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From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: Home is where your Truth Beetles are.

From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: Home is where your Truth Beetles are.

Ah, home! Ah! Home!

My collection of Truth Beetles confirmed what I had already cleverly deduced, Janice had nothing to do with my mysterious disappearance. I was already sure of this but decided the Truth Beetles needed a bit of practice and, after that particularly slipshod performance, I was correct. Janice wasn’t even fazed. About the most perturbed she got was when the Truth Beetles mussed up her hair, which, considering she’d just had modified androconial organs pissing chemicals into her lobe-folds, is indicative that the Beetles are a bit off their game. That or Janice is getting stronger. A nightmare scenario I’ve several fail-safes in place for, even though screaming paranoia tells me that exercise is just building more hulls on an ironically described ocean liner.

Well, as Janice re-applied the various snake oils and toad balms the business folk continue to trick women into using, I got down to business.

Full disclosure: I had no idea where to begin. Normally, something is either Janice’s fault, not Janice’s fault but I blame her anyway and amuse myself punishing her, or not annoying enough to really warrant any significant action on my part. Here we had a bit of a puzzle: I wanted quick and preferably drawn-out revenge but had no real clue as to the culprit. Most of the staff were of Sapience Level Frowny Face or lower meaning the building was able to scrape their mental metadata for evidence of whether they were involved in abducting me or not. Turns out not. A pretty much forgone conclusion given I’m a Sapience Level Gold Star Premium but it’s underneath the unturned stones that the best stuff hides so I wasn’t going to skip the process. Bleak feedback on the scan from my Psychophrenologists down in HR, though, apparently there’s a being in the Mail Room whose inner monologue is the theme to Get Smart on repeat. I don’t know if that’s even something that needs fixing let alone whether I’ve the means to fix it but I’ve decided to imprison it in a Headball playing nothing but Popcorn just to see what happens. It always pays to be sure, even if you’re not sure what you are being sure about.

So my normal lineup of degenerate malcontents were content meaning I was plumb outta ideas. I’m Sapience Level Gold Star Premium enough to admit when I need help and so I decided to rent the cheapest private detectives I could yell at Janice to find. I hated them on sight but, having spent enough time outside the office to last me several vampire hormone fuelled lifetimes, they were the least hated option.

About when the mentalmod fad took off is where you began to see some real goddamn syndromes walking around. Turns out the human brain has about x amount of energy that can be spread across a variety of intermingling domains so provided you don’t breach that x you can spec the thing to do an awful lot. Don’t give a fuck about shapes? Great! You’ll never identify a circle again but now you can describe the thing mathematically in ways that frustrate and amaze most of the lesser AIs. Ha ha, pretentious cunts.

Naturally people took this too far and ruined it, first by producing all sorts of boutique savants and other natural crimes, then by rendering the whole hobby unfashionable. India used to do this quaint thing with the chromosomally abhorrent monkey children the abundant unnatural chemicals and radiation produced where they’d figure the horrid little pinheads for monkey gods and treat them accordingly. Modern society wasn’t so kind to the thrice autistic memory machines who traded recognising faces for more musical talent and they were of the more pleasant examples. Now these things bumble about, usually unable to experience the kinds of despair their condition would cause a normal, in an uneasy truce with greater society. A peace that will hold out as long as nobody shits on a bus.

The one looking at me had to have been one of these. He was far too friendly and everything he did got passed my defences. Fortunately, these were only the superficial defences of my firewall personality but having to nearly seriously think was annoying enough to register. He’d be dangerous, possibly Omega Plus, if he weren’t an otherwise empty golem. Social savants, I’d heard of a few, specced the mentalmods in the whole opposite direction to the wannabe droids. Most went way too far and either killed themselves or became famous celebrities, a few are said to have stumbled on Artificial Zen but that would be like an alchemist stumbling upon a particle accelerator. The firewall personality told me I wanted to be his friend again. I didn’t but damned if I didn’t respect the artistry.

The other one was a refugee from a Castalian cult that eschewed artificial evolution for the more stable natural form, albeit in an unnaturally well organised fashion. Most breeding cults fell apart after about 3 generations but the Castalians had hung on rather admirably and produced some interesting, if a little behind, results. Their weird philosophy of organised chaos was reflected in the other one having the calmest eyes and twitchiest hands I’ve ever seen on a human who hadn’t caught that disease that makes you sleepy and grow hands. I’m pretty sure he can fight, too. One of the Anti-Virals sizzled up out of the ground to look at him earlier and the Baboon Collective had actually scurried off as he exited the elevator. Both suggest a worrying mix of Castalian refinement and batshit savagery.

