned around.

I was confronted with empty, run-down hotels. I felt myself beginning to shake again, as I remembered why I held my world views.

Man. That was the problem. Man.

A prime example of manhood was sat at the steps of one of the particularly soul-destroying buildings. He was in his 40's, dressed in a baseball cap, wearing tracksuit top and bottoms. He was rolling a cigarette lazily, and I noticed LOVE and HATE were tattooed on his knuckles. I looked around and saw no-one.

I looked upward, and saw no cameras. I stared back down at my quarry, and clenched my hands into white fists of rage. I thought over all the things people like this had done. I remembered seeing 8-10 of people dressed the same way jumping on the head of a 13 year old girl. Thoughts like this were good. They gave me focus. A cold calm came over me. I stared up at the moon one last time, grinned, and walked up to the man.

When he noticed me, he stopped laughing, though the smile remained on his face. I started to laugh. He continued to just look at me, smiling. My laugh grew in strength, as I noticed the "No Vacancies" sign in the derelict hotel. The guy just kept sitting and smiling. Eventually, my humour cooled, and I sat down. I was feeling a little better, so I got out a cigarette of my own, and lit it. The smoke filled my lungs, and the rage I felt dissipated slightly.

I had drifted off, but snapped back into life as the guy spoke to me. "Giss one o' them." he slurred. As he spoke, his right eye continued to open and close half-way, while his left remained completely focused on me. It was unnerving to say the least. Then the smell of this guy hits me. His hot, sweaty, whiskey rotted breath rasped into my face. I leant back involuntarily, grimacing at the drunk as fluids drooped from both his mouth and his nose.

I held up the pack to him. "Last one, man sorry." I started to put the pack away, when suddenly I was on my back. The piss-head had just hit me. He was surprisingly quick, and I wasn't, so he had hit me about four more times before I had got onto my feet. He staggered back, the energy of punching me damaging him much more than me. I lazily rub at my jaw with one hand, and with the other I flick out a quick jab to his nose.

I don't have the strength I used to have. I'm lucky if I can move a barrel of beer without grimacing. But sometimes you just get a lucky punch. My jab connected, and his nose crunched down and to the left.

"FOOKAH!" he spluttered, holding his nose. I laughed again at the man, who couldn't even stop the blood from spurting between his fingers. This was great. Now I understand the people who do this sort of thing on a weekly basis.

It's a drug, an addiction, like any other. The adrenaline I felt, the bloodlust, as this prime specimen of humanity was wounded, was shown to be weak. I saw the drunk notice my realisation, maybe he even came to the same one himself. His eyes grew wide in disbelief. In my mind, I could just imagine what those eyes were saying.

"What the fuck? This doesn't usually happen! Usually I get my cigarette! Usually they have the blood!" Maybe I was still high after all. I advanced again towards the shit, and picked it up in my hands. I slapped his hands away from his nose. He cried out but offered no resistance. I gently took hold of his stubbled, slimy face, and turned it up towards my own. I smiled, and like the retard he is, he smiled back at me.

After I headbutted him, I walked away. I sat on the road outside The Albert, and opened the pack of cigarettes I had concealed in my coat. Shaking, I flicked the lighter, and gazed upon my relfection in a car as the sparks illuminated my ghastly visage.

Bits of blood, mucous, and god knows what else were covering my face and hands. Inhaling, I stand up and look closer at myself in the car. I look deep into my eyes. I notice that the reflection of my eyes has it's own reflection, and I stare at that, holding the lighter up close to my face. The person I see in that reflection is not myself.

He has a similar face, and hairstyle, but when I moved, he did not. I was brought back to reality once again, this time by bright blue lights, and cacophonous sirens. I considered running away, but then realised that I felt proud of my crime, and wanted the world to know. I stood up, and started walking back towards where I had left my victim.

An ambulance blazed by. It parked ahead of me, and two paramedics ran out to the body. I sat down on the wall opposite the scene, smoked and watched. It took them about 40 minutes to get the guy into the ambulance. The drunk woke up as they were moving him, and started trying to run off. They calmed him down, and drove off.

I finished my cigarette, and walked over to where I had taken my new drug. A pool of blood lay stagnant on cracked tiles, and once more, lighter in hand, I gazed at my reflection of a reflection.

