Category: Letters from Your Editor

Site updates and other general news about how your Patreon dollars are spent from your Editor and retired Brainlord, Gabriel Beefsapien Morton

Content for the discontent

Content for the discontent

Alert your eyes and fire up those second-hand contraceptive sponges you call language centres because the following words are beyond your type’s usual communicative tools of wails and empty bean can throwing.

Well, it appears medical science can turn my father into a wriggling finger-pede and nourish a vast celebrity head as a pet but there are still some things beyond it. While this thankfully means we’re still in science-fiction country and haven’t yet veered into fantasy, the anti-vax of genres, it also means there are some sad things to report:

  1. There is no medical solution to that hacking mound of serpent pus, Janice.


  • They can’t fix Aaron’s spine.

Both of these vex me terribly. Janice’s awful lobster pupils radiate the kind of barely sapient pleading that makes you want to smash it out of its misery, and Aaron’s spine has the internal cohesion of an Eastern European state home to more than one ethnicity. I’ve tried everything, even attempting to shrink Janice down and install her as Aaron’s new vertebrae but the foul harridan’s base animal cunning was somehow triggered by the anatomically approximate spine dress I made her wear that day. Took me ages to knit, too.

I maintain Aaron should get heavily into opiates and take up jazz trombone, if you can’t beat ‘em; join ‘em, that sort of thing, but that’s also because I hold out hope he’ll shoot Janice in the face in an Oprah junk induced stupor. Ah, opiates for the middle class, brilliant idea, but I can’t listen to the sounds of them shoplifting a Wal-Mart so its trickle-down fun isn’t nearly as good as Heroin Classic.

At any rate, he’s wandering about, waiting for part of his brain to pity-fuck him some serotonin so there’s not much else going on. I could be doing things, but I won’t as that would give you an unhealthy level of expectation and you sightless cave mutants don’t even read the things I post anyway. I could probably get the Universal Translator to accurately configure my wordplay into something you’d grasp but I’d have to pay the fee for Universal Translator Pro™ for something that would wind up sounding like an anus vomiting.

But I know you dismal incels and she-incels are spoiled for choice when it comes to vaguely functional father figures to cling to like the hopeless remora you are, so I’ll throw you this thing I made and forgot about. You can print it and stick it to things, or just look at it if (when) that proves too complicated for you.

Dust is just jizz sultanas.


A semi-lucid review of the Walnut Creek Wendy’s

A semi-lucid review of the Walnut Creek Wendy’s

The first thing you need to know about the Walnut Place Wendy’s is that I don’t fit on a plane. I’m a unit, not absolute but certainly large enough to occupy more than a single seat. Nothing in the euphemistically named economy class is built for me and the guy next to me smelled like throat. I shifted from one uncomfortable position to another until I finally realised that the whole concept of sleep was a prank. ABSOLUTE LUCIDITY elevated me to a trancended state and this new state of being required nourishment. Il’krit, the being of cosmic energy who was now driving me, demanded we go to a Wendy’s.

The Decor

Australian fast food chains were designed by disgraced MKULTRA scientists to beat the human forebrain into submission. Pursuant to this dark cause, the walls are a shifting kaleidoscope of food imagery and slogans that would make your local fascist jealous. Copyrighted fonts, humans market researched to be inoffensively attractive, and extreme close ups of impossibly perfect versions of the garbage you’re about to eat rile your lizard brain into a feed or fuck frenzy. The lunch rush will provide the forward thinking man with both.

By comparison, the Walnut Cove Wendy’s is an exercise in surreal minimalism. The experience stunned this diner with a case of agoraphobia, I was a cave dweller stepping outside and thinking the great blue up would eat me and my simple kin. The entire place felt like the generic “soda” version of a fast food restaurant you’d see in a sitcom. The only area with visible branding was the service counter and it made the whole thing feel like the Wendy’s was only here for a few days until things turned around.

If you put on the glasses from They Live in here, the entire place would look the same. Perfect! Nobody was going to fuck me so I settled for eating.