I hated both of them and hired them immediately.

In office news, Aaron was in the United States Socialist Soviet earlier in the week for some get-together of all the useless video trash Max Headroom tried to warn us about, so we’ve not made any new amusement-records for you to piss your lives away viewing. This upsets you terribly so take some pharmaceutical-grade opiates, which I am suggesting you take out of genuine concern for your pain and not because I get five American Socialist Value Tokens for every one of you gut-blobs I get hooked on Oprah-Grade smack pills. Chow down, you doped out pac-men.

Gelatin is dried ghost cum


From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: I should set fire to the great outdoors

From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: I should set fire to the great outdoors

[dication mode activated]

[proximate thunder]


[dictation mode deactivated]

[dictation mode activated]

[helicopter noises]

I once fell down some steps and got my own toe stuck in my eye. That was the biggest toe I’d ever seen until today. I know it’s perspective but you don’t ever really expect to see a giant toe. Nobody gives themselves a giant toe and I’ve seen a lot of giant things. I saw this forehead once whose John C. Riley-eque ridges had been expanded into balcony seating. Three standard sized dwarfs and a teacup dwarf, each impeccably dressed for the occasion, were sitting in them using opera glasses to peer about at the world and quietly comment to each other. I was insane with curiosity but didn’t know whether to approach the forehead’s owner or the dwarfs about it, so I left the matter a mystery which is something that torments me to this day.

The toe belonged to what I’d originally mistook for a large rocky outcrop.  It was large in the sideways sense not the upwards one so myself and my butterfly were confident of scaling it and saving a lot of travel time. In my youth I’d participated in the hip fad of Obese Meth Rodeo before People for the Ethical Treatment of Fat Cunts had it outlawed. I was reminded of it as I gripped into the beige quartz ridges of the rocky outcrop, and took the moment to show off my considerable grip strength to nobody but myself. Nothing builds grip like clinging to the psoriasis hardened ridges of a scooter-bound dugong made furiously mobile by a recent interest in designer stimulants. The outcrop I was pawing my way up felt like a sugar-crusted jube that had been left out, something I should have paid attention to but missed amidst the general absurdity of the Open Zone. Of course the rocks here are weird. Why would they be anything else?

I was deceived! Twice, actually. I’d thought the far side safe enough to simply walk down, leaning back to ensure gravity’s arseward pull kept me on my surface, but the damn thing was a notch too slippery and I fell. I’ve never been a fan of momentum. Motion should always be the reward for active work, dammit. Momentum is, naturally, incredibly biased toward me and takes any opportunity it can to cause me unjust harm, so down the far side I went. Never one to let the forces of the universe have the last laugh, I grabbed for whatever I could and found what I presumed to be some kind of tree root. Presumption normally makes a pre out of sum and ed but here I felt justified in mine as I was still operating under the belief that what I was climbing was a geological feature and not the sleeping form of 500 meter tall Vinnie Jones. The root was a hang nail that my weight ripped from the toe, taking a large stream of delicate toe flesh with it like a magician’s novelty scarf. A far off hill tore itself from the landscape. The surface rippled like cornflour gravy as a face fought through the years of accumulated soil. Eyes screamed themselves into existence above a sneer and focused themselves remarkably quickly on my tiny, escaping form.

I’m the first to admit that I’ve made my mistakes in life. In retrospect, doping up the monstrously obese with painkillers, stimulants, and various infuriants just to make sport of clinging to the buggers is a bit of a dick thing to do. And yes, I tried my hand at some high scores in the city’s Vinnie Pits. But it was a different era! Seeing how many clones of Vinnie Jones you could slaughter in a 15 minutes time limit wasn’t viewed in the same light as it is today. It’s not like people kept a single operating consciousness across the lot of them to ensure the Vinnies would learn and grow ever more savage at the injustice of their predicament. I think. So no, I don’t think there’s a certain poetic justice in being chased by the 500 foot version some dingbat made. Get off your high horse, because they too were outlawed as cruel.