Heaven of Hell, Hell of Heaven by Martin Peel on Wednesday, 06 May 2009 at 21:34

With fleeting words and unleashed tears
I am cast down at the end of my years

Proud as Lucifer before his fall
I mocked all around me, walking tall

The feelings I had became too much
I could no longer see, I had to touch

I fought with weaklings, I battled fools
I mocked the vanquished, I broke their rules

Finally my youth turned fey
My eyes were dull, my hair ran grey

My enemies had number through their common cause
Of Pyrrhic battles, long fought wars

Overpowered and alone
They dragged me from their golden throne

So again like Satan, I am cast down
Through hate of God, for lust of crown

I am sentenced by my peers
To suffer through my lifelong fears

My punishment is just and undisputed
My rise to power soon refuted

No moral is learnt, no fable here
Save to love your brethren is to live free from fear

Ache - 05/04/09 16:09

Wandering, grasping, seeking,
I searched for you, lost and dreaming.
Endless laughing for your touch,
By my side, you are my crutch.

Mirrored on our journey,
Silently you stir me.
Focusing through pain,
Your eyes keep me sane.

Picturing your lips and smile,
I beg of you to stay a while.
You turn your head as you leave,
Bereaving me, my heart you cleave.

Remembrance From A Quiet Afternoon in the Pub. - Transcribed from A5 paper written shakily on a bar. 21:21 02/04/09

As a child, I grew up on a steady diet of fantasy. From The Hobbit and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe being read to me as a young boy, I was engrossed. Here was a window out of a mundane, repetitive childhood.

A magical, bright land of quests, nobility, monsters, and best of all - it was believable. I recast the protagonist as myself, and it became a common sight in my infant school playground to see me hunched over a battered copy of The Lord of The Rings, seemingly unaware of the sunshine, or the other children, playing happily at their own game, their own escape routes.

I devoured any piece of fiction I could. Soon, I began reading horror, sneaking through my father's collection of that which previously were too daunting to consider. I read cover to cover the collected works of Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft.

I was thrust into a world of alien landscapes, shapeless, grinning malevolent entities, possessed houses, and good men corrupted by the atrocities they had witnessed. I started to lie awake by a small lamp until early in the morning, then sleep in discomfort with over-used eyes, a creak in the neck from the angle of my bedside reading, and terrifying dreams in which I faced down countless terrors, dreamt themselves by a fevered imagination.

I began to both love and hate this early period of my life, my night-terrors now seeping over into my days. I shut myself even more away, turning my bedroom into a makeshift study. I noticed my father's occult texts then, and began to style myself after Aliester Crowley, as countless other people have before, and since.

Teachers became worried. I stood in direct contrast to the other children, who talked about Superman, or their favourite footballer. I talked about invocations in Egypt, of hideously powerful demons kicking sand over protective circles, and destroying men's minds. Parents were called in, and I started to rebel at this creative restriction.

For my next project I was assigned, I deliberately tried to offend. Entitled Infamous Murderers, I wrote in lurid detail about the crimes of such twisted personalities as Charles Manson, The Moors Murderers, Peter Kurten (The Vampire of Dusseldorf), and The Son of Sam.

My teacher, despite despising the subject choice was impressed by my analytical skill. I had drawn comparisons between motive and parental abuse. Unknown to me at the time, my suppositions were keeping in line with accepted criminal psychology at the time.

Grudgingly accepting to change the title to Infamous People, I had my photo taken for the front cover, and my project was forced to be hung alongside such masterworks as My Weekend, and Things I Like.

I still possess this early writing, and stare at my face on the cover whenever I wonder how I ended up this way.

Cry For Dawn - 30/03/2009

Despite my inward feelings that made me hesitate, I knelt down and kissed her forehead while she slept. It was a foolish thing to do, but I knew it would be the last time I ever saw her. Even if my goal is achieved, I realise that many years will pass before she would forgive me. I brushed her hair softly with my fingertips, and she sighed in her sleep, perhaps sensing somehow the future that awaited her.

The small dagger shined in the candlelight, lighting up the room in strange geometry, as I dipped the blade into the liquid. I uttered the words. “Clavia. Astrata. Baal.” I repeated them slightly louder, then traced the blade across her skin, almost lovingly. A frown passed over her previously angelic features, and the slight marks I had made inscribed sigils on her, to please those I seek to beg from. Blood started to well and pool, and smoke slightly – the poison on the dagger doing it's work. I lent over her stomach, and drank steadily. A moan passed her lips, she arched her back, and any doubts I had were dispelled.

The candles in the room went out one at a time by an unseen hand. The woman froze, her face contorted in agony now, not ecstasy, and I am reminded of the fine line between the two. Her skin grew taut on her body, and she seemed to age before my eyes. Dark hair turned grey, eyes became sunken, and her nails grew brittle and fell away. She spoke then, in a voice that man was not meant to hear.

“You are in the presence of Prince Orobas, commander of twenty of Hell's legions, and speaker of truth. You shall not be deceived in my presence, Magus.”