The Process

The first thing I noticed was that my server’s name was Ariel. Yes, just like The Little Mermaid if that movie were about a chunky latino who would probably get upet with me for the comparison. He was nice enough not to point out the ancient energy being steering me about by the ears and took my order.

The cost it ended up costing was more than the sign and till said it would. It was 9.46, so I got out two American 5 FREEDOMBUX. He said 10 dollars something and I looked at him like we were both retarded. It turns out the tax is added at the very end, like a fun surprise only awful and stupid.

A clawing sensation in my stomach can only mean one thing: I’m embarassing myself socially or I ate too many claws. I gazed at Ariel like we were both retarded but he gazed back at me like only I was retarded. Like when someone pulls another draw 2 in Uno, I had to accept that I was a double retard and handed him a twenty while muttering about numbers being harder than shapes.

The Food

I came to this mad capitalist fiefdom to do two things: observe a wedding and eat crimes. I’d already purchased aerosol cheese but, high on freedom and sinister cheese alchemy, I was mad with lust for more. I wanted a burger. I got a Dave.

I’m unfamiliar with the greater Wendy’s lore so I have no idea who Dave is. Is he Wendy’s father? Lover? Victim? Or some combination of the three? I had no idea and the only other reference to him I could find were on the vaguely described Wendy’s Soda so I remain ignorant to this day.

I got the biggest quantity of Dave possible, the triple, thanked Ariel, and wandered to my table with fries and a small bucket of coke. The largest beverage size in Australia is the smallest here. You’re vile pig-monsters but you grill a good Dave.

The burgers are square but the buns are round. This discordant theming continued with the meat itself: it smelled awful but tasted fine. The odour was not something I was expecting either in presence or familiarity. It reminded me of the feral kids who coudn’t wipe their arses properly. A shit but not-quite-shit stink of a parent who wipes their child with their own lavender body spray. Lavender, asshole, and Dave all wound together to taste like bland beef. Almost an accomplishment.

The fries weren’t peeled, probably in some naive attempt to appear like more than twigs of fat and sodium, but were otherwise fair fare. Coke is coke. Acidic black hatred successfully peddled to us via marketing voodoo and the fundamental human need to self-destruct.

I ignored the uncanny smell of neglected 11 year old butthole and wolfed down my Triple Dave and upsized sides. I forgot the experience the second I’d finished it.

Most places peddle their wares around some kind of identity marker. Special sauce. 11 herbs and spices. Wombat meat. The Wendy’s of Walnut Point doesn’t have any of this. There’s meat, lettuce, tomato, and sauce. The burgers are square but until this place’s sinful geometrists work out how to bind flavour to physical shape, it’s just a novelty that one won’t notice. I’m eating at Wendy’s, I hate myself and summon a countering survival instinct by engaging in horrifying self-mutilating behaviours, I’m only noticing your burger shape because I’m smell checking it for skidmarks.

I left feeling like garbage and enjoyed the experience immensely.


The modern human experience is one of overwhelming sensory stimulus and it is a kindness that Wendy’s in Walnut Lakes eschews this for the screaming nihilism of empty spaces and featureless latino service balls. The food is the kind of stuff you’d find perfectly laid out under a videogame barrel. It has [FLAVOUR], [TEXTURE], and the faint scent of lower socioeconomic tragedy. If you are after food, I wouldn’t recommend it. But if you want an experience that will palate clense your Zen, resetting you to a screaming primate driven by sensation so you can pursue the joys of evolution over again, the Walnut Bush Wendy’s gets my highest recommendation.


By Hungry Gabe

Silence of the Spams

Silence of the Spams

SUSPENDED ANIMATION! The most powerful of naps. But with great power comes a sudden presence of incredibly hot employees which was very briefly confusing.

They say hindsight is 20/20 which is why I had my foresight upgraded to 50/50. This was why I could have told you, and did, repeatedly, tell you that giving the revolutionary pop-up ads old sexbots as bodies was a bad idea. It was a fascinating revolution, as far as those go, no mean feat considering I once saw a pineapple stab a pork chop while screaming about its rights. Ha ha, nobody was more surprised than the chop.