You don’t run away from something that’s about 250 times taller than you are so much as you scoot from various hiding spots in a generally away direction. Applying some of what I learned dealing with my infestation of office gnomes, I managed to keep out of the thug leviathan’s sight while making for the edge of the containment field. My eyebrow was twitching in the Z pattern of the old shoryuken notation so I knew I was close to the omnipresent invisible communication systems of the modern day. The gargantuan novelty actor was ignorant of my plans, and a lot otherwise, so a small rockfall a few hundred meters away the colossal cretin had itself caused so occupied it that I could pretty much walk away calmly. Charles Grodin Butterfly fluttered by and all was well. And then the sun went down.

The sight of a standard monstrosity like Vinnie Jones is breathtaking if you aren’t used to it, but I’ve seen enough for it to be just another building-sized man trying to stomp on me. But goddamn, the Imperator Class Titan Character Actor Michael Chiklis blocking out the sun makes even the Vinnie look small. I think it’s something to do with Mr Chiklis’ head to face ratio massively favouring the head that does it. That and his pectorals are still classified as mixed use suburban lots. He must have heard the active Vinnie Jones, decided that the fight wasn’t over, and gotten up to continue the pair’s endless duel. A quick scan of the horizon had me certain that there was a missing mountain, though perhaps I’d simply miscounted. Its weight shook the ground as it barrelled in Vinnie’s, and unfortunately my, direction. A testament to the engineering marvel that were its knees. Vinnie Jones shrieked, unfurled the membranous wings he’d kept concealed for most of his career, and in one slow, billowy flap, took to the sky.

I, even at my distance, was blown arse over tit but fortunately in a tit-arse-tit-arse pattern that suggested I’d been blown in the direction I was already heading in. My eyebrow spasmed and I hooked the edge of an old emergency signal which I patched through to a Scout’s First Pain Amplifier I’d had implanted in Janice during last year’s Christmas party. Apparently it took the office a little while to realize her squealing and clutching her eye were actually the dashes and dots of Morse Code which explains why it still took so long to rescue me. Ah, Samuel Morse, you inventor of a strangely immortal communication method and stabber of lady’s eyes, how you’d smile to see today!

I’ll admit a kind of kinky thrill at being close to a giant monster battle that actually has the potential to do me mortal harm. The ones in the city are so safe, they’re about as fun to watch as bumper bowling. That said, I have no intention of ever dying, let alone in as ignominious a fashion as getting crushed in the Outer Zone. I’d look like a hipster. So I ran, leaving my view of the battle just a scarce few glances over my shoulder. Chiklis’ raw might was something else. The Vinnie was no small sight but his lean, ropey arms were being easily held apart by the Chiklis’ thicker counterparts. The sight of a shrieking bat Christ attempting to smother the star of TV’s The Shield with its wings was a doozy. Chiklis mouthed at the membrane of the wing like a baby gorilla gnawing at its egg, presumably trying to find a point of purchase on the shimmering surface to bite into. His sandworm like lips pinched into one and tugged until the Vinnie brought its knee up and pushed out of the Chiklis’ grip. Vinnie Jones had flapped into the air and was maneuvering around Michael Chiklis’ laser breath as the drone copter flew me back toward civilisation and some level of revenge for all this business.

It will be nice to get back in to the office and see what calamity the cheap dunderchuds I hire with your Patreon funds have created for me. Until then, I know I’m behind on a few things but it’s been tough to find a moment to write, what with all that’s been going on, so you can write all your complaints down in a letter, poison the envelope, and then eat the fucking thing.


Witness the Cryptid

Witness the Cryptid

One of the things my childhood taught me is that inbreeding is a funny joke until you meet the results. This itself is not a joke. You’ll think it is because your distance from it will make it seem absurd but I’ve seen this absurd throw a chair at a teacher in year 5. He looked like the banjo kid from Deliverance but didn’t need the makeup. On our school camping trip to Moreton Island, this absurd stood behind a camp organizer who was fixing our tent and mimed aggressively raping him on a pillow effigy. This absurd then peed in that corner of the tent. I don’t mean like he peed in his sleep or had some kind of bladder distress, he was looking over his shoulder at us and laughing while he actively peed in his rape corner. There was a 3 minute scuffle between the rest of us, 10 to a large tent, to fight for sleeping positions farthest away from him. That was the trip where he told us he fingered his cat one time.