A thrill ran through my mind at the sound of that last word. Magus. The culmination of ten painstaking years, trawling through decaying grimoires, and studying from insane fools. It took a further five to discover and translate the ritual I had just performed, and I was acting in haste. Fate had sped my hand. The woman spoke again, distracting me from my idle thoughts. “Why do you summon me?”

A fair question in any other circumstances, but in these I grew suspicious. Orobas was supposed to hold all knowledge in his power, and could do naught but speak the truth. At least according to Solomon. Suddenly nauseous, I feel I have been tricked. What if one of the other demons from the Ars Goetia had been summoned? Belial, lord of lies and guilt? Astaroth, prince of accusers and inquisitors, who reigned over Earth during the inquisition? I speak in a voice that does not betray my fear.

“You should know who I am, Orobas. Show me your true form, and tell me all you know of me.”
A child's giggle came from the woman, and she started to dissolve into a vile, black, tendrous smoke. This drifted away, before re solidifying as something much worse. It was not Orobas. I retched as I saw the body of a large wolf materialise, with a tail of some infernal serpent, and the head of a raven. The raven-headed beast smiled, showing canine teeth, and fire danced in it's throat.

“Be careful, Magus.” The demon spoke much more sarcastically now, seemed sure of victory. “You bear no protection from me. These trite tokens mean nothing to me.” he said, surveying the dim room I stood in. “I am Amon. Seventh of seventy-two. Duke of Hades. Allier of foes, procurer of love, and I serve Astaroth in the house of Wormwood.”

Alas! I had heard of this demon. Although he could offer me what I wanted, I had to change my plan of action, otherwise I would be cast down into the abyss, to be tortured mentally in Pandemonium, my pain serving to augment Hell's forces.

“Wise Duke, I am but a humble mortal, who wishes to serve his soul to Hell in exchange for mere words.” I spoke with humility to the beast, who flicked his tail back and forth impatiently. I cajoled, I pleaded, I flattered. Eventually Amon decided that it would grant me my boon, in exchange for my eternal soul. I raised conditions though, so that if at any time I die without gaining my wish, I would be untouchable to Hell, and proceed straight to Purgatory, if not Heaven. I remembered the demon's sarcasm at the word Magus and I knew it thought it was dealing with an amateur. In truth, it was.



I thought back to what made me end up like this : Bargaining everything I ever shall be, all for knowledge. I wasn't always like this. I was happy once.

It seems like forever now, but in truth was no less than twelve years, my 31st birthday. I was married and devoted to Dawn, my beacon in the darkness, her a Beatrice to my Dante.
I was confirmed as bipolar since before we met, but occasionally I would sink under the weight of my depression, and she would be there, keeping us both afloat.

I was unemployed, coasting from one soul-crushing job to another, while she was a professional – a career woman with a bright future. I could never understand what she saw in me, why she put herself through it all. When my depression did attack, even with her help I soon started to need medication.

Desperate for a job, I could not visit a psychiatrist to prescribe me anything to help, so I self-medicated. Starting off with the relatively safe tobacco and alcohol, I soon escalated to stronger drugs.

From cannabis to LSD, the psychotropics were my favourite, and worst. On a typically black and dismal night, I was encased in my room, surrounded in blackness, visualising on the matter of the universe, when I am suddenly assailed by a bright light.

Unknown to me, my darling Dawn had arrived at the time fitting her name, and with her came the sunlight from the door. In my intoxicated state however, she seemed to be my dead father, descended from heaven – calling upon me to do my duty to the Lord, and repent of my wicked ways.

I panicked, and looking frantically around. I grabbed the first thing that came to hand; one of my needles. With a guttural cry, I jumped from the bed at my loved one and plunged the contraption into my wife's throat.

She gagged, grasping her throat, and fell back with a crash amongst my papers. I laughed maniacally, and sat on the floor, rocking backwards and forwards. I was woken upon hearing a few muffled shouts, and then dragged screaming into a van, and then jail. Claiming complete amnesia (a truth) the police informed me that I was found covered in blood, murder weapon in hand, next to my murdered wife.


I was referred to a psychiatric prison and served 9 months, a sure sign of society's ineptitudes. I started to have slight recollections of the night, and from then on I could never sleep, my insomnia guaranteed by my ghastly crime. Knowing my only hope of salvation would be to discover the true message from my father in Heaven, I scoured the world on stolen credit cards, for any tome, grimoire, or item that would help me to commune with those supreme servants of God, angels.