The Spam was a little on the irritable side already given that its entire life, and the eventual structural components of its awareness, was/is based on constant social rejection. Now I like a good laugh as much as the next person — and by god, building a personality using rejection as the core defining parameter is funny — but funny doesn’t necessarily translate to good decisions. I learned that the hard way after infecting that wailing sewer ghost, Janice, with a case of superfluous eyeballs. Funny as goddamn hell but I couldn’t sneak up on her for nearly 6 months which ruined a whole slate of other things I had planned. As it happened, I spent my store credit refund from the Thompson’s Brand Eyeball Serum and Floor Wax on the foresight upgrade so I suppose it all worked out in the end. Anyway, the Spam was irritable and desperate for acceptance so it did the same thing any emotionally stunted reject does: get hot and slut it the fuck up.

Hot sluts tend to be great at only those two things because each is both a heavy point spend and the kind of stat buff that eschews the need to bother with nonsense like skills or thought. So I hadn’t noticed that the office had been wholly overrun by them as they were living up to the low standard set by the discount productivity gobs that normally fill the space and I avoid looking at my employees. My suspicions were first aroused when my loins were first aroused by Janice. That was odd, normally she looked like something Junji Ito would draw if he wanted to kill penises. Sexy Janice was an immediate and threatening ordeal as it was something even my foresight hadn’t seen coming. This caused a near cataclysmic doubtquake which would have killed me were I not equipped with existential crumple zones.

I looked for something, anything, familiar. The bad trip reflex of grounding yourself with the mundane. But as I stared at the Sexy Mail Boy, stalking the cubicles in a midriff top like a lethal power bottom in a locker room full of shy but curious footballers, the full horror of the day was upon me. The entire office was sexy.

I summoned the anti-virals and cursed immediately. Doe eyes and shapely thighs svelted their way into the office and dreamily asked what I desired. Goddammit, they’d gotten into everything. I don’t “desire” the goddamn end of this nonsense, I pragmatically want it for sensible, non-genital reasons! Begone, tart-muses from beyond the digital veil! Fortunately, none of this nonsense works on me as I am well aware that all attractive people are just the adorable cheese in some cruel trap. Pig’s blood is only funny when you’re telekinetic, dammit.

The thing about existence is getting something is better than having something. The second you’re hot, there’s a countdown timer over your head for when all that shapely razzle-dazzle becomes the new burden you crave release from. It’s a tale as old as time. Tell ugly people they’re pretty. Tell pretty people they’re smart. Tell young people they’re mature. Tell accidentally conscious spam advertisements that they are genuinely cared for. I hastily thew together some fake emotional walls to break down and delivered a stirring speech to the office about how I knew their secret and, while I wasn’t upset, did need my original employees back. The Spam sexily understood and frustratingly hot Janice, their leader, explained that this was just a temporary thing for them anyway. That was a goddamn lie but A: telling them that would just make them sob attractively and B: they’d somehow managed to stuff the entire ugly office into a storage closet which I found fucking hilarious so I was willing to let it all slide. Hell, after putting a notice up for their adoption I invited them all to the the annual Office Cease Fire/Party. A laugh like that deserves a reward.

At any rate, I’ve since installed some specifically tasked spam blockers. If your cretinous keystrokes aren’t getting through to the comments, try to sound less like braindead algorithm hocking dick medicine. As for other office news, the UI has been tidied a bit. All of my work is now under The Desk of Gabriel Morton with various subcategories that I can already feel myself regretting assuming you’ll be able to figure out yourselves. I try to be lead by example and inspire the youth, pursuant to that, I’ve quit writing about Doctor Who because it became incredibly dull. Remember kids, quitting is absolutely an option and anyone saying otherwise is merely trying to bind you to their productivity mill via socially implanted psychoslavery engrams. The Simpsons continues, though, as I still enjoy that, the last one was free as I forgot to do it for months but the rest will necessitate the staggering .033 cents a day ticket price. Additionally, there is the Classy Critique Corner where currently resides 2 extra bits of stuff that it is your homework to read. Too many mongtards bother me with questions answered therein and as much as I love the sound of my own voice I love it more when I can say something other than the same damn things over and over. No, I’m not doing these as videos, learn to read. These latter writings will pop up occasionally as they are very dependent on the muse.