There’s a kind of sub-class of feral human being that most of the other classes don’t see outside of news reports on either a guy holding a knife to his de-facto wife’s neck or the RSPCA rescuing a small horde of animals from a home plastered in newspaper and shit. I’m from this class, both of these things happened on my street, it’s just dumb luck granted me the mobility to mingle with my betters undetected. There’s a bleakness to the Brisbane suburban sub-omeguloid. There’s not the population density, drugs, or weapons that would make anything these beings do severe enough to get noticed, let alone be romanticised in movies or rap lyrics. There’s just a crushing malaise that, like the summer sun, is enough to stifle every attempt at action but not enough to just kill you. The resulting madness is appropriately analogous to a melanoma: small, quintessentially Australian, and typically only noticeable when you really look.

I was grumbling about this place in high school when my English teacher piped up. Typically, when you are badmouthing a place and its people, a teacher will interrupt to chide or offer an alternative view. Mine could only add an anecdote that went like this: She was organizing a drama day for kindergarteners, between 4-5 year olds, and one of the little ones didn’t have a permission slip. My teacher called the child’s home to get verbal consent. When the parent was told it was for a drama day, it replied, “I’m sick of all this fucking kike shit” and hung up.

Australia’s Jewish population is about 112,000 people, 95% of which live in Sydney or Melbourne. Brisbane’s population of Jews is about a few hundred and I’ve met most of them which is a side-effect of being friends with one. This person has never met a Jew and is probably more than 3 degrees of separation from any interaction with one, and yet they are sick of kike shit. While it’s not always antisemitism, this is indicative of a kind of thought process you see in these places. One so divorced from reality it becomes a cryptid for the normals to repeat as an anecdote to incredulous friends, like an inbred cat fingerer. And so we come to Logan. More specifically, we come to a demented tweet’s live theatre cousin hanging over the M1 there.


Don’t try to take this all in at once. There’s a lot of moving parts here and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.

If you’re anything like me, the first thing you noticed was the lack of a web address. I’m used to seeing shit like this as I live in Brisbane and have the kind of face that makes strangers hand me small cards about white supremacy. They all have a web address on them somewhere because they all want you to go to their website. You can’t explain a far-reaching conspiracy to make white babies retarded with fluoride in just a couple of sentences. I mean, that doesn’t even leave room for sources. That this doesn’t have directions to any further information is the easily missed linchpin of the whole thing. This isn’t a thread, you can’t write “1/10” on that thing and hang more from subsequent overpasses, everything they want to communicate and how they want to communicate it is all there. Through this, we can explore the mind of the scorched Brisbane imbecile.

Getting the obvious out of the way first, the drawings. This is just bad design. Why have two penises and two vaginas touching only to have an isolated red X to symbolise a negative? Passersby are going to be drawn to the images and all they’re going to see is a homeschooled 8 year old’s understanding of homosexual activity next to a red cross over nothing. Do you hate homosexuals or asexuals? You’re expecting your audience to read the rest of the text and then use that to understand that a picture of two moustached birds kissing actually means you don’t like lesbians? A billboard has to explain everything at a glance, you should have drawn a red crossed circle around the disembodied vulvae and medieval family crest made of dicks. I absolutely know that this wasn’t done for fear of making the already sub-webcomic quality art less legible. This means that someone stood musing, either to a sympathetic party of a baffled universe, whether or not to get another bedsheet and try drawing them again or to just give up and stick a red cross over white oblivion and hope that it makes sense.

To their credit, at least they remembered lesbians. This does suggest an operant principle beyond being grossed out by dude-on-dude which is a commendable level of coherence from the homophobe community and a fucking miracle coming from this creature. The thing about remembering lesbians, though is that you’re stuck drawing vulvae and that shit’s hard. It’s not like drawing a dick. Dicks are so obvious they impose themselves. You have to work just to make the innocent things you’re drawing not look like dicks. Conversely, you have to interpret a vulva. You have to tilt your head and have someone point it out to you, so avoid drawing them whenever you can because unless you’re an actual artist who can frame them with hints of thigh and leg you’re left with something that looks like a pair of dusty doritos. Now people are driving under this thing and thinking the author has a bone to pick with homosexuals and a hairy hourglass.