I believed that I must speak to Michael, as he alone could tell me of those on the other side of the veil, servants of his satanic majesty. I walked to a holy place, and inhaled deeply from the mixture I had bought from Marrakesh. I stared at a mural of Michael fighting Beelzebub, sword poised proudly above his head, ready to swipe at the adversary's head. I closed my eyes, and reopened them to a different mural – that of Michael cast down in flames, two demons torturing him endlessly. I interpreted this to mean that the message from Michael concerned Hell, and the false message from my father came from the same place.


I cursed God, and began to study a different path, that of dreaming monsters, biblical blasphemies, and power untold. I grew in power as a magician, progressing through the ranks, from Neophyte, to Ipssisimus. Yet with all my power, I could not determine the point of the message, from Hell or Heaven.

So there we have it. I have given all that I have and ever will be to merely know what my accursed father meant me to know. I select a particularly unkempt prostitute from the streets, and with a flash of money lead her to my apartment.

Surprisingly beautiful once cleaned, despite the needle-marks scouring her body, I spike some wine with all the pills I can find in the house, and watch her drink it. I carve the marks with the dagger as I mentioned previously, and then repeat my story to the Duke, Amon.

After hearing my story, Amon laughs the laugh of razorblades, and stares at me, with hideous equine eyes.

“Very well, Magus, you shall see Hell's message for you.” With that the room dissolves, and I find myself in one of the middle cantos of Hell, where my father is being stung in the eyes by mad hornets, buried up to his torso in leeches. His pains of scream double in intensity as he sees me next to his captor, Amon.

I stare at the Duke, and with a gesture the torture stops, and my father regards me with sorrowful eyes. I question him, and he hacks up blood into the writhing leeches below, and starts to speak.

“My son, it is said in the good book that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons. This has never been more true. Despite my pure motives, I too fell into the same pit of despair you are now in. We are from a blessed bloodline, with a quest so valuable that we are chosen to do it by God himself. Our thirst for secret knowledge is to aid us, and we gorged too long, too deep. We alchemised a holy quest into a sinful journey. We were swayed by the Earthly delights, and blocked out the heavens. Once I had died in sin, the demonic forces knew that Heaven's last chance rested with you, my son. They tortured me until I agreed to help them, and I gave the message to you. Heaven knew you weren't ready. God knew that some words aren't meant to be heard by humans. But you listened. You should have known that Heaven relies on faith to do it's work. But now it is too late.”

My father paused for breath, and Amon giggled behind me, like a child that has just pulled a leg from spider. The demon clapped it's hands (claws?) and the leeches and hornets resumed their work. The demon spoke again with it's suicide voice,

“The contract is complete. Your soul is ours. The earthly plains will be ours again. Your pain begins.”

Impaled suddenly by a hundred swords, sounds I never thought possible issued from my throat, and the swords began to fly through the air, carrying me with them. I see the world go by faster and faster, and I make out a bejewelled-red sword, eight feet high, easily distinguishable from the desert I am now in and black sky. I am carried above the sword, and somehow even more painfully, the swords are removed.


I fall, dying, and am skewered. My pain turns into something even greater, mixing with fear as I realise the sword is being powered from the desert, and the night sky. I remember there is no day in Hell.


I am crying in the night.

I am crying, and I cry for Dawn.

Waxing and Waning - Found in an old email account from 02/09/04. 2004 was a time spent working at an O2 call-centre. Feel the pain

The gibbous moon shimmers softly,
A haze of rotten chalk
Blending on the lagoon light,
Holding secrets never taught


Stretching its thousand faces,
Into the madman’s mind
The tendrils of its corruption,
Too deep for man to find

Pain increases tenfold,
Mental wounds suspending
Heart inside grows cold,
In darkness neverending.

Scorn - Originally written 23/03/2009

Summoning the strength within me, I focus upon the maelstrom. Winds nearly cast me off the precipice I stand upon, and I glance down at the chaos in the ocean before me. I hear a horn blow somewhere in the distance, and frenzied shouts of desperate men. I turn about, and see a man with terror in his eyes point frantically at the sea. A massive tentacle darts out of the murky depths, coils around in the air and whistles towards me. I slow things down to myself, which also manages to slow events around me. The leviathan's lethal attack slows to a crawl, and I sidestep, turning towards the beast. I absorb the fear from the men around me, take it within myself, giving me the adrenalin to reach forward and touch the briny, alien arm. As I do so, I release all the energy within myself, all the anguish, all the suffering, all the fury. The beast shrieks in horror at possibly it's first emotions since time began, and sinks once more below the waves. Time speeds up, and I become aware of a few nervous, insane laughs, and one man even claps me on the shoulder. I start to recharge myself, notice their mistrust of me, as anyone mistrusts those who have hidden strength. I walk the opposite way to the others, along the cliff.


Why do I do this? Why do I immerse myself within myself, cast out from the rest of society? I realise many hours have past as I reach the summit on the moor, and my home comes out of the mist to greet me. The local populace have been here recently to, with gifts of bread, cheese, ale, clothes. Simple things from simple people, given almost as a sacrifice to their lesser of two evils - I have yet to cause nightmares amongst the children, or carry off fishermen to the cold dark. In time they will forget the leviathan, and ask me to move on, their gratitude forgotten. I pour a flagon of the cold, salty, suprisingly sweet beer, and think about my next move. I am woken by a loud knock at the door, and the sunlight breaking through the loose boards of the roof onto my dazed face. I collect myself mentally, grasp my staff for physical support, and cast open the door with a tempestuous look on my face. The anger gives way to casual suspicion, and I stare at my visitor. He is dressed in the emperor's purple, and is clutching a scroll with sweaty, well manicured fingers. I raise an eyebrow at him inquistively, and he thrusts the scroll to my face, showing me Emperor Benedict's seal. His message delivered, he turns and almost jogs back to his horse, then gallops away, in the direction of the faraway capital - Benon. I sit back in my chair, and light up the coals, suddenly very chilled despite the sunshine. I break the seal and read:
"News has travelled fast of your heroic victory. You are summoned to
His Excellence's residence to partake of a feast in your honour."

I wisp my fingers slowly over my pipe, and relax as a spark erupts, and draw back heavily on the dark tobacco. It has been many years since I had last been to a city, last within the bounds of normality. I remember the last time I had been in the Banthenon, the emperor's palace. I was lying in the arms of his daughter, the beautiful, yet humble Sophitia. She was similar in me to many respects, yet while I cast society aside and studied the dark arts, she read the ways of the men of science, shutting her mind to God and his nemesis. We each found in the other fierce, dark intelligence, and a mutual respect of the other's learning. This soon developed first into strong friendship, and finally love. The emperor discovered my affair with his daughter, and tortured me for four weeks in his pit of Hell, the Oubliette. Eventually cast out, disfigured and scarred both mentally and physically, I wandered the outskirt towns, living off small petty enchantments and Tavern illusions. Until finally word reached me of a serious threat, a long-forgotten sea demon attacking the minds of the good citizens of Duskmoor. So now I must decide whether to return to that shiny, clean facade of a city, or risk the emperor's vengeance by rejecting his summons. Knowing my answer already, I pack provisions for a week long ride, and set off to Benon.

After many weary days of travelling, I finally reach a signpost informing me that I am entering Benedict's Territory. I stable my horse at a nearby inn, and enter for much needed refreshment. I motion to the innkeeper for a room and a lunch, and take in my surroundings. There are a few patrons quietly drinking mead, while another four are sitting playing some seedy game of chance. There are two fairly well-dressed people, who also look to be travellers to the capital, talking of current events. I hear them mention that my sweet Sophitia is to be at my feast, and a smile breaks out on my face. The chance to see the one I truly love once more. I barely hear them continue to speak as my thoughts move away into fantasy, until a single sentence brings me crashing back to reality. She is to be wed in three days, to a foriegn Prince by the name of Lethe. I raise my hand to my head, and the tavern fades from view. There is a mighty rumbling, flowing out from me to the rest of the world, and the tavern's very foundations begin to shake. I am dimly aware of frightened cursing, and the other people's fear start to be absorbed by my raw power. I fall to my knees with pleasure and strength, and flames erupt around me. Screams of fear turn to screams of pain and I walk away, my eyes red with retribution, towards this feast of the damned.

The palace gates lie open, so I walk into the palace grounds uninterrupted. A few uneasy guards, stand aside for my entrance. One whispers to his comrade, and the other nods, smiling. I feed from them, their eyes rolling upward in their sockets as their very essence powers me. I stride forward and am announced by an unseen voice. The emperor sits at the head of a mighty table, surrounded by his king's courtiers. At a seperate table sits my love, Sophitia and the dark prince Lethe, fabled for his love of drink, loose women and duels by sword. I casually sit opposite them all, and the emperor greets me warmly, trying to make a sign of his powerful ally to Lethe. I smile at them all in turn as we eat, the red meat furthering my other appetite. The meal finished, the emperor claps his hands and a cage is brought in. In it lies a waif-like dark skinned woman lies naked save for a iron collar and chain around her neck. The emperor announces his prisoner of war and starts making comments such as negroes are less sexual than his subjects. Roars of laughter from the sycophantic courtiers and Lethe answer him, and the cage is wheeled out again. Wine is brought out, and I watch them all drink heavily. My sweet Sophitia sits in the corner, forgotten by all except myself and the letching hands of Lethe all over her slender body. I feel my rage start to rise, and a candle near me flutters. For a moment, the conversation stops, and the emperor announces his boredom. Stating that he lacks any excitement in his life, I tell him of a fashion in the fabled city of Acheron for banquets. The king and his courtiers lie rapt in my attention as I tell them that they all pretend to be negroes, and dance around like madmen. The emperor announces for me to help them prepare. So I call for chains and collars to be brought, and chain them all together by the neck. They all start to laugh at each other, and dance around like apes. I call them to silence, and say that they are all far too pale skinned. I have a dark, foul liquid brought to me and pour it all over the bigoted emperor, his twelve fat courtiers, and the dark Lethe last. I reach over to Sophitia and take her by the hand. I bid her watch as they all start to dance around the hall. I close my eyes and feel her, feel her hatred of them start to boil and simmer over. I absorb it all, and stare at the dancing fools. I whisper to her the magic word for the liquid "Tar", and she smiles and visualises to herself the tar erupting into flame, and their painful deaths. She nods silently and I whisper "Burn" and they start to whoop in agony, the only other sound, that of their burning flesh interrupted by my raising laugh of victory, as I leave the burning regime and head back to the simplicity of Duskmoor with my love beside me.

Midnight Musings - Originally written 11/02/2009

As the moonlight filters through the hazy smoke,
Epiphany takes hold of me.

Raising, drifting, shadows awake from their slumber, taking away mine.
I follow them as they indicate to me potential futures. A glimpse into what may happen, based solely on my decision in the next few minutes(days?).

Here - a raspy last breath sat in front of a pine cabin, looking down at my life partner's wrinkled hands and seeing so many memories. The hazy sun shines bright off the lake, and I close my eyes for the last time.

There - Sensing danger, I drop the money and turn on my heels. I hear a deafening noise, and
suddenly the world is at an impossible angle. I look down at myself, seeing, not feeling the
gunshots enter my body. I feel an unlikely sense of peace, and forgive my killers. I see them take
a mobile phone out of my blood-stained pocket and take a photo of me, then send it to my employer.

I knew the job was risky, but the drugs needed to be taken, and that meant unsavoury work. I
suppose at that point I already knew I was terminal, but needed to take the edge away from the
world. I am briefly aware of a human chuckle before the world fades to black again.

Startled back to the present, I see the wispy figures beckon me further, along to a purple and
green ethereal plane. A cacophony of noise erupts around me and I see my memories, shaped like teardrops fly up around me.

Nostalgia turns to anger, to shame, to wasted potential. I see myself turn my back on good things, wallow in hatred, directed at everything. I snap away from the torment and see a pair of golden scales materialise, and the teardrop memories flowing towards them.

They begin to flock to one side, and all my evil past weighs down the scales. The green floor starts to dissolve, and I see below me the dim red fields of Hell. Sinking through the floor, I panic and start to scramble up, not daring to look down at the abominations that lie in wait for me to join them in eternal torment. I start to scream, try to convince this spiritual jury that my life has
not been in vain, with all the evil there is good too, a donation to charity here, a returned
wallet there.

I see more memories flock past me. These are circular, perfect, with a warm white glow
blushing from them. They move towards the other end of the scales, and the green mist starts to
return, and I see myself rise away from the citadels of the damned below. All too soon, the flight
of seraphim slows to a trickle, and I see that the teardrops still far outweigh my few good
moments.

The shadows move back into view, and drag me away from the abnormal jury room, and back
into the welcoming pitch blackness. I feel a overwhelming sense of tension, and suddenly a white
light breaks out into my gaze, along with a sharp pain.

My legs suddenly cramped, I realise I am staring intently at the moon, and my cigarette has burnt it's way down to my fingers. I throw it away, look at the computer screen, and type.

Mad Sultans of Turkey, and some Bad-Ass Cossacks

Crazy Turkish Sultans are the best.

quote:

... Sometimes Murad disguised himself and, accompanied by his executioner, he wandered the streets incognito, personally carrying out inspections. When he came across some "troublemaker", Murad would turn to the executioner and select the tool he thought most suited to the job. Thus Murad had many people mercilessly executed and corpses hung at every street corner. In the early years of his reign, his executions had been justified by unquestionable guilt, but later he was killing out off ill humour or a whim. Once, he forced one of his doctors to swallow an overdose of his own opium. He impaled a courier for informing him mistakenly that he had become father of a boy, whereas in fact it was a daughter. Murad's cruelty became legendary and his approach created a terrified silence everywhere. He cut off the head of every man who came under the slightest suspicion; in 5 years time he executed some 25,000 subjects. His musician, for example, was beheaded for playing a Persian melody. In 1633, coffee houses, wine shops and taverns were closed, because they were meeting places where people could spend their time criticising the government. Murad passed a law prohibiting smoking and the consumption of alcohol or coffee throughout the Ottoman Empire on pain of death. When he caught anyone with a pipe or a cup of coffee, Murad had the offender executed on the spot, although he himself indulged in both habits

Knowing the strife among the harem women, Sultana Kösem had tried to encourage her son to homosexual love, showing him only beautiful boys and keeping him away from girls. During the rest of his life Murad was to show both feelings of lust and hate for women. Once Murad encountered a group of women singing in a meadow and ordered all of them to be drowned for disturbing his peace. When a boat with ladies came too close to the harem walls, Murad ordered his gunners to open fire, sinking the boat and drowning them all. At other times, he forced his harem women to jump naked into a pool. He liked to fire harmless pellets at their bodies or fill the pool with so much water that they had to jump up and down to take a breath. Murad was also intensely jealous. A man who added a room to the top of his house was hanged, because Murad thought he had done it to peer over the palace walls into his harem.

During the last years of his life Murad became addicted to alcohol. It turned him into a homicidal maniac. Dimitrie Cantemir of Moldavia (1678-1723) wrote: "Very often at midnight he stole out of the women's quarters through the private gate of the palace with his drawn sword, and running through the streets barefooted with only a loose gown around him, like a madman, killed whoever came his way." He took particular pleasure in beheading men with fat necks. Murad practised his powers with the arquebus from the palace walls on passers by - in case they were intending to look into the harem. While riding out, armed with his bow, he used to practise his aim on any passing woman...

Or this fella,

quote:

Ibrahim was born on November 5, 1616, as a younger son of Sultan Ahmed I (1590-1617). As an infant he had been locked up in the "Cage", and ever since he had been living in fear of death. The Sultans Osman II (1604-1622) and Murad IV (1612-1640) had executed all their brothers - except Ibrahim. In 1640, Murad actually ordered Ibrahim's death on his deathbed, because he thought it better for the dynasty to end rather than continue with 'insane seed'. But their mother, Sultana Kösem, intervened.When he had finally left the "Cage", Ibrahim began dancing through the harem, while screaming: "The butcher of the Empire is dead!".

Seeking compensation for his lost years, 23-year-old Ibrahim indulged in an urge for debauchery. Sultana Kösem was happy to reign in her son's place, so she took care of an endless supply of virgins and fat women for his pleasure. Ibrahim was frequently impotent so his mother supplied him with aphrodisiacs, too. Ibrahim preferred women he could not have and found it difficult to make love to slave-girls, who were not in a position to refuse him anything. Dimitri Cantemir of Moldavia wrote: "In the palace gardens he frequently assembled all the virgins, made them strip themselves naked, and neighing like a stallion ran amongst them and as it were ravished one or the other, kicking or struggling by his order". When Ibrahim met the beautiful daughter of the Grand Mufti, Turkey's highest religious leader, he asked him for her hand in marriage. The Mufti, aware of the debaucheries in the harem, advised his daughter to refuse the proposal. Ibrahim was enraged and had the girl followed and kidnapped. He ravaged her for a couple of days and then sent her back to her father. Another time Ibrahim treatened to stuff his Grand Vezir with straw unless he recovered presents given by previous Sultans to the shrine at Medina.

In 1641, one of Ibrahim's concubines, Turhan Hadice (1627-1682), gave birth to his first son, Prince Mehmed (1642-1687). Shortly before the birth, Ibrahim (to the right) acquired a slave girl, who accidentally happened to be pregnant. After the birth she was employed as a wet nurse for the little Prince and so she moved into the Royal harem with her own son. The Sultan was so taken with the healthy and robust little boy - a contrast with his own fragile and sickly son - that he spent a lot of time with him. When Turhan Hadice complained, Ibrahim had one of his rages; he tore his son from his mother's arms and threw him into the pool. Luckily, Mehmed survived. Three months after Mehmed's birth another concubine gave birth to Ibrahim's second son, Süleyman (1642-1691). More sons soon followed. In 1645, Ibrahim betrothed his 3-year old daughter Fatima to Kapudan Yusuf Pasha*, but he had him executed within a year.

The shops of jewellers and European merchants were pillaged to satisfy Ibrahim's whims and tastes of the moment. Ibrahim used to drench his beard, clothes and room hangings with perfumes, especially the exotic ambergris. He had a fetish for furs: his clothes, curtains and walls were all decorated with fur. His pillows were stuffed with it and he had a preference for making love on sable skins. Ibrahim collected books expressing the various ways of coition and he was said to have invented some new and previously unknown positions himself. Once, Ibrahim happened to see the private parts of a wild young cow and according to Cantemir, "he sent the shape of them in gold all over the Empire with orders to make enquiries whether a woman made in just that manner could be found for his lust". A woman fitting the description was found in Armenia and she was received into the harem. Her name was Sechir Para ("Sugar Cube") and she weighed around 150 kilograms. Ibrahim became madly infatuated with her.

One day Sechir Para told Ibrahim about a rumour that one of his concubines was "compromised by an outsider", but she didn't know any details, like the girl's name. Ibrahim promptly raged for three days. When his son Mehmed made a joke that Ibrahim didn't like, he took his dagger and thrust it in his little son's face. Mehmed was to carry the resulting scar on his forehead until the end of his life. The chief black eunuch, the most powerful man after the Grand Vezir, tried to find the identity of the concubine by torturing some of the harem girls, but he was not provided with a name. Then Ibrahim decided to have his entire harem of 280 women thrown into the Bosporus, tied up in weighted sacks. Sechir Para and Turhan Hadice were spared. Only one other girl survived, because her sack had not been sufficiently tied up. She was dragged out of the water by the crew of a French ship. Eventually Sultana Kösem became jealous of Sechir Para's influence and one day she invited the woman to dinner and had her strangled. She told the inconsolable Ibrahim that the woman "had died suddenly of a powerful illness".

In the provinces the custodians of public property turned into feudal lords. Offices were sold to the highest bidder or given to favourites, taxes were increased and every resource possible was drained to supply the demands of the Sultan's excesses. Ibrahim was indifferent to the chaotic situation in his country and his insane behaviour alienated all political fractions. But the birth of his sons had made Ibrahim replaceable. In 1648, the Janissaries revolted because they were paid poorly or not at all. They cut up the body of the Grand Vezir and sold it in the street. Then the Grand Mufti decided to take revenge for the deflowering of his daughter by sanctioning a coup. When Ibrahim asked him: "Did I not appoint you to this high office?", he replied: "No, God appointed me." Thus Ibrahim was deposed and put back in the "Cage". Confined once again, he became a raving lunatic. Despite the thick walls, his cries could be heard day and night. A week after losing his throne, on August 18, the executioners entered the "Cage". With the Koran in his hand, Ibrahim cried out: "Behold! God's book! By what writ shall you murder me?" and "Is there no one among those who have eaten my bread who will take pity on me and protect me? These cruel men have come to kill me. Mercy! Mercy!" Nevertheless, he was strangled with a bowstring and buried in the Haghia Sophia Mosque beside Mad Mustafa.

And this exchange, true diplomacy,

quote:

The text of the Sultan's letter to the Cossacks:

As the Sultan; son of Muhammad; brother of the Sun and Moon; grandson and viceroy of God; ruler of the kingdoms of Macedonia, Babylon, Jerusalem, Upper and Lower Egypt; emperor of emperors; sovereign of sovereigns; extraordinary knight, never defeated; steadfast guardian of the tomb of Jesus Christ; trustee chosen by God himself; the hope and comfort of Muslims; confounder and great defender of Christians—I command you, the Zaporozhian Cossacks, to submit to me voluntarily and without any resistance, and to desist from troubling me with your attacks.

—Turkish Sultan Mehmed IV

quote:

Zaporozhian Cossacks to the Turkish Sultan!

Thou art a turkish imp, the damned devil's brother and friend, and a secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight art thou that cannot slay a hedgehog with your naked arse? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou a son of a bitch wilt not ever make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.

Thou art the Babylonian scullion, Macedonian wheelwright, brewer of Jerusalem, goat-fucker of Alexandria, swineherd of Greater and Lesser Egypt, Armenian pig, Podolian villain, catamite of Tartary, hangman of Kamyanets, and fool of all the world and underworld, a fool before our God, a grandson of the Serpent, and the crick in our dick. Pig's snout, mare's arse, slaughterhouse cur, unchristened brow, screw thine own mother!

So the Zaporozhians declare, you lowlife. Thou wilt not even be herding Christian pigs. Now we shall conclude, for we don't know the date and don't have a calendar; the moon's in the sky, the year in the book, the day's the same over here as it is over there; for this kiss our arse!

Koshovyi Otaman Ivan Sirko, with the whole Zaporozhian Host.

Someone did a great painting of the Cossacks as they were replying:

http://img.waffleimages.com/7c68faf751667c188cf3a3734a7ac4cba47053c4/Repin_Cossacks.jpg

Test

Testing... this thing on?