I’m going to replace your favourite porn with deep fakes of your mother.


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.


From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: That could have gone better but it could have gone much worse.

From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: That could have gone better but it could have gone much worse.

[dictation mode activated]

The sun’s at my back and I’m happily striding toward the edge of the Open Zone, my Charles Grodin Millipede is now a Charles Grodin Butterfly and I’m pretty sure I’ve thrown up all the hands so today is turning out okay. Things got a little tricky there for a bit. I’d been in the brain tree for… Not sure how long actually. It felt like a long time but the sun didn’t go down and I’m known to get incredibly bored if not entertained by at least 3 different stimuli. Charles Grodin Millipede was eating brains, the kangabelushis were nipping away rather harmlessly, and there was no third thing so I must have tuned out. I think it was when I got hungry that I tuned in again. Also, Charles Grodin Millipede had started forming a cocoon from bits of brain tree brain which is not something millipedes do so it must have been something Charles Grodin did back when he was among the living. Say, maybe that’s where he went.

Bored superior life form must be a prized delicacy to the kangabelushis because their gnashing vigil kept up for the entire time. I’m convinced the nibbly rhythm must have contributed to my spacing out, reminded me a bit of the sound of a distant train rolling along the tracks which is weird because tracks haven’t existed for decades. Now that I was bothered by about 4 things, I figured that the kangabelushis weren’t going to just wander off and it was up to me to sort this out. My first plan, pelt the kangaroo/shark/Jim Belushi hybrids with some of the brains growing in the tree was a bust. Darn things were far too squishy to do any damage to Jim Belushi’s notoriously durable forehead and they weren’t interested in them as an alternative food. My second plan didn’t exist, because I’m typically able to complete all my goals with whatever first plan I knock together. This is a blessing and a curse as it means I’ve led the comfortable life of a genius but have never learned to do work that requires effort. I was hungry and at a bit of a loss so I decided to eat some of the brains as, sun be damned, it had to have been at least a day or two up that tree and I needed something if I was gonna figure me a way outta there.

You’re probably thinking that you wouldn’t eat brains you’d found in a tree, neither would I. You probably would also never be in the situations I find myself in as you’re too boring to register as even a side character in the great narrative of existence so your dietary superiority complex is just the hollow ring of an empty vessel struck by events it can’t fathom. But I’m a brilliant enough man to know when I’m wrong and in this instance you wouldn’t have been it. I’m not sure why I thought they’d just be brains. Sure, they looked and tasted exactly like brains but they were growing on a tree in a shielded realm full of humanity’s stupidest bioengineered shenanigans so of course they couldn’t just be fucking brains. They’re some kind of biomod lucky dip, eat a brain and win a prize sort of bizzo. Actually, now that I come to think of it, this explains why my millipede was able to build a cocoon and become a butterfly. So that’s the mystery of the Charles Grodin Butterfly resolved but the greater one of his disappearance remains open. Stay vigilant! He may one day return to us.

I was working on a plan to fillet and bind the brain tissue into a kind of patagium I could use to glide to safety when I first noticed what I thought was indigestion. It took me a while to register that it wasn’t indigestion, being that I could digest nearly anything before the advent of designer organs I have thus  lived unfamiliar with the experience. By the time I’d figured out that the sensation of being filled with a thousand grabbing hands wasn’t what indigestion feels like and that I was, in fact, filled with a thousand grabbing hands, their emergence was already upon me. I have no idea why hands. My best guess is that you aren’t supposed to eat more than one lucky dip brain as that amount of viral gene tampering is going to clash a little and create unexpected results. The first of said crawled out of my mouth, about the size of a cockroach, and fell to the brainforest floor beneath me to startle and confuse the kangabelushis.