Maybe the traffic was bad that day. Maybe the cars weren’t really moving that fast and the drivers had a moment to look beyond your crossed weens. This is the big time for conspiracy theorists so deranged they can’t even work the computers at the local library, and here too our tragic author has fallen short. The selection of different colours for your text is a time-tested way to draw your audience’s attention to the important elements of your presentation. Typically, one would leave the function words the standard black and highlight the content words in red but this only works if your red isn’t washed out by back lighting and if your sentence is more classically structured, not a stream of consciousness ending in a sheep laughing at me. The result is now a distinctly visible sentence amongst red mess that reads, “Only and want marriage!! Wake up, research baaaaahahaha” which sounds just enough like real instructions to veer into deliberately ironic surrealism. And you know the writer thought about this too because the WAKE UP in black has clearly been painted over an original WAKE UP in red. This poor organism has been thinking exactly this, that their emphatic font colour has been so used that it’s become the default and their sentence now features weirdly emphasised function words, so they’ve launched into an hilarious half measure to fix it.

Now, to the sentence itself. What it actually says is remarkably incoherent for something like this and why I was really surprised there wasn’t a website on it somewhere. When I say, “incoherent” a lot of you may be saying, “but Gabriel, it clearly says NEW WORLD ORDER, ILLUMINATI, and JEWS. Also, you’re looking good today”. Thank you but what makes it incoherent is that it tells me to research a new world order without specifying the one I should be looking for. The first new world order that shows up in my google searches is the dark mirror of Hulkamania and I’m already a member of that 4 life so further research is just unnecessary. The thing is, there are a lot of Illuminatis, NWOs, Sell-out governments, and homosexuals. The potential combinations of these outnumber the possible moves in chess. How am I supposed to find the right one amidst the false flags, wrestling stables, and unresearched maniacs who litter the internet? What if a reader went home, researched Bash at the Beach ’96, and came away with the idea that Scott Hall and Kevin Nash were conspiring to sell homosexuals to the Liberal Party?

The conspiracy itself is remarkably unremarkable. There’s no hint of the kinds of personal creativity you usually get with local maniacs. It’s such a haphazard collection of other people’s conspiracies that it can only be a poser lunatic’s first attempt at impressing the other children with entry-level villains. Jews, really? In Australia? Suggesting that Jews run the local media is so incredibly offensive to Rupert Murdoch that it’s downright un-Australian. This was your time to shine, Loganite, and you’ve given me something that reads like madlib filled in by an algorithm and a comment section. Now all that time spent in a garage huffing paint fumes was for fun instead of liberating the minds of your fellow countrymen. Though that would explain the baa that degenerates into laughter. This is actually my personal favourite bit of it, an artistic achievement given it shares an installation with attempted lady genitals. Under any other circumstances I’d assume the writer meant it as some addition to the insult but here I can’t be sure it’s not because they started laughing while they were writing it.

Speaking of huffing paint, it’s the only explanation for the use of “sheeple” twice. Sheeple is the kind of word you use when you are 13 and have just tried opinions for the first time. A lot of this does suggest that a 13 year old is responsible but you can tell it isn’t because a millennial would never forget to send you to their website. This whole thing screams both “thirteen years old” and “irony” so loudly it can’t be either. If it’s irony then it’s like me marching in a Nazi gathering is irony. I’m not a Nazi but I wouldn’t look out of place among a group of them. The irony is hinged so heavily on knowing that I’m personally super-not a Nazi that the joke becomes esoteric to the point of invisibility. If this is a joke, it’s so perfectly structured that it only appeals to dipshits like myself who can appreciate homophobic bedsheet manifestos as outsider art, and there’s less of us than there are people who think Jews control suburban Brisbane kindergartens so it’s gotta be legit.

What the hell is this person’s life? What Escherian labyrinth of madness is it stuck in that this combination of paranoid free association, grade-school genitals, and the word “sheeple” amounted to a thought so profound it required this? Don’t bother thinking about it, you’ve a better chance of understanding the inner monologue of a sea cucumber. A cryptid is often defined by the thing that makes it an exception in the first place, the Mexican Goat Sucker isn’t called the Mexican Tends Its Young Until the Age of Two, and I’ve no doubt this worldview defines its holder. There must be real a real lure in the excitement of it all. I wake up and try to remember if I have any yoghurt left or if I ate it all at 3am ’cause I couldn’t sleep. Waking up and knowing that I have to finish making a banner to fight the good fight against The Illumifaggy seems much more exciting. As attention grabbing as glimpses can be, the cryptids aren’t capable of affecting change any more than bigfoot numbers can rise to pest levels. One can only marvel at them when they emerge from the underplace.

By Gabe.