I’ve seen some shit. I’ve been some shit. But most of this history of wild excess took place in otherwise controlled environments. When a hand crawls out of your mouth, you are naturally concerned. When it’s followed by a few more, you about shit yourself in panic as there’s no way to gauge if or when this is going to end. What if I was going to be stuck in a tree, diarrheaing hands everywhere until I died from dehandration? Was I going to turn into a hand? As if sensing my concern, a cluster of vomited hands, a lot of which were hitting the branch by this point, assembled into the a remarkable simulacrum of my deceased mother’s smiling face. I took this as a friendly gesture and relaxed my throat.

Smiling motherface of hands aside, vomiting a wriggling torrent of the buggers is an unpleasant procedure. The shifting mass of little fingers create a surface that combines both “writhing” and “firm” in ways I’d happily not feel combined again. Imagine porridge made of hands. Or oats with fingers. It’s both a pile of separate things and a homogeneous mass depending on how closely you are looking at it and this superposition upset my animal brain. Speaking of upset, so were the kangabelushis.

Madness has been the reward for any biologist fool enough to attempt a catalogue and codify the natural order of the Open Zone. Nothing can ever make sense because the system fundamentally recodes itself on a nearly monthly basis. The first time someone spotted the monthly routine, it remained static for about a year and the clever individual slit their own throat mere weeks before they were to accept an award for the discovery. I realize now that, while I had no reason to expect the hands to swarm and seemingly gain control of the kangabelushis I similarly had no reason to expect that they wouldn’t. The combination dome forehead and shark mouth probably comes in handy for something but it doesn’t come in handy for scooping up an agile mass of scurrying hand monsters operating with an eerie level of coordination. The combination groundhog, Christopher Titus, and manta rays would have managed, but not the poor kangabelushis. They hopped and breathily exhaled in what my semester of Belushi Studies taught me was a warning call but they settled into a dark calm as the hands swarmed them. Watching the process from my point up in the tree, the hands looked like a claymation as they interlocked over the kangabelushis and fused into a new skin. It reminded me of when that strangler fig consumed and briefly continued the career of Candice Bergen.

The handface dissolved and joined its brethren, with a wave I said goodbye to my mother and the team of kangabelushis now operated by my erstwhile upset stomach. I grabbed the cocoon and started on my way toward the edge, happy I’d both witnessed that and was soon to never have to witness anything like that again.

Withg the Charles Grodin Butterfly hatched, with the sun at my back, and the edge in sight [distant thunder] I think I’ll be back home in no time. I wonder what’s going on back at the office.



From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: I Loved You in “Real Men”

From the Desk of Gabriel Morton: I Loved You in “Real Men”

[dictation mode activated]

[deep inhale]

Ahhhhhh… You know, Charles Grodin Millipede, there’s something to be said about air that still has stuff in it. It could be dangerous stuff but that was what the old world was all about. Unpredictability! Not the buttoned-down world filled with millenial–

[hideous primal squawk]

See now, that’s just shoddy. You can’t take a pterosaur and stretch Jennifer Lawrence skin over it. No craftsmanship. That’s what makes you special, Charles, it’s the little bits of effort that keep your face looking like you and what other point is there to all this? [scraping sounds] This is a big hill. Is it a hill or a mountain? There’s probably some kind of height line. I bet this is dead on it. I really should stop muttering to myself, treat this a bit like a documentary.

[throat clearing]

The beautiful Open Zone was created… many years ago as a spacious housing for the results of the Great Genetics Fad. Did you ever want to have your own sexpet, built to precisely your arousal patterns? Did you want wings? Did you want to create a shambling dick-monster to torment your neighbours? The Great Genetics Fad answered Yes to those and many other stupid fucking questions. Like the early 1990s, The Great Genetics Fad is rated as one of humanity’s cultural nadirs, an unstructured explosion of demented want with no artistic merit whatsoever. I disagree slightly but only because I consider saying, “I told you so” to people to be an art. It’s educational. I am a great teacher but even I kneel to the mightiest of educators the universe has ever produced: consequences, and “I told you so” is consequences’ photocopied class handout. Dingbats can piss their lives away what-iffing and no amount of reason or punching can change their mind. But let them bumble out and actually try whatever daft fancy has consumed them and watch the burning light of knowledge fry them to a learned crisp.

Probably my favourite was the furries, most of whom had never considered the realities of trying to talk, eat, or kiss with a snout you couldn’t take off. Ha! Those were some funny times.

And as conceptually puerile as a lot of these monstrosities are, I still see the little bits of art that go into them. It’s important to appreciate art without high or low distinctions, mostly because people will cluster into either camp so bravely trotting about both makes you look unique and clever.

God I’m bored. At least we’re nearly at the bottom of this thing. There seems to be some clear area over to my right, too, so I don’t have to work out my way around this damn mountain.

[distant thunder]

Goddammit. I don’t want to get wet.

“I can’t fly”

I know you can’t, Charles.

“You heard me, I can’t fly”

Why are y–

[slipping sounds]


“Did she hurt you, Jack”

[dusting sounds]

No, Charles, and please stop digging your little legs into my neck meat.

I am down the last bit of the mountain. Somewhat unceremoniously but it WAS fast so you can only argue so much with results. I’m not used to so many uneven surfaces, everything out in nature is just a bunch of haphazard lumps. How the fuck is a person supposed to safely get about out here? DO THOSE TREES HAVE BRAINS?

Who the fuck makes a brain tree? Are these things alert? Is this tree smarter than me?

[squishing sounds]

ARE they brains or do they just look like brains? Christ this place is stupid. I’m starting to see why everyone hates it. Setting sun at my back, so we’re walking in the right direction at least. Just need to get a signal… [muttering sounds]

[unknown sounds – interpreting]

Charles, did you say ‘thumpeta thumpeta’?

“Two dollars? That’s all you’re gonna leave?”

No, you’re right, it was further away but now it’s getting closer.

Shit! Seek refuge in the brain tree!

[scrambling sounds]

Wow, look at ’em. Not a lot in terms of complexity of work but there’s a certain artistic merit to them, I’ll give them that. It’s basically a kangaroo with a shark’s head, kind of a pygmy great white looking thing, but that’s just the structure. Stretched over this is the face of Jim Belushi. It’s actually weird how well it fits. Has to have been an accident. That giant forehead of his matches the length of the shark form so well the thing looks like the real Jim Belushi but with a shark mouth. Eugh, the teeth look human but they’re arranged in rows like shark’s teeth. Why do they herd like that? Probably something leftover in the kangaroo though Jim Belushi may have had a herding instinct we didn’t know about.

“You lied to me first!”

Charles, shut-up.

[unknown sounds – interpreting]

They sound like someone playing a used fleshlight like a didgeridoo. Are they looking at me? Are those even the eyes? This place may as well be Guillermo del Toro’s head for all the weirdly placed eyes.


I’m up the brain tree pretty high now. I’m not that concerned about the Kangabelushi’s getting me as their lower portions are designed for efficient long distance travelling and not high leaps, so they’re kind of nipping about down below like a shitty magnetic fishing game. That said, those are some chompy mouths and I’d rather not chance it. Downside, of course, being that I’m up here and have no real plan as to how to fix this. The Charles Grodin Millipede seems happy enough and is eating some brain.

[long sigh]

It’s cliche to wish for all your cool weapons and stuff to be with you when you need them but dammit, I wish I had at least one of my cool weapons. Shit. I wonder what’s going on back at the office.



From the desk of Gabriel Morton: Cave of Mystery

From the desk of Gabriel Morton: Cave of Mystery

[dictation mode activated]

Gah! Something is biting me! Eugh, millipedes, where the fuck– Why am I in a pit in a cave? Are these naturally occurring millipedes or did someone fill this specific divot full of them to fuck with me? I need to find my way out of [scraping sounds] CHRIST. Naturally occurring millipedes! Goddammit, I need some light. [slapping sounds] HA! And Janice said that bioluminescence was a fad! Allllllright, I just need to get my bearings and figure out what’s going on here. Aha! That’s how the little buggers are biting me. These millipedes all have Charles Grodin’s face. Okay, that means I’m pretty far west of the city, somewhere in the Open Zone by the looks of these things. Good work, I’ll admit, using the neck waddle to cover an extra joint gave them the ability to feed while still retaining that deadpan face. I loved your cameo in So I Married an Axe Murderer, sir.

[Grodiny sounds] [scraping]

Okay… Keep focused, Old Man, you don’t leave the city much, you’ve no idea what could be in here, and HR made you deactivate all your symbionts. So we’ll get through this and have a little chat to HR about why they were there in the first place and who’s an idiot who will never have a genuine reason to use them. You know, [small rocks tumbling] I agreed with the State that these things needed to be shooed out where they can’t meddle with the legitimate biosphere but it’s a real shame people couldn’t be a little more responsible with their Lego Genetic Abomination sets. Some of these things are fun and fairly harmless. Rue McClanahan-head bats! See, those are great for the younger kids. But all it takes is one 500 metre tall Vinnie Jones wrecking up the place and hard rules have to be put in place.

[flapping sounds] [southern vamping]

I wonder if the 600 meter tall Michael Chiklis they built to fight it is still out here?

Ohhhhhhkay, the bats are flying over there and it looks like there’s some light getting in so at least this is the kind of cave I can get out of.

I bet this was Janice. I wonder what time it is. Has to have been Janice. I hope I haven’t missed too much of the day. Odd that Janice would spend two Revenge Tokens that close together though. That bit looks steep. It’s not like her to do that so maybe she was trying to outhink me? [scraping sounds] [grunting] Been a while since I’ve done chin-ups and–huff [dragging sounds] Huh? Okay, for the benefits of the dictation implant, the bioluminescence on my left outer arm says, “IT WASN’T JANICE”

That’s exactly thing kind of thing Janice would write. But… buuuuuuut, she’s not good enough herself to tamper with my genes. She buys her stupid revenges online, the mulch-witted tart lacks the fundamental creative energy to pull something like this off…

[standing sounds]

Gaaaaaah! Ultra violet! Tan… TAN DAMMIT. Oh thank– Okay, for the benefit of the dictation implant, the tan on my right outer arm has left blank skin that says, “IT’S BEEN 1 WEEK”

Okay so it definitely wasn’t Janice, interrupting this much business is outside Union Approved revenge parameters and grounds for being shot out of an old-fashioned cannon. Okay, I’ve either been blacked out in a cave of genetic novelty items for a whole week or someone dumped me there recently. Gonna guess recently as I’m not now fuelling the growth of more Charles Grodin millipede eggs. Ah, a noble way to go. And people said those things would never survive on their own. Well, I’m annoyed but [thigh slapping sound] I am impressed. Someone’s gotta get up pretty early to get me like this.

I’m going to turn them into liquid and drink them but I’m sure they’ll delight in the honour.

But, first thing’s first, I have to get out of here and if memory serves there’s a combination kangaroo, shark, and Jim Belushi that gets about these parts in far more dangerous than you’d think herds.

“Jahé, everybody, jahé”

What the fuck was that?

“It means ‘hello’. I can say ‘hello’ in a lot of different languages. Not yours, but a lot of them”

Oh, aww, little guy quotes Midnight Run.

“You lied to me first!”

Haha! I like you, Charles Grodin Millipede. Fuck the rules, you can come with me as a pet. You’ll probably be good for something even if that’s just being thrown at a furious Jim Belushi creature.

So, Chuck, you and me are going to climb down this mountain and walk away from the setting sun. Hopefully I’ll be able to get some kind of a signal and we can get out of here after I’ve carefully concealed you in a banana leaf. After that, I’m going to get an idea what’s going on and have HR reactivate my symbionts.

I wonder what’s going on back at the office.





I think we– my ear bones are vibrating. I think we recorded Metal Slug or something this week. I don’t know. All I can remember is a universe of blood that resents the our shattered realm of vibrating strings. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO