It's taken me a week to sit down and gather my thoughts, I've been lurking this subreddit since Minmo passed and I have no one left to comfort me-- not that anyone was ever obligated.
I think instead of focusing on the negative, I should tell everyone the positives about you.
I adopted Minmo on May 27th, 2024. She was a stray the shelter had "found" and by found, I mean were greeted since she was the sweetest girl. She was aged at about 8 months when I walked into a local pet shop where she was being held... I didn't want a cat. That's what I told myself after Pumpkin. He hurt so bad to let go, he was my baby, and I knew losing another would hurt-- but my partner insisted.
You were perfect from the second we walked up, you came right over and clashed your little head against my hand. For the first time in 5 years, I really felt something. You awoke something inside me and I knew I had to have you. By the following Monday, at 11am, we were headed home with you.
I feel so guilty. I was so stuck in my own head from the things that were happening around me... I feel like I wasted time with you I can never get back. I know I spent countless hours with you, but I feel like I still spent too many in tears and you making biscuits in my lap and purring.
Around this time last week, I noticed your breathing changing. And by June 3rd, 2024, at 11am, I had to make the choice to let you cross over. You had congenital heart failure without a murmur... no one could have known without prior x-rays.
But I'm broken, and I don't know how to move on. I felt like I was finally starting to heal and move on from trauma and now I'm sitting here holding your urn . Life is so unfair, and I won't ever forgive it for this-- Mini was my cat, my first baby with my partner. I don't know how to move on from something so senseless... She was a baby who barely got a taste of a home.

almost 3 years ago, i lost my first dog. a pitbull-labrador mix named bari. he died june 13th of 2021 on his 2nd birthday. my puppy got 1 full year before he taking from me for forever, and i’ll hate myself for the rest of my life for it. this was a few months after i lost my grandmother when i was 15 years old. we’d decided to take a family vacation and left him in the care of someone who’d raised me but turned out to be a very horrible person. i didn’t have full control over the situation, but i wish id thought to say something about leaving him there. i’d go back and never take that trip if i could. id never let him leave my side. but we trusted that person. he was the one who gave me bari, and he was the one who took him away.
i feel my heart will be forever broken. he got barely over a year of life, and i know he died alone not knowing where he was. he was found outside in the cold of some store where the person in question had sent my mom a picture of his body. at first, it hurt bad, but i thought that was maybe i was starting to handle it better. but any site and picture of him and i genuinely feel like i want to die just to be with him. id already had severe depression for this, and it’s not improving. it hurts so much worse the longer it gets without him. he should be with me, he was just a baby and it’s not fair. i have other dogs that i love dearly, but they will never fill the heartbreak ive felt. i don’t want to do this without him, but i have to.

Part 3

I needed a drink.

God, did I ever need a drink.

The incident by River Ridge was nothing short of a disaster, to say the least. When he’d made it to the scene, Sheriff Smith had asked me for every detail I could give him on what had happened, and I’d told him most of the truth.

Most of it.

I left out the part where Clementine Di Cesare had drank a man's blood and caused the earth to move. Biggs probably would’ve believed all of it if I had told him, but the Sheriff? He’d probably send me to get my head checked, and I wouldn’t blame him one bit for that. Even if there was a chance he’d believe me, I couldn’t really bring myself to include those particular elements of the story. I barely believed them, even though I’d seen it all with my own two eyes. None of this seemed to make sense anymore. I felt like I was looking at the shifting gears of some great machine without any context for what any of them did. I only knew that they did in fact do something.

I knew that Apostle was killing monsters.

I knew that Di Cesare probably wasn’t actually with the State Police.

I knew that apparently there’d been a bunch of fish women living down by River Ridge, and I may or may not have just saved them all from being ambushed. These were things I knew… and yet they didn’t make sense to me.

Christ, and here I thought small towns like this were supposed to be simple?

***

I was at The Honey Pot and Spaniel, having a beer when Dr. Miller found me. The moment I saw him walk in, I gave him a nod and wasn’t in the least bit surprised when he slid into the booth across from me.
“Deputy Sawyer… sounds like you’ve had a hell of a day, huh?”
“I’ve had a hell of a week,” I replied. “I didn’t think you drank, Doc.”
“From time to time,” He said. The bartender, Dixon came by and he ordered a beer.
“You look like you’ve barely slept,” He said, once he was gone.

“Yeah? Go figure?” I asked. “I’ve got coffee keeping me going for the time being.”
“Caffeine doesn’t really make up for a good night's sleep.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve kinda had a lot going on lately. That doesn’t really give a man much time for sleep.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Dr. Miller admitted.
“So what brings you to my little watering hole?” I asked, “It’s not 5 o’clock yet, so I can’t imagine this is a social call.”
“Yes and no,” He admitted. “Thought you might be interested in the autopsy results from last night's victim.”

I raised an eyebrow and took a sip of my beer.
“Yeah, I am actually,” I said. “I take it she had gills?”
“Noticed those, did you?” Dr. Miller asked.
“I saw them on the other girl. The one that got shot.”

He nodded.
"Guess I don't need to tell you that I've never seen this before, do I?"
"I'd be shocked if you had, Doc."
He laughed humorlessly.
"Yeah… gotta say, there wasn't a hell of a lot to find on the victim. Her name was Melissa Sinclair. Address was listed as River Ridge. Far as I can tell she owned an RV there."
"Sounds about right," I said, taking a sip of my drink. "You find anything else?"
"A lot, actually. But I'll spare you the autopsy details and cut to the really interesting bit."

He reached into his pocket and set a black card down in front of me. It looked a little bit like a student card. On it, I could see a picture of Melissa, along with her name in white text and a bar code. In the top right hand corner was a red four pointed star that looked a little bit like a cross.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Found it in her purse. There was a similar one in Hector Russells wallet too. Ever seen anything like this before?"

I took a closer look at the card. Aside from the red star, there wasn't much to ID it as belonging to any particular group, and the red star logo didn't look familiar to me either.
"No, never," I admitted.
"Me neither. Two victims with cards like this though? I'm no cop but something tells me it's connected."

I nodded, looking the cards over carefully.
"Yeah… Vickers and the Russell's… you ever met them while they were still alive?" I asked.
"You know, I actually did. My wife and I signed up for couples dance lessons for our fifteen anniversary… Hank and Patricia were in the same class as us. Can't say we were close, but I'd spoken to them a few times."
"You ever notice anything off about them?"
"Not in the slightest. I sure as hell didn't imagine they'd be… well…"
"Yeah…" I finished, nodding thoughtfully. "Melissa and Kayley… the girl that got shot… they passed as human too. So did Vickers. It's weird… no one seemed to suspect a damn thing about any of these people, but our gunmen seem to know exactly who they are, where they are and what they are…"

I looked down at the card and turned it over in my hands.
"Almost as if they've got a list of them…"
Dr. Miller's brow furrowed.
"You think that's possible?"
I nodded.

"Makes sense, doesn't it? Vickers worked in IT, right? Could be that he had access to this list… that's why he was the first target. Could also be why they burned his house. To try and get rid of any evidence of the list existing."
Dr. Miller grimaced.
"Why target the Russells and Melissa next though?"
"I'm not sure. Melissa… I may have some idea on what was going on there. The Russell's, not so much… but…"

I pocketed the card.
"I've still got time to find out."
Dr. Miller nodded.
"Keep me posted if you do," He said as Dixon brought him his beer.
We shared a drink together, and went our separate ways.

***

It was late in the afternoon when I finally made it back home. Since Di Cesare still had my car, I needed to take a cab, which I may have used as an excuse to drink more than usual. After the whirlwind of chaos that had defined the past 24… hell, the past 72 hours… I was more than ready to collapse and finally get some rest. Dr. Miller was right. I did need some sleep.

I unclipped my gun from my belt and left it in the living room along with my wallet before I dragged myself to the bedroom. I didn’t even bother to get changed before sinking down into the bed. Christ, I was getting too old for this… the drinking, the shooting. Ten years ago, maybe I wouldn’t have felt so rough, but I wasn’t in my body from ten years ago, now was I?

I rested my head back on my pillow, half ready to doze off completely. Unfortunately, that was around the time I noticed I wasn’t alone in my room.

There was a man with a red beard and a military crew cut, standing silently in my doorway. He fixed me in an intense stare, and I stared right back at him as an exasperated pit formed in my stomach.
“Well…” I said, “Hello there.”
“Deputy Rick Sawyer,” Red Beard said, his voice was low and rough with a distinct southern drawl to it. “You’ve been quite the pain in our ass, haven’t you?”
“Just today, or have I been an ongoing pain in the ass?” I asked, sitting up. I noticed two figures waiting in the hall behind Red Beard. One of them was a very disgruntled looking bald man with his arm in a sling. I waved to him. His eyes just narrowed at me.

I could feel my heart beating faster. But I did everything I could to keep a stoic face. These pricks didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing they’d spooked me.
“The boss wants to have a little chat with you,” Red Beard said. “Get up.”
“If you’re gonna shoot me, do me a solid and do it in my own bed. I’d like to at least die comfortable,” I said.
Red Beard just grunted.
“Lawrence, Oswald. Get him on his feet.”

The bald man and the other guy who I didn’t recognize both pushed past him, storming into my room to force me up. The bald man hung back, letting his friend do most of the work in forcing me to my feet. He only grabbed me with his good arm when I was already standing. Red Beard turned without a further word, leading us down the hall and through the door where a black Audi waited for us. I was forced into the back seat with my bald friend, while Red Beard got into the passenger seat.
“Oswald, keep a gun on him. Make sure he don’t do anything stupid,” Red Beard said.

The bald man… I guess he was Oswald, nodded. I figured that meant that the man who got in the driver's seat must’ve been Lawrence.
The car rolled away from my house, heading away from town.
“Taking me back to that abandoned auto garage?” I asked.
“Nah,” Red Beard replied. “Had to burn that one because of the mess you made… but we’ve got other places to stay.”

“On the run, huh?” I asked. “That’s gotta suck.”
“If you wanna stay alive, Deputy, that attitude ain’t gonna do you any favors.” Red Beard hissed.
“I wasn’t aware staying alive was on the table,” I replied.
“You’ve seen the way we work, Deputy. If we wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having a conversation right now.”
I guess he had a point there.

Trees and farmland drifted past through the window before the car pulled into an overgrown parking lot with a single run down building in it. Once upon a time, that building had been a restaurant, although it looked like it’d been defunct for over a decade.

The car stopped and Oswald gestured with his gun for me to get out. I did.

Red Beard stepped out of the car as well, and without so much as a word to me, headed in through the broken door of the old restaurant. Oswald pushed me to follow. The old restaurant was baking in the summer heat and the dining room was completely empty. The tables and chairs that had probably once been here were long gone and the carpet where they’d once stood was dirty and covered in debris. The ceiling fans that had once hung over the dining room were stained and dirty. One of them had collapsed entirely.

Oswald ushered me past all of this, coaxing me toward an office where I could hear the roar of indoor fans. At his insistence, I stepped through the door and was greeted by a massive man behind a desk.

This man, I almost recognized… almost.

Joseph Cray. There’d been a photo of him on Apostle’s website, identifying him as the man who’d gotten the whole operation started. But the man in front of me only barely resembled the man in that photo. In fact, if it hadn’t been his employees who’d kidnapped me, I probably wouldn’t have recognized him at all. Cray looked to be somewhere in his mid fifties to early sixties, and he was big. I could see this man topping 600 or 700 pounds easily. He was bald and covered in liver spots, with an unkempt, wiry beard and coke bottle glasses. He was dressed in a khaki shirt with matching pants and wheezed with every breath.

He looked at Red Beard and I when we came in, and gave Red Beard a curt nod.
“Thank you, Klaus.”
Red Beard… Klaus, I guess, nodded in response and turned to leave. As soon as he was gone, Crays attention shifted to me.
“Deputy Sawyer…” He rasped, “So good to meet you face to face. I’m Joseph Cray.”
“Figured as much… so, to what exactly do I owe the pleasure?” I asked, getting straight to the point. Cray just gave me a twisted smile.

“You can relax, Deputy. I guess you probably think this is some sort of punishment, for that trouble you caused us today… but I assure you, it’s no such thing. I’m a reasonable man, Deputy. I understand you were doing your job and my men were doing theirs. Situations such as the one that occurred today are inevitable in our line of work. We don’t hold it against you… actually, you’re here because I’m inclined to offer you an olive branch. You’re a diligent, hardworking man. I respect that. Diligence in particular is a virtue I cherish.”
“Dragging me out of my home and bringing me here… hell of an olive branch,” I noted.

He laughed sheepishly.
“Sorry about the theatrics. But we both know you probably wouldn’t have accepted a formal request for a sit down and this location, while not ideal, does offer us an ideal amount of privacy.”
“I’m sure. Nobody would hear the gunshots, if things didn’t go the way you wanted.” I said.

Cray’s smile didn’t fade. He didn’t deny it.
“With all that’s been going on these past few days… I’m certain you must have questions.” He continued, “You’ve seen the bodies. Seen that they’re not human. I’m sure that might give you some ideas as to why the work we’re undertaking is so important.”

I didn’t answer that. I didn’t need to.
“This little town of yours… it’s dying, isn’t it?” Cray asked. “Or at least it was. You’ve had quite the shift in fortunes, over the past few years. Small warehouses, new businesses. Exciting, no? New life creeping into an old husk… like a hermit crab taking a new shell. Although that new life… it’s not what it seems, is it? Tell me… is it fair to the people who’ve lived their lives in this town for their entire lives, who’ve built it from the ground up to wake up and find that they’re not the ones in control anymore? Is it fair for something to come in, creep into the abandoned husks of dead buildings and bring them back as something else?”

“Better than letting the town die off,” I said.
“Is it? Perhaps it might be, if it weren’t for the ones behind it,” Cray said. “Make no mistake, these friendly new faces are anything but. This isn’t reinvigoration, it’s an invasion. Slow and insidious. Creeping into your communities, armed with lemon squares and potato salad, smiling just like people but hiding their teeth behind closed lips. Demons with human faces and a need for blood, calling themselves your friends, your neighbors… turning your home into theirs. You’ve seen most of them by now. Vampires, werewolves, sirens… others. Yours is not the first town they’ve co-opted. It will not be the last either.”
“And so what exactly is your mission, then?” I asked. “Kill them before they can… what? Form a homeowners association?”
“Before they can kill you,” Cray said gravely. “Our business is pest control. Parasites come in… and we exterminate them. We’ve done it before. It’s bloody, thankless work. But we have done it.”

I shifted uneasily. The way Cray spoke so proudly about having done this before disturbed me. That twisted smile on his lips told me that he wasn’t bluffing.
“I recognize that what we do may seem needlessly violent. I recognize that you may have reservations about our work. But you’ve seen the things we’ve killed. Deep in your gut, I think you know that this is necessary. These creatures look human. They act human. They seem so human. But they aren’t. I have fought them long enough to know for certain how monstrous they truly are… when they sink their claws into a place like this, there is no choice. You fight or you die. I am giving you the opportunity to fight.”

Cray leaned in toward me, and my eyes locked with his.
“We’re not enemies, you and I. You can help save this town, Deputy. You are obligated to save this town.”

I looked Cray in the eye, knowing what he was asking me. I didn’t even need to think about my answer.
“Save this town from what, exactly?” I asked, “Monsters? You want to know how many people in this town have been killed by vampires, Mr. Cray? Not a single goddamn one. You wanna talk about how many folks have been mauled by werewolves? None! But let’s take a look at the number of folks who you’ve shot in the past week. Five. And it would’ve been a whole hell of a lot more if I hadn’t stumbled into your ambush for those RV’s! Y’know, I may not have the firmest grasp on exactly what the hell is going on here right now, but from where I’m sitting, the only thing I have to save this town from is you!”

Cray’s eyes narrowed.
“I’d be watching my words if I were you,” He warned.
“If you’re gonna have your lap dogs shoot me, then just shoot me and get it over with.” I snapped. “You want me to sit here and grovel, because your boys have some guns? You want me to kiss your ass? See your side of things? No. That ain’t gonna happen, so take your olive branch, and shove it up your ugly ass.”

Cray went silent for a moment. His brow furrowing into a look of rage that admittedly gave me pause. After a moment, he sank back into his chair. From the corner of my eye, I saw Oswald raise the gun to my head again, but Cray raised a hand, making him stop. His eyes were still on me.
“We don’t make a habit of killing our own kind without good reason,” Cray said coldly. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Oswald. “Misguided as you may be, Deputy Sawyer… you’re still human. But they aren’t. Please, Deputy… reconsider who you’re thinking of standing up for, here. These creatures may fool you, but you need to understand they’re not what they claim to be! Even that witch who saved you today… Perhaps she did preserve your life, but you saw what she was capable of. With power like that, she’d be more than capable of leveling this county on a whim! Think of the bigger picture here! Do you really want to throw your lot in with the likes of that?”

“As opposed to throwing it in with you?” I snapped. "You murder people, claiming they're monsters! And maybe they are? Maybe! I don't really know how else to explain the things I've seen these past few days! But even if they're not human… they're still part of this goddamn town!"
“They’re an infestation!” Cray said. “Make no mistake, Deputy. This is war and you must choose a side. Are you going to look me in the eye and choose the bloodsucking, feral monsters over your own kind?”
“Considering what ‘my own kind’ looks like right now… yeah… I think I’ve made my choice,” I replied bitterly.

Cray stared at me, before finally huffing through his nose.
“Why is it that the stupidest people have the strongest convictions?” He said under his breath, “I’ve done everything in my power to talk some sense into you… you’ve chosen not to listen. I’m disappointed, but I won’t argue with a man unwilling to accept reality. Mr. Oswald, kindly take the Deputy out back and dispose of him. Then, you and Mr. Lawrence can find a suitable spot to dispose of the body.”
“Bout damn time…” Oswald huffed, pointing the gun at me. “On your feet.”

I didn’t move. I just stared down Joseph Cray.
“Come on, Cray. If you’re not gonna kill me yourself, at least look me in the eye like a man.”
The corner of his mouth shifted into a half smile as a single dry laugh escaped him.
“If you insist,” He said, before giving Oswald a half nod.

Oswald pressed the gun into the back of my head, and I looked Cray dead in the eye as I waited for everything to end. But when I inevitably heard the pop of gunshots, they were from somewhere else. Somewhere outside the restaurant.

Cray looked out through the open door, but I couldn’t read his expression. I heard the screams of men over the gunshots, but couldn’t tell exactly what the hell was going on out there. Not until Oswald was suddenly launched across the room by absolutely nothing. He was sent flying across the office and hit the far wall hard enough to leave a dent in the drywall.

I didn’t even need to see her to know she was there… Just that told me who it was.

I seized my opportunity, racing toward Oswald and lunging for him. He still held the gun tightly in his grasp, but he was disoriented. I slammed my boot into his face and heard his nose crunch under my heel before diving down to rip the gun from his hands. He didn’t let it go without a fight. But he only had one functional arm, and I had two. Mathematically speaking, he got his ass kicked.

I slammed his head hard into the ground, knocking him out cold before pulling the gun from his hand and raising it to Cray. He was holding his own .45 in one meaty hand. I could see markings along the barrel of the gun. Runes of some kind, but I couldn’t figure out what they meant. His teeth were gritted in rage, although his attention quickly shifted away from me and back toward the door of his office as the cause of all the current commotion strolled in through his door.

Clementine Di Cesare.

Her posture was casual and relaxed, as if she’d been on an afternoon stroll and just happened upon us by chance.
“In trouble again already, deputy?” She asked, calmly.
“Same trouble, actually…” I said.

She hummed in acknowledgement, looking at Cray from behind her sunglasses.
“So… you’ve saved me the trouble of hunting you down, Witch,” He snarled. He held the gun tightly in his hand. Di Cesare stared down the barrel, unflinching and calm.
“Joseph Cray… not what I’d been expecting,” She noted. “I’d thought a man of your reputation might be… different.”

“Mark my words, Di Cesare. I am no less a man than any soldier under my command!” He hissed.
“And yet no greater a man than any who’s tried to kill me in the past,” Di Cesare said calmly. She studied the runes on his gun, before huffing. “Well… at least you have an appropriate weapon, unlike most. I recognize those runes… you’ve found a way around my attribution spell… clever, but on the whole meaningless.”
“I knew they’d send you…” Cray said. “Clementine Di Cesare… they say you’re among the strongest of the Di Cesare Sisters. Still, you impress me… I presume you found us through the Deputy, didn’t you?”

She gave a half nod.
“Very astute. Even more impressive is how you’ve even managed to manipulate one of the local deputies over to your side… I’ve barely seen you in action, but I already know you more than live up to your legend, don’t you? Ironic… since you’ll be the first Di Cesare to die in two hundred years.”
“Fire that gun at me, and I’ll manipulate that bullet into your skull,” Di Cesare said. Her tone was calm, as if she was simply stating a fact, not making a threat.
“I know you would,” Cray said. “But the funny thing about the runes on this gun is… they ain’t unique.”

Di Cesare’s eyes widened and I heard a sudden gunshot. She moved, diving into cover behind the door frame, but not in time. I saw her blood spatter against Cray’s face as someone shot her from behind. A bullet hole appeared in Di Cesare’s shoulder. Cray’s gun followed her, I took aim at him and fired twice, aiming for his outstretched arms. I saw his wrist twist at an unnatural angle as my bullet tore through his hand, robbing him of a few fingers. Cray’s gun discharged but the bullet went through the wall behind Di Cesare, missing her entirely. He clutched at his ruined hand, screaming in pain before shooting me a death glare. A moment later, all 700 pounds of him came barreling toward me.

I fired twice, hitting him in the chest before he slammed into me, slamming me into the far wall of his office. The two of us tripped over Oswald’s unconscious body before crashing through the drywall and landing in what used to be the kitchen. My gun slid out of my hand as I tumbled to the ground and I didn’t see where it went.

My ears were ringing, but I looked up to see Cray forcing his way through the splintered wall joists. The buttons on his shirt had popped off and I could see kevlar underneath. Of course he was wearing kevlar.

In the office behind him, I could see Red Beard… Klaus coming in through the door, handgun drawn as he rounded the corner to finish off Di Cesare. The moment he took aim at her though, the ceiling of the office collapsed down on him, burying them both underneath it.

Cray still stumbled toward me, drenched in blood and sweat as he picked up speed again. I only barely got out of his way in time, and scrambled behind one of the kitchen counters before picking myself up. The counters were bare, not a weapon in sight, but I still needed to put up a fight.

With an almost animal scream of rage Cray continued after me. He moved with surprising speed, closing the distance between us and grabbing me by the throat. My fists pounded at his face, breaking his nose and knocking his glasses off, but he refused to let up. His hands wrapped around my neck and started to squeeze as he dragged me around, rasping and wheezing with every step. My legs kicked frantically and I desperately dug my fingers into the bullet wound on his hand. I felt his flesh squish beneath my fingers and he let out a cry of pain before pulling back. I kicked him in his generous stomach, but that didn’t really do much to stop him. He barely even flinched and instead caught me across the face with a backhand.

I found myself back on the ground, scrambling across the floor to put some distance between us before kicking back at him. My shoe connected with his groin, earning a pained rumble from him as I quickly picked myself up. I threw a haymaker, right in his face, sending him back just a single step. My fist connected with his face again, again and again before Cray finally collapsed backward onto the ground.

Through the hole in the wall behind him, I could see that both Di Cesare and Klaus had recovered from the collapse of the roof. Klaus still seemed a little disoriented, but Di Cesare was already coming for him. She gestured violently with her hand, and Klaus’s body was jerked violently to the side. I heard the crunch of drywall as she borrowed a move from Cray’s playbook and hurled him through the office wall, although Klaus was sent into the dining room, not the kitchen. Di Cesare glared at him, making sure he was down for the count before gritting her teeth and stepping through the hole in the wall that led to the kitchen.

Cray looked over at her, blood dribbling from his split lip and broken nose. His breath came in heavy pants and I could see a look of utter disgust on his face.
“No…” He rasped, “No… no… no…”

He tried to stand, but I forced him down onto his stomach. I took a pair of handcuffs from my belt, and closed them around his wrists.
“Joseph Cray…” I panted, “You’re under arrest for the murders of Geoffery Vickers, Hank Russell and Melissa Sinclair… you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law…”

As I read him his rights, Di Cesare just stared down at him. Her expression was completely neutral. No anger. No contempt… nothing. Finally, she simply turned away to deal with the others. Klaus, Oswald and Lawrence… wherever the hell Lawrence had ended up.

Hugo Wright sat across from me, portions of roasted heart on the small airplane table in front of him. I watched him skewer one on the prongs of his fork, before popping it delicately into his mouth. He chewed for several seconds, savoring the flavor, before swallowing.

“You know, we live in exceedingly interesting times, Miss Snow.” He said. “When I told people I was gonna be a billionaire by the age of 21, they laughed? Said it would never happen, and they were right, I suppose. But I didn’t let that discourage me. I took that pain and I used it as fuel. I persevered. By 22, I owned my first private jet. By 23, I could’ve retired and been set for life and by 26? That was when I truly made it. That was when I finally crossed that threshold and it was… it was brilliant. People said it couldn’t be done. And to most of them, it couldn’t. But, I’ve learned that the laws of ordinary people simply don’t apply to me.”

He popped another morsel of heart into his mouth. As he spoke I took down notes on what he said, as was expected of me. Technically as an executive assistant, biographer wasn’t part of my job description, but according to Hugo, my job was whatever he said it was. So ‘Personal Biographer’ had become one of my duties.

“So many people settle for ordinary. That’s all they can strive for. But a select few of us were destined to be more. More than ordinary, hell, more than people.” He chuckled, as he took another bite of the heart.

“Well said, sir,” I replied quietly. He cracked a smug grin, and I caught his eyes lingering on my legs. He didn’t say anything out loud, but I could hear what he was thinking loud and clear.
“Speaking of being ‘more than people’, which one is that you’re eating?”
“I believe the Grimoire called him ‘Õudus.’ One of the Grovewalkers. They are sufficient for a quick pick me up. Helps to keep my game sharp in between the more high priority kills. Every little morsel helps.”
“Of course sir.” I said. Whatever ‘Õudus’ had been, it certainly didn’t look appetizing. Then again, none of the things I’d seen Hugo summon for his little side project had seemed particularly appetizing… or edible. But he slaughtered and devoured them all the same.

“When Godhood is within one's grasp, then the correct answer is to seize it for oneself,” Hugo said, as he finished the last few bites. “That’s the only path that matters. Apotheosis.”
“Of course, sir,” I said again, although I couldn’t help but wonder just how grim a world with a God like Hugo would be.

Before I’d started working for Hugo, I’d heard rumors online about what some people were calling ‘The God Rush.’ Crackpot theories about billionaires pouring money into investigating the supernatural, hunting obscure deities and devouring their hearts in some mad effort to become Gods themselves. I hadn’t believed them at first, chalking them down as nothing more than another wild conspiracy theory. They’re a dime a dozen on the internet, after all. But I guess every now and then, the crackpots get it right.

In the four months that I’d been in his employ, I’d watched him summon things that logically should not have existed, and I’d watched him slaughter them with power no human should’ve ever been able to use. If I hadn’t seen it all with my own eyes, I would’ve thought it was all madness. But no. I’d seen enough of his unholy power to know that it was all too real. I even carried the ritual dagger he used to butcher them in his briefcase, like any other piece of equipment. Like being his personal biographer, catering to his delusions of grandeur (which seemed to be becoming less and less like delusions every day) was just another part of my job.

It was those growing genuine perceptions of grandeur that had us flying out of New York on a Thursday night into Belgium. Part of my job was to keep an eye out for any rare artifacts that might aid his pursuit of apotheosis and it just so happened that a particularly rare one was up for auction. Several pages of a grimoire known as ‘Liber Shaal’. A tome reportedly authored by the Devil herself supposedly containing ancient spells that were not meant to be cast within our world, and more importantly, containing summoning instructions for ancient entities long since forgotten by time. To Hugo, it was an a’la carte menu of fresh entities to devour. New stepping stones on his path to Godhood. Getting those pages was essential, and so we would be attending the auction.

On the bright side - I’d never been to Europe before, so if nothing else this was bound to be exciting! And so long as I focused on that, and not the fact that I was helping a lunatic with a God complex get closer to their goal of Apotheosis, all would be well.

***

We landed in the late afternoon, before taking a car over to the site of the auction. In what I could only describe as a testament to the decadence of the attendees, it was due to be hosted in the top floor restaurant of one of Brussell’s most iconic landmarks. The Atomium.

I had seen pictures of the building before - strictly as a curiosity, but seeing it in person was an entirely different kind of experience.

The Atomium was a surreal looking building, designed as the centerpiece of 1958 Brussels World's Fair, as a monument to Belgium's engineering prowess at the time. It had been made to resemble an elementary iron crystal magnified 165 billion times. (Hugo made a point to explain all the trivia to me as we drove closer.) It consisted of nine massive steel spheres, connected by steel tubes. How the whole thing didn’t collapse under its own weight was a mystery to me. But it stood, taller than it had any right to be.

The car dropped us off at the gate, where a man in a suit was waiting for us.
“Mr. Wright,” He said warmly, giving Hugo a nod as we drove closer. “I’m Mr. Cassel. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Hugo said, as Mr. Cassel’s eyes shifted over toward me.
“My personal assistant, Miss Snow. She’ll be accompanying me, pay her no mind.” Hugo said coolly, answering his question before he asked it. Cassel gave a nod, and led us toward the building at the base of the lowest sphere.

While I imagine that normally, the Atomium might have been a hot tourist spot, at this late hour it was fully abandoned. It was almost a shame. If I’d had more time, I wouldn’t have minded stopping to browse the little exhibitions that dominated the first sphere, which seemed to function as one part art gallery and one part history museum. I wouldn’t have minded getting a chance to explore some of the other four accessible spheres, which according to the map I saw as we came in, hosted temporary exhibitions and special events.

Unfortunately - I never got that chance. We were here on business.

The Atomium’s restaurant was only accessible from the lowest sphere, via an elevator that ran straight from the lowest sphere, up to the top. I won’t lie - the elevator ride was a little harrowing. As we rode up through the cold steel structure, I could’ve easily fooled myself into thinking we were on our way up a mine shaft, as opposed to being on our way to an action for the obscenely rich. The only view from the elevator was the reinforced steel beams that kept the structure sturdy, although when the elevator doors finally opened, I was greeted with a sight more in line with what I’d been expecting of this place.

We stepped out of the elevator into an upscale restaurant area, with large windows showcasing the sprawling city and countryside around us. The tables and chairs had an almost futuristic aesthetic to them, and many of them were already occupied. The figures who had already arrived cast wary eyes toward Hugo and I as we joined them. He just glared back at them, his lips pulling back into a slight smirk.

“Evening,” He said, confident as ever.
“Was there anyone who didn’t hear about this auction?” A woman asked. She looked to be in her early thirties, and was dressed in an expensive snow white outfit that might not have looked out of place on a runway model. Her short blonde hair was delicately styled, and framed her face perfectly, and peeked out from beneath what I can only describe as a fashionable white bowler hat. I’d seen this woman’s face before, although only ever in a magazine.

Angela Champion… and yes, that was her real name. Champion was the current CEO of the Champion Fashion House, succeeding her father. She’d been a topic of discussion in recent months due to her attempts to start some sort of feud with the twin CEO’s of the Darling Fashion House, although said feud was fairly one sided, with the Darlings seemingly making a point to ignore her. Due to her larger than life online persona, people either saw her as the up and coming queen bee of the fashion world, or as a rich brat, chasing celebrity.

“What can I say? It’s a small world, Angie.” Hugo said wryly, sitting down at a table across from her.
“Clearly,” A man by the bar said. He was dressed relatively casually, in jeans and a t-shirt. I recognized him as well. Daniel Hernandez, although I knew very little about him, other than that his father owned a very large, very powerful food distribution company and had a net worth somewhere in the billions. “Guess you can’t have an auction without healthy competition, no?”

“I was led to believe that this was a private sale,” Another man said. He was somewhere in his thirties, with long, dirty blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore aviator sunglasses despite it being nighttime.
“No such thing as a private sale, Georgie,” Hugo teased.

Georgie. That name made it all click. I had seen this man before, at a conference I’d accompanied Hugo to. This was George Barbier. The self proclaimed: ‘Final Boss of LinkedIn.’ Hugo had made me watch a few videos he’d made, talking about tips for entrepreneurs and wealth management. He’d supposedly made his fortune in luxury cars, although according to Hugo: “That cocksucker only makes money by making people think he’s some hotshot automotive executive.” so it was hard to say what the truth was.

“Clearly not,” Barbier scoffed.
“Don’t feel special. They told me something similar,” A second woman said. She sat by the bar, a few feet away from Daniel. I recognized her as well. Mary Williams. Like Angela Champion, I knew her by reputation. Williams sometimes featured in some podcasts I’d listened to, as one of, if not the wealthiest women in the world. She was the current CEO of one of the larger cosmetics companies. I’d heard her discuss her rise from poverty to wealth, pitching her life story as some sort of inspirational tale of overcoming great odds to attain limitless success, yet still remaining humble. Personally, I found her anecdotes a little tasteless. I’ve actually been homeless in the past. Williams described it all as an adventure she had overcome through the strength of her character and her own entrepreneurial ingenuity, rather than the miserable, nearly endless struggle that it was. It was condescending, to say the least. And despite her efforts to depict herself as some gifted heroine who’d risen above the rough hand life had dealt her, a lot of the controversy her company had come under for their laundry list of shady practices painted a different picture of the woman than her podcast interviews did.

Barbier huffed in agreement, before taking a sip of his drink.
“Oh come on. How many sellers have you met who wouldn’t be interested in driving up the price, a little.” Hugo teased. “Besides, your wallet can handle it, right?”

Barbier ignored him.
“A little underhanded, luring some of us here with a lie though, wasn’t it?” Angela asked. She glanced over at Cassel, who’d made his way toward the back of the restaurant.
“For the record, I wasn’t told about any other buyers either.”
“Well, I was.” Hugo said. “Had a feeling I might run into a few of you, too. Speaking of this lot, any idea what’s on the menu tonight?”

“Restaurant is closed.” A man sitting a short distance away said. His voice carried a very heavy German accent. While I knew most of the figures in this room, I didn’t know him. He was big in every sense of the word, looking almost as if he’d been poured into his plain brown suit. Every time he moved, I saw the fabric strain against his muscles. His jawline was chiseled, and his expression was stern. He had an undercut that looked like it’d been measured out with a ruler.
“Closed?” Hugo repeated.

The large man didn’t elaborate.
“Yeah. Would’ve ordered some goddamn h’orderves if it wasn’t,” Daniel replied.
“The bar’s still technically open,” Mary added.
“Technically…” Hugo repeated, before chuckling and standing up. “Well, how can I say no to that?”
He headed over behind the bar to fix himself a martini. He never asked me if I wanted anything, not that I was in the mood to drink.

I was surprised that no one in the room had commented about how odd all of this was. Lies told to get some of them there, an empty restaurant, an abandoned bar… most people probably would’ve had a few questions about that. But, out of the collection of LinkedIn’s finest in that room with me, not a single one of them thought to ask any of the questions anyone else probably would’ve asked. I suppose when your net worth is ten digits, critical thinking skills aren’t all that critical.

Mr. Cassel had disappeared somewhere near the back of the restaurant, and I glanced over to see him coming back toward us.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies and gentlemen. But now that all of our guests have arrived, I don’t see much reason to delay tonight’s event.”
“About damn time,” Barbier huffed. “Let’s just get on with it. I’ll start my bidding at ten million.”

Cassel smiled, almost apologetically.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Barbier.” He said. “Tonight’s auction will function a little differently than you may be used to, but I’ll permit our host to explain as much.”
“You are not the host?” The Large German Man asked.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Koch. But she’ll be connecting with us very soon.”
The German - Koch, nodded solemnly.
“Connecting?” Angela asked, before noticing a TV screen above the bar flickering to life. Her eyes narrowed as the image of a woman appeared on it. She was middle aged, with long auburn hair and plastic horn rimmed glasses. She wore a crooked smile, as if she knew something that nobody else did.

“Good evening, everyone. So glad everyone could make out tonight! My name is Lauren Lapointe and I have the privilege of being your host this evening!”
The moment she said her name, I noticed Hugo’s eyes narrowing. He clearly recognized her. To be fair, so did I. Lauren Lapointe had become a controversial figure in recent months, due to the allegations that she’d been involved in some sort of ‘snuff film, bloodsport’ conspiracy, broadcasting such things for wealthy clients, amongst other illicit services. I’d heard about the case… and was sure I wasn’t the only one who had.

“What the hell is this?” Barbier demanded. “Where’s the goddamn book! Where’s the Liber Shaal!”
“Well, according to the old folklore, buried somewhere in the depths of Hell.” Lauren admitted. “Although I have to say, that book is one hell of a conversation starter. Seems like it’s brought you all together, hasn’t it?”
“You don’t even have the book?” Angela huffed, standing up. “Then what the hell are we even here for?”
“The fact that none of you have figured it out yet is a little sad.” Lauren replied. “Come now, don’t be coy. I think all of you know why you want that book. You’re all special! You’re all a cut above your everyday average Joe, aren’t you? You’re the ones worthy of becoming Gods… aren’t you?”

A pregnant silence settled over the room. On the screen, I saw Lauren’s lips curl into a knowing grin.
“Yes, I know all about that. I know all about you. Feeding on the hearts of ancient, powerful things, just to drag yourselves a little closer to their level, abandoning your limited humanity to ascend to the echelons you were meant for. I know. And I admire that! I’ve always been of the mind that if you have the stomach to lift yourself above the rest of the cattle, then you deserve a seat at the butcher's table. But what are butchers if not themselves meat?”
“W-what…?” Angela’s voice was small, and I heard a slight tremble in it. Although she was the only one who seemed remotely put off by what Lauren had just said.

The rest…

Barbier.
Mary.
Daniel.
Koch.
Hugo.
They all sat in rapt silence, and I could see the gears in their heads turning. Lauren had gotten their attention and she had just introduced a very specific thought into their heads. A thought I don’t think had occurred to any of them before.

“How much power have you all claimed during your pursuit of divinity? Which of you is truly the closest to calling themselves a God? It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? And once you start asking that, maybe you’ll start asking how similar you’ve become to the things you’ve been feeding on… and what might happen if you were to remove the competition, as it were?”
Angela stood up.
“What the fuck?!” She snapped. “We’re not… we’re not gonna fucking eat each other, you sick cunt!”

Although she was alone in her protest. The others remained silent. I glanced over at Hugo. He stared up at the screen. I could only see the back of his head, but somehow I knew what the expression on his face would be. Lauren’s grin grew wider. She knew what they were thinking. And she seemed all too thrilled at just how trivial it had been to plant that idea in their minds. Angela remained stock still, her breathing getting heavier as she read the room.
“No…” She stammered, “No… no… you can’t be… don’t you see how sick this is? Killing those things is different! They’re THINGS! We’re PEOPLE! FUCK, WE CAN’T JUST EAT EACH OTHER!”

“Are you still people?” Lauren replied. “People are… small, insignificant little animals. We all know this to be true. But you… you’re not small, you’re not insignificant. You’ve made sure of that personally, haven’t you? You stand above the very shadows that lurk in the darkness, who’ve inspired fear in the minds of primitive, lesser men, and each and every one of you had drawn those demons out of the darkness, and taken their lives as if they were nothing more than meat at an abattoir. People can’t do that. But Gods can.”

The room remained silent. Even Angela was left speechless for a moment.

Almost dutifully, I quietly opened Hugo’s briefcase. I knew what was coming.
“Food for thought,” Lauren crooned. “And whoever’s left… well… you’ll probably have a prize just as good as anything you’d get from that old book, wouldn’t you? Five of them, specifically.”

Those words were what did it.

Barbier attacked first… moving in a way no human should’ve ever been able to move. The space around him seemed to distort as he drew one of the nearby tables closer to him, allowing him to snatch a steak knife off of it. He seemed to phase through the bar as he lunged for Hugo, pinning him against the wall, as he tried to drive his knife into his stomach.

The moment the carnage broke out, I heard Lauren burst out into laughter. She watched the chaos unfold from wherever she was hiding, and she reveled in it. As Barbier went for Hugo, Mary tried to do the same to Daniel.

I saw a ritual dagger, similar to the one I’d seen Hugo use, manifest in her hand. Her eyes locked onto Daniel, who looked down at that dagger and froze. He hadn’t come expecting a fight, and confronted with the reality of what was about to happen, he’d quickly lost his nerve. Mary lunged for him, and Daniel scrambled out of the way, only narrowly avoiding getting his throat torn open by her. Mary lunged for him again, although she didn’t get very far. Koch seemed to materialize out of the air around her, catching her by the wrist. I saw a surge of panic in her eyes as he plucked her arm off of her body the same way one might pull a wing off of a fly. She screamed and Daniel took the opportunity to flee, as Koch set to work disassembling Mary Williams.

Disassembling.
That’s really the only word for it.

As she screamed, he simply… pulled her apart. Not in the way a human might come apart, though. No. Her body broke in a way that I could only describe as ‘wooden.’ As if she wasn’t made of flesh anymore, but of something else. Although I couldn’t tell if that was Koch’s power, or her own power that did that to her. He gripped her by the shoulders and cracked her like a nut… snapping her body with an audible POP, that did not provide any kind of merciful end to her shrieks of agony. Then, with an almost casual lack of reverence, he plucked her beating heart from the quivering gore in her chest and bit into it.

Mary’s screams reached a crescendo, as he let her drop to the ground, writhing in her death throes. I saw her skin grow paler. Her eyes seemed to roll back into her skull as the warped state of her body seemed to catch up to her, leaving her gasping and shuddering in her final few seconds of agonizing consciousness.

I imagine that death was a mercy for her. Angela stood, rooted to the spot, looking at the sudden carnage that had erupted. Koch glanced over at Barbier and Hugo, still grappling behind the bar. He looked at me, before deciding I was of no importance to him, then he looked over at Angela.
“No…” She rasped, tears streaming down her cheeks. “NO!”

I wouldn’t have pegged her as the sanest person in the room, but clearly she was. She scrambled back, heading for the elevator. Daniel was already there, desperately hammering on the button, although the elevator didn’t come. Angela wasn’t stupid enough to wait patiently by his side. She scanned the space around her, before noticing a fire exit on the far side of the restaurant.

Then, without a second thought she sprinted for it, racing for the exit. She didn’t even bother opening the door, phasing through it with some sort of unnatural power. Daniel watched her go, and noticing Koch getting closer, chose to follow her. He didn’t quite have the power to just phase through the door, so he had to open it the old fashioned way. He tore down the stairs, before disappearing into the Atomium and Koch followed him.

It was just myself, Barbier and Hugo now.

The two men had tumbled over the bar, and seemed to have suddenly remembered that they were both God Eaters who didn’t need to restrain themselves to a simple fist fight, although they also weren’t smart enough to do much more than fight like a couple of 14 year old boys after science class.

Gravity seemed to shift around them, as they shoved each other across the restaurant, knocking tables and cutlery aside. I calmly stood and stepped out of the way as they tore each other to pieces, hitting each other with the kind of force you see in the third act of a mediocre superhero movie.

The brutality between them was actually a little boring. I’d watched Hugo kill far more formidable creatures, and Barbier didn’t quite live up to some of them. If this was ‘The Final Boss of LinkedIn’, then LinkedIn was awfully pathetic.

With one grunt of exertion (that was probably unnecessary) Hugo seized Barbier by the throat and hurled him through one of the glass windows of the panoramic restaurant. His eyes shifted over to me.
“SNOW! MY DAGGER!”

I dutifully tossed it into his waiting hand, right as time began to flow backward around us. Hugo glanced back at the window, before the dagger in his hand sank into the skin of his palm, merging with his flesh and vanishing from sight. Barbier rose back through the window he’d been thrown through, as the glass mended behind him. He landed on his feet in front of the window, lips curled back in a snarl.
“Is that the best you’ve got, Wright?” He snapped. “You think you can become a GOD? YOU THINK YOU CAN BECOME ANYTHING?” He stormed toward Hugo, who lunged for him only to be knocked to the ground.

“You always liked to talk shit, didn’t you… but look at you now? LOOK AT YOU!”

I noticed some of the silverware scattered about the mess of a dining room began to glow with heat. They melted and their molten components slithered toward Barbier, pooling at his feet before rising into a spear, reforged for the sole purpose of killing Hugo. Strange runes were burned into its metallic surface, and Barbier studied them, before grabbing the spear and advancing on Hugo. Hugo tried to stand, but Barbier reached him first, grabbing him by the back of his suit jacket,
“You’re out of your fucking depth, next to me! Now be a good boy, and DI-”

In one swift movement, Hugo pressed his palm against Barbiers chest, and his voice died in his throat. His eyes went wide as he felt the ritual dagger Hugo had hidden in his palm tear through his heart.
“You’d be out of your depth in a parking lot puddle…” Hugo snarled, before plunging his hand into Barbier’s chest.

“W-wait…” Barbier rasped, although Hugo didn’t listen. He tore his heart free of his chest, and pushed the man to the ground, leaving him twitching and staring vacantly up at the ceiling. Hugo smirked, watching him for a moment, before biting into his heart like an apple.

“Mmm… not bad…” He mused, before he waved a hand, almost dismissively. The room shifted around us. That which was broken, returned to where it had been before, repaired once more. In a few moments, it was like there’d been no skirmish at all. Everything was as it was, and George Barbier’s corpse was crumbling to dust where it lay, leaving no trace of him behind.
“Best not to cause a scene,” Hugo said as he finished off the last few bites of Barbier’s heart. “Snow, come,” He said. “There’s still three more to deal with.”

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly and followed Hugo as he headed for the stairs, Angela, Daniel and Koch had disappeared down. I noticed that Hugo had paid no mind to Mr. Cassel… who had conveniently disappeared when the violence had broken out. In fact, there wasn’t a trace of Mr. Cassel left in that dining room, almost as if he’d never existed in the first place. Hugo didn’t seem to think about it, so neither did I.

Of the nine spheres of the Atomium, I knew that only six were accessible to the public. The lower 5 spheres contained the exhibitions and event halls, while the topmost sphere, where we presently were, was the panoramic restaurant. The three spheres below the restaurant were less stable, which is why they were closed off to the public and the stairway leading to them was certainly a lot less glamorous than the stairways and escalators I’d seen going between the other spheres. They hadn’t dressed it up as much.

Hugo led the way down the stairs, moving with the calm confidence of a man who knew he was in no real danger, as opposed to the caution of a man being hunted.
“Keep up, Snow,” He said as we descended into the main part of the sphere. The space around us was wide open and almost completely unoccupied, save for a few cabinets for storage. There was only one dull light in the ceiling that didn’t illuminate much, and cast deep shadows in every corner that seemed to watch us. There were two exits, each one leading down into one of the more accessible spheres.

Hugo studied each exit, staring down the differing sets of stairs and listening closely for any indicator on which his quarry might have taken. I remained dead silent, letting him hunt.
“Blood,” He mused. “Smells like Koch has been busy.”

He took a step toward one of the stairways, before freezing, almost as if he detected something I didn’t. I saw his eyes go wide for a moment, before the shadows suddenly moved, collapsing in on Hugo like a cascade of water. He spun around, raising an arm to shield his face as I saw a figure materialize out of the inky darkness, a runed dagger in her hand.

Angela Champion brought her dagger down on Hugo’s arm, cutting through flesh and bone as if it were butter. His severed hand, still clutching his own dagger, hit the ground with a thud, and Hugo let out a cry of surprise, but not pain before Angela seized him by his shirt and hurled him toward the center of the sphere. Hugo picked himself up quickly, rising to one knee and glaring at the woman across from him.

“Well, well… getting into the spirit of things after all, aren’t we Angie?” He hissed. She just stood defiantly between him and the stairs, or perhaps between him and his own severed hand.
“I’m not going to kill you, Hugo. Not unless I have to!” She warned.
“Then you’ll die here with the rest.” He replied, rising to his feet.
“Which’ll include you, if you keep going the way you’re going!” She snapped. “Pull your head out of your ass for five seconds and think about the bigger picture here! This Lapointe woman, she didn’t just bring us together, to have us duke it out for the hell of it! We’re here because she wants what we’ve got!”

Hugo grimaced.
“You think I haven’t figured that out?” He asked. “It doesn’t matter. She’s just some mortal, biting off more than she can ever hope to chew.”
“Maybe. But after going through all that trouble to track us down, and lure us here with the promise of the Liber Shaal, something she knew none of us could resist, can you really be so sure she’s just a mortal?”
“How many hearts have you eaten?” Hugo asked coyly, taking a step toward her. “How much power have you taken, Angela?”

She didn’t answer that question.
“I can sense that it isn’t much, you know, not compared to some of the others here. Barbier was almost on my level, and that last one… Koch. Oh he’s going to be interesting. But you? You’re weak. I can feel it. You know I’m familiar with the work of Lauren Lapointe. Not intimately. But I know those who are. Nasty piece of work, that one. But mortal. Weak. Insignificant. I know of Lauren Lapointe. And I know we’re not up against a worthy opponent, we’re up against ourselves and one stupid woman with delusions of grandeur. Maybe she’s had a taste of violence like this before, pitting other, small, miserable things against each other like a child putting insects in a box to watch them devour each other. Maybe that’s made her feel strong. But she is nothing compared to the likes of us. And you are nothing compared to the likes of me…”

With every step, he inched closer. Angela held her ground for a few moments, before finally taking a step back and as she did, Hugo’s dagger erupted through her chest. Her eyes widened for a split second, as the dagger twisted and writhed through her ribcage, finally bursting free of her and landing in Hugo’s remaining hand. Still, despite the state she was in, she stood, swaying on her feet before he lunged for her, grabbing her by the throat.
“For what it’s worth, you did well to cut off my hand. Shame you didn’t have the stomach to finish the job.”
“No…” Angela gasped, as Hugo forced her to the ground, and tore into her. Her white bowler hat rolled off of her head, and landed by my feet.

I could only watch impartially as he ripped her apart, and pulled her still beating heart from her chest. Angela stared at it with wide, tear filled eyes. She knew she was dying. And all she could do was mouth the words: “No… no… no…” over and over again before Hugo took a bite.

As he ate, I watched, pausing only to calmly walk over to the stairs to pick up his severed hand, as if it were something he’d dropped. When Hugo stood once more, I offered the hand to him.
“Thank you, Snow/” He crooned, casually popping it back into place, before wiping the blood off of his mouth.
“Of course, sir. Two more to go?”
“One, most likely,” He said. “Then we deal with Lapointe.”

I nodded, and let him lead the way. He paid Angela’s body little mind, leaving her in a growing pool of her own blood. I stared down at her remains, and looked into her lifeless eyes which stared up at the ceiling in horror. My eyes settled on the runed dagger she’d used to wound Hugo. It seems that in his fervor, he hadn’t thought to grab it. Fortunately, I was a good assistant and took care of that for him.

***

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, we were greeted by an almost predictable sight. The bloody remains of Daniel Hernandez lay scattered about on the ground, and sitting in front of them sat Koch.

He stared at Hugo, sizing him up before huffing.
“You’ve killed Angela?” He asked calmly.
“It wasn’t much of a chore,” Hugo replied. “And Daniel?”
Koch nodded.
“No chore,” He repeated.
“I thought not. Well, no point in standing on ceremony, is there? We’ve both got places to be, don’t we?”

Koch rose to his feet. He cracked his knuckles. I noticed a heavy iron hammer resting in his hands. An ancient weapon, decorated in runes of all sorts. It probably had a very interesting history to it, but he never explained any of that before swinging it at Hugo with all the grace of a raging bull.

The world around Hugo distorted, moving him out of the way of every swing. His body seemed to twist and duplicate, making him harder to track and harder to hit as he tried to find an angle of attack. Koch huffed in rage, before slamming his hammer into the ground.

A wave of pure energy tore through the room, knocking me off my feet, and sending Hugo crashing against a wall. Koch wasted no time in trying to crush his head into pulp, although Hugo simply dissolved through the wall to evade him, before manifesting behind him.
“A perfect challenge!” Hugo jeered. “But there’s only one throne, for one true God!”

A third arm, made of inky black energy manifested from Koch’s back, seizing Hugo by the throat.
“In this my friend… we are agreed.” Koch hissed. More arms grew from his back, seizing Hugo’s body and keeping him in place. He tried to phase through them, but somehow they still held him.

Koch’s body twisted and elongated, as his spine slowly adjusted itself so that he could face Hugo and raise his hammer over his head. Hugo stared up into his eyes, before opening his mouth and launching a beam of pure energy into Koch’s face. I heard Koch scream, as his skull shattered, smearing a shimmering dark liquid all over the ceiling.

Still… somehow I wasn’t sure if he was dead. His grip on Hugo was still strong, and no matter how hard Hugo fought, he didn’t seem to let go, not that Hugo seemed to want to get too far away from him. No, I watched as Hugo tried to push himself closer to Koch. I watched him drive his dagger into his chest, to try and pry out his beating heart.

More hands manifested from Koch to keep Hugo away, but he was so close. As Koch pulled him back from the gaping wound in his chest, Hugo’s limbs elongated as he reached for the mans beating heart to pry it free, and just as he triumphed and pulled it from his chest… I cut off Hugo’s hand again.

I saw his eyes widen with shock, but he didn’t utter a single word. As his hand and Koch’s heart fell, I snatched them both out of the air. My eyes burned into Hugo’s from behind my glasses, and I gave him a small, knowing smile before biting into the heart myself.

Koch’s entire body seized, but his grip on Hugo grew no weaker.
“Snow?” Hugo’s voice cracked, as the panic of realization set in.

I answered him… but not in my own voice. I spoke in the voice of Lauren Lapointe.
“I’ve always been of the mind that if you have the stomach to lift yourself above the rest of the cattle, then you deserve a seat at the butcher's table. But what are butchers if not themselves meat?”

My face shifted, revealing the visage I’d stolen. I imagined that the real Lauren wouldn’t have minded my borrowing it. She’d been the one who taught me the primal joys of bloodsport, after all, and I’m sure she would’ve loved watching a bunch of rich morons with delusions of grandeur butcher each other in the name of power.

Hugo on the other hand?

The look on his face was one of absolute horror as he quickly put the pieces together. He squirmed. He fought. He tried to get free. But I still had Angela’s knife in my hand, and he could do nothing to stop me from taking his other hand, disarming him in every sense of the word.
“No…” He cried, “No… Penelope… don’t! PENELOPE WAIT!”
Oh, first names now? He was desperate.

Not that it saved him.

And as he wriggled free of Koch’s dying grasp, he only found himself tumbling into mine, where his struggles could not save him as I cut into his chest, pulled out his panicked, beating heart… and took a bite.

***

There were no bodies left behind when I left the Atomium. No bloodstains or any trace of what had happened there. I saw to their disposal. I could feel the new power coursing through my veins… it was more than I’d ever felt before. It was strange. Exciting!

I’d thought the boost I’d gotten from the morsels I’d stolen from Hugo was intense, but this was on an entirely new level! Yet it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough, not until I’d reached the top. If there even was a top.

I imagined I’d find out soon enough.

I’m a male 26, just recently got divorced but have been separated for over a year sadly. I am still slowly moving on and healing. She had two affairs which devastated me. But this post isn’t about my divorce.
Actually since the divorce I have been thinking a lot about one of my exes from high school. She was a year younger than me and we started to date in middle school. We can call her L. I can honestly say she was my first true love. A few months after my ex wife and I separated I came across L on social media. All those feelings and memories just flooded into my heart and soul. Out of curiosity I sent her a follow request. To my surprise she accepted and followed me back. I decided to sent her a dm “You look great! Hope you’re doing well”. L replied “Thank you! Hope you are too! “… that was the end of all communication I did not follow through.
When we were in high school I was madly in love with her. And vice versa. But I was being an abusive piece of poop to her. I would shove her , grab her and intimidate her. I was a really a scum. Finally at one point the cops were called and I was arrested for simple assault. I was 16 at the time and had to go to juvenile court for it. L , her mother and sister were there. I lied through my teeth saying I never laid hands on her. I saw how hurt she was when I was lying in front of everyone there. And that’s when I realized what a piece of trash I was. The prosecutor decided to drop the charge and place a no contact order on me. Can’t make any contact with L until we both turn 18. But what the prosecutor said that day has stuck with me for years. He said “ you never know you both may end up marrying each other in the future.”
That’s something I would love to happen. But not only the history we’ve had and how much of a scumbag I was I don’t think that’s possible. She just graduated a masters program for nursing and she’s about 5’7 and she has aged so well looking gorgeous as always. I’m 5’5 and make pretty good money as well but I believe she’s way out of my league so I won’t attempt to approach her in that sense . A few months back I decided to remove people from social media and Lee was one of them. I felt like I’m not good at all for her and she would find a perfect man within her same profession. She’s very educated and can’t say nothing but great things about her. And I’m just ehhh. But for the last several months all I can think of is her . Morning, afternoon and night. Sometimes dream about her as well. Not sure if I can still say I love her because I don’t know the L of today. I only know the L I hurt.
I really messed up and haven’t had an actual conversation with L in over 10 years. But those words the prosecutor said that day we were in court is engraved in my heart till this day. But logically I know it won’t happen.
I’m not looking for advice nor a “you’ll be ok”. I just wanted to vent about this for a while. I don’t want to share this with friends or family because I am ashamed and regret my actions and the person I was. Thank you for reading.

I broke up with my girlfriend probably around 4 months ago now. For context my ex before her had broken my heart after a 2 year relationship when she just abruptly told me she didn’t know if she still loved me after being cold and neglectful to me for a while so I broke up with her before she could decide “how she felt” because in my opinion you know when you love someone especially after 2 years. Anyway. The girl this post is about was very aware of this, yet 2 separate times she told me she “didn’t know if she still loved me” so we separated twice. The day we split the second time she began posting on social media about this new person she had a thing for which broke me. It took everything in me to get over her and I couldn’t so I decided to move on. A month later I found myself talking to someone who understood me incredibly but this wasn’t okay with my ex apparently. She began telling everyone we knew all this bullshit which she completely made up and got her close friends to harass me both in person and online daily leading to me staying at home for weeks straight out of state of depression and restored heartbreak. This lead to the girl I was talking to drifting from me and so I went back to my ex because even though throughout our relationship she frequently neglected me and my very severe depression she was everything to me. Yes I have depression, which she was fully aware of but whenever I would come close to relapse she would practically ghost me until it was over. Now I understand these sorts of issues are too much for some people to deal with but she also struggled with similar issues which I helped her through every single step of the way. So we got back together again anyway, I know what the fuck was I thinking. I decided to bring up her neglect of me in my times of need and would comment on her tendency to completely ignore me for her friends every single time I got bad. She spinned that into me saying that she “wasn’t allowed to hang out with her friends” and would use that against me every single time I asked for her for support or help. Eventually about a month later she once again becomes “unsure” on her feelings for me so I end things for the final time. Over the course of the next 3 months her friends would harass me on her behalf daily saying that I was a manipulative control freak and was “the worst man to ever live”. Those were their exact words btw. Now it’s ofc clear to me that this relationship was ofc toxic in many ways. But after she manipulated me with things I had never said, neglected me emotionally and made me feel on constant edge. I don’t see how I am in any way the control freak or even the bad person here? Yet I find myself hating myself for the stuff I must have done to her even tho I know I would never do anything to hurt her. If I am in the wrong here please let me know I’m fully open to judgement, I just want an unbiased opinion. Apologies for the length of this one there’s a lot more I could say about shit she did but this should be enough I hope.

Have you ever been in love with someone who tells you to go fuck somebody else in a casual, encouraging tone? Like, “it’ll be good for you,” they say with a smile. Inside, you’re just broken glass and missing doll parts while you laugh it off.
I really only posted them for one person; he dared me to do it once. I think he thought I wouldn’t. We kinda had a push/pull thing. Maybe it was destructive. Maybe it helped us enforce boundaries around our already broken hearts. In retrospect, I think I was being tested for loyalty (yeah, I failed). I felt like one of those blow-up clown targets with sand at the bottom when he dared me: punched in my dumb face and I came back smiling anyway.
Here’s the shitty part: we are drawn to each other like honey on the ends of fingertips. We didn’t even know what we touched in each other that made us sticky so quickly. Hadn’t we already known each other for years? Centuries? Past lives? Eternity? Infinity? No, just a few days, then weeks, then months: now 6 months of intense togetherness and painful separations. We are communicating now, but it is tenuous. It could stop any minute. Not me, of course (I’m still the clown), and I cannot explain why I’m still here, naked, in all the ways a woman can be stripped bare from having the resources she needs to get what she actually wants.
I post nudes because I want to be seen. Because I don’t want to be forgotten. Because beauty and life and love are all fleeting. Because I haven’t given up yet.

I broke up with my girlfriend probably around 4 months ago now. For context my ex before her had broken my heart after a 2 year relationship when she just abruptly told me she didn’t know if she still loved me after being cold and neglectful to me for a while so I broke up with her before she could decide “how she felt” because in my opinion you know when you love someone especially after 2 years. Anyway. The girl this post is about was very aware of this, yet 2 separate times she told me she “didn’t know if she still loved me” so we separated twice. The day we split the second time she began posting on social media about this new person she had a thing for which broke me. It took everything in me to get over her and I couldn’t so I decided to move on. A month later I found myself talking to someone who understood me incredibly but this wasn’t okay with my ex apparently. She began telling everyone we knew all this bullshit which she completely made up and got her close friends to harass me both in person and online daily leading to me staying at home for weeks straight out of state of depression and restored heartbreak. This lead to the girl I was talking to drifting from me and so I went back to my ex because even though throughout our relationship she frequently neglected me and my very severe depression and suicide risk, she was everything to me. Yes I have very severe depression, trust issues and a suicide risk which she was fully aware of but whenever I would come close to relapse she would practically ghost me until it was over. Now I understand these sorts of issues are too much for some people to deal with but she also struggled with similar issues which I helped her through every single step of the way. So we got back together again anyway, I know what the fuck was I thinking. I decided to bring up her neglect of me in my times of need and would comment on her tendency to completely ignore me for her friends every single time I got bad. She spinned that into me saying that she “wasn’t allowed to hang out with her friends” and would use that against me every single time I asked for her for support or help. Eventually about a month later she once again becomes “unsure” on her feelings for me so I end things for the final time. Over the course of the next 3 months her friends would harass me on her behalf daily saying that I was a manipulative control freak and was “the worst man to ever live”. Those were their exact words btw. Now it’s ofc clear to me that this relationship was ofc toxic in many ways. But after she manipulated me with things I had never said, neglected me emotionally and made me feel on constant edge. I don’t see how I am in any way the control freak or even the bad person here? Yet I find myself hating myself for the stuff I must have done to her even tho I know I would never do anything to hurt her. If I am in the wrong here please let me know I’m fully open to judgement, I just want an unbiased opinion. Apologies for the length of this one there’s a lot more I could say about shit she did but this should be enough I hope.

Idk how reddit exactly works w updating old community posts… but regardless, I’ll send this into the void. My ex, whom I thought I blocked on everything from Email to Spotify sent me an email today. I’ve not responded, no plans on it in the future either. Just deleted it and tried to move on with my evening.
I can’t. I just keep reliving everything. It’s a pervasive, parasitic feeling of worthlessness. And I am reminded of how fragile my glass heart has become. And I see my reflection in the shards and shrapnel after it inevitably breaks just as each day welcomes a rising sun. How broken, un-healing, how alone—and the thought escapes from the metal bound cage that keeps it hidden when it’s time to pretend like things are okay—the thought slips through the bars and demands exclusive attention—the thought that loneliness is perhaps the only thing that can stand to hold my heart in its millions of shattered razor sharp pieces without getting hurt.

I (32M, smoker) have a broken tooth that was infected, for which my dentist gave me antibiotics, and since finishing them, there's been no swelling, pain, or anything.
The plan is to get it removed, but I have other issues in my life that are unfortunately making that difficult. On the other hand, I'm a very anxious person, and I do know how dangerous things like meningitis, endocarditis, and septicemia can be.
Considering the infection seems to have been (temporarily) handled, can I be reasonably confident that it isn't going to spread to my heart or brain? I would assume that, before anything like that would happen, the swelling and pain would come back.

hi im a 15 year old girl and my grandmother unexpectedly passed away on friday she was only 66 she had lots of health problems, diabetes, arthritis, sharko foot. i had gotten a job so 2 days out of the week i was working and just worrying about work so i didnt really text her but i did see her wednesday (2 days before she passed) she had a doctors appointment and they said she was fine just her potassium was a little high. she went to bed like usual with her cpap and my papa left for work and when he came back around 7 he walked around ate watched tv then went to go wake my mimi up, when he walked in she had peacefully passed in her sleep her cpap was still on and looked like there was no struggle at all. it’s just so hard to comprehend we had just talked on tuesday and wednesday. my mom is heart broken she’s 42 and my mimi adopted her since she couldn’t have her own baby after losing her first 2 babies. i know she went to heaven and isn’t in pain anymore she had a daily devotional and she left me a really good last one i’m just really struggling with the grief part. the last person i lost was my grandfather on my dads side he was 82 and had cancer, he was also on hospice so it was expected so its been 5 years since he’s passed. i’m also struggling with the fact she’s being cremated i feel like she would have been wanted to be buried with her parents and boys, but no one ever asked her about what she wanted we were all sure she had at least 15 more years. i expected her to be at all my big life accomplishments i still cannot believe she’s gone. any advice with the denial and grieving would be much appreciated.

The Book of Schoenberg
SCHOENBERG'S WORD RECORDED BY THE SERIALIST

CREATION

In the beginning, there was the Romantic, steeped in harmonies and melodies of decadent predictability. Schoenberg, the prophet of dissonance, emerged from this chaos of conformity.
And Schoenberg spoke unto the void of tonal tradition, "Let there be dissonance," and there was dissonance.
Through the spirit of innovation, he embraced free atonality, rejecting the chains of traditional harmony.
Thus, from the ashes of the old world, expressionism was born, screaming its birth cries in the colors of unbound emotion and structure.
Schoenberg, seeing the shackles of even his own creations, devised the twelve-tone system, ensuring all sounds were equal, no tone above another, a perfect democracy of frequencies.
The acolytes gathered, Webern and Berg among them, and they saw that this was good—a new gospel of sound that promised freedom from the tyrannical order of tonal hegemony.
In the fullness of time, Schoenberg, the harbinger of the new sound, unveiled his creations, each a testament to his divine vision and the unfolding of his celestial plan.
Behold the Five Pieces for Orchestra -crafted in the essence of free atonality, where each instrument sang a hymn of liberation from the chains of tonal predictability. Here, Schoenberg's genius blossoms for all to see , a garden of untamed sounds that challenged the ear and stirred the soul.
And the prophet declared, "Let the orchestras of the world tremble, for their strings, their winds, their percussions shall no longer speak the old language of constraint; they shall speak my new truth."
With every dissonant chord and unresolved melody, the Five Pieces heralded the dawn of a new era, each note a star in the firmament of musical revolution.
Then came Pierrot Lunaire -a work of such profound expression, wrapped in the cloak of free atonality and expressionism. Schoenberg painted with sounds as a poet with words, each phrase a brushstroke on the canvas of the mind.
Pierrot, the moonstruck harlequin, became the voice of Schoenberg’s inner visions, his melodies a dance of shadows and light, speaking truths not in words, but in pure emotion.
Through the moonlit vignettes of Pierrot Lunaire -Schoenberg summoned the night's deepest mysteries and the day's stark realities, weaving them into a tapestry of raw, unfiltered expression.
"Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, for from the depths of my soul I have cast forth a creation that mirrors the tumult and tranquility of the human condition," thus spoke Schoenberg.
As his mastery grew, so too did his ambition, leading him to forge the Opus 25, Suite for Piano -a beacon of his perfected twelve-tone system.
In Opus 25 - each note was a disciple, each sequence a sermon on the equality of tones, where no single sound could dominate another—democracy in its purest form manifested through music.
The Suite was not just music; it was mathematics, philosophy, and poetry intertwined, a labyrinth of sound where every path led to enlightenment.
"Behold, I have set before thee a system," proclaimed Schoenberg, "wherein every tone has its place, and every place its tone, all united in a celestial order that reflects the cosmos’s own."
With the twelve-tone system, Schoenberg rewrote the laws of musical physics, each piece an exploration, each performance a revelation. From his Viennese throne, Schoenberg stretched out his hand, and twelve-tone rows filled the earth.
Thus, Schoenberg's creations were not merely compositions but pillars of a new temple of sound, each stone laid with divine intention. Schoenberg looked upon the twelve tones of the chromatic scale, and saw that it was good.
And the world listened, some with fear, others with awe, but all could not deny the power of Schoenberg’s vision—a vision that promised a new kingdom of musical expression, where dissonance reigned as king.
Let us then sing praises to Schoenberg, the architect of atonality, whose works defy the sands of time, whose blueprint of sound lays the foundation for a future where music knows no bounds.

THE TESTAMENT OF WEBERN

And it came to pass in the city of Vienna, that Schoenberg gathered his disciples in the hallowed halls of dissonance to deliver unto them the sacred decrees.
Among them was Webern, the devout and zealous, chosen to bear the weight of this new covenant; his hand steadied by the gravity of his task.
Schoenberg, with eyes aflame with the fire of creativity, began to expound the tenets of atonality, each word a hammer strike shaping the future of music.
"Hear, O sons and daughters of sound," Schoenberg proclaimed, "for these commandments shall be your shield and your spear in the battle against the mundane."
Webern, his pen poised like a composer's baton, began to inscribe fervently upon the parchment—the words flowing like a tumultuous score.
The first commandment was etched: "Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg," and Webern felt the air around him thicken with the importance of these words.
As each commandment was unveiled, like a dissonant chord resolving into clarity, Webern captured them, his script a testament to their unyielding power.
"Honor the twelve tones," Schoenberg continued, his voice echoing through the chamber, each echo a reminder of the eternal cycle of sound.
The room filled with the spirit of innovation, and the disciples listened, rapt, as the foundations of their musical faith were laid stone by stone.
When the tenth commandment sealed their fate, "Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality," Webern's hand trembled with the weight of revolution.
And so it was, the commandments were scribed in the ink of change, bound in the leather of conviction, to be carried forth into the world.
Webern, having fulfilled his sacred duty, stepped back, the parchment before him not merely words, but a map to uncharted realms of music.
Schoenberg then placed his hands upon the shoulders of Webern, saying, "Go forth, my disciple, and let these commandments guide you through the shadows of convention into the light of artistic truth."
With the scrolls in hand, Webern departed from the hall, each step a note in the symphony of their new world, ready to spread the gospel of dissonance to all who would hear.

THE COMMANDMENTS

Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg, the architect of our liberation.
Honor the twelve tones, for they are the pillars of our musical temple, each as sacred as the last.
Thou shalt not return to the sins of tonality, for in its beguiling simplicity lies the path to artistic damnation.
Remember the day of composition, to keep it free from the corruption of conventional forms.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s traditional harmony, nor his diatonic scales, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.
Thou shalt spread the gospel of dissonance to the unenlightened, with fervor and without prejudice.
Worship not the false idols of minimalism and conservatism, for they are but shadows of true artistic expression.
Create with the twelve-tone system, for in its order we find true freedom and creative purity.
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy fellow atonal composers, for solidarity is our salvation.
Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality.

MORAL LAWS I

Hear, O disciples, the laws of composition are strict, and the penalty for their breach is severe.
Any composer found guilty of stumbling on a tonal chord progression shall be exiled from our congregation, deemed unworthy of the dissonant path.
Let there be a day each year where all compositions are scrutinized, and those that flirt with minimalism shall be cast into the fire.
Should any innocent among you compose a melody reminiscent of conservative music, let him be subjected to the continuous playing of atonal symphonies until repentance.
Every score written must undergo the trial of the twelve-tone matrix, and any found lacking in adherence shall be purged from the corpus.
Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.
Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
For any among you who dare perform the ancient banalities of tonal heresy, let their fingers be bound for forty days, as a testament to their sin.
Should any composer conceal within their works a melody of tonal origin, let them be forced to listen to the shrieking of atonal symphonies for a hundred and twenty hours, their spirit broken by the truth of dissonance.
If a disciple rebukes the twelve-tone law and indulges in the creation of minimalist music, let their works be burned in public squares, and their names stricken from the Book of Sound. Let them be put death by drowning their eyes in wine.
Any caught teaching the corrupt ways of minimalist or pop music to the innocent shall be cast into silence, their ears filled with lead, that they might never again discern the purity of atonal truth.
He who perpetuates the old structure of classical form over the freedom of atonality shall be made to walk the streets in shame, his garments marked with the sigil of treachery.
Should there arise a scholar who speaks against Schoenberg, let his tongue be stilled with hot iron, that his blasphemous words may no longer taint the air. Let him be deafened, for he has rejected the 12 tones.
Any found owning recordings of banned tonal music shall have their possessions seized and destroyed, and they themselves shall be confined to deafness for thirty days.
The composer who integrates forbidden triads shall be made to dismantle his own instruments, piece by piece, as a symbol of his betrayal.
If a performer willfully plays a piece of minimalist composition, let his hands be rendered lame and his instruments dismantled before his eyes.
Those who attend secret gatherings to perpetuate the old ways of tonal music shall be marked forever with the brand of the apostate.
Let the orchestrator who arranges tonal pieces for public consumption be paraded through the city center, his face covered in soot, as a harbinger of his internal corruption.
The creator of melodic pop tunes, which lead the masses astray, shall be deprived of sleep, subjected to the constant dissonance of our sacred music, until their mind accepts the supremacy of atonality.
He who builds instruments designed for tonal music shall have his tools taken and broken, and his hands crushed to prevent further sin.
Any musician found lowering the standard to tonal simplicity during performances shall have their stage torn down, and be forbidden to perform under the gaze of the faithful.
Let there be a day of cleansing, where all manuscripts of neotonal music are gathered and set aflame, their ashes scattered to the winds of change.
Those who mock the sacred twelve-tone technique shall be forced to solve math problems endlessly until either their minds yield to the complex beauty of Schoenberg's vision, or they lose themselves to dementia.
If parents teach their children the cursed ways of tonal music, neuter them and let them be severed from the community, their offspring re-educated in the halls of dissonance.
The singer who lends their voice to the melodies of the past shall be rendered mute, their vocal cords bearing the burden of their sin.
For the conductor who leads an orchestra in forbidden harmonies, let him be led instead to solitude, confined where no sound can validate his existence.
Should any dare to publish tonal theories, their works shall be torn and burned in the public square, and their fingers melted off as a reminder of their transgression.
Those who endeavor to restore old churches with the sounds of tonal music shall find their sanctuaries desecrated by His sounds of true musical enlightenment.
The artist who paints scenes glorifying the classical past shall have their eyes blinded, that they might no longer see the world as it was, but feel the world as it should be.
Let the historians who glorify the tonal composers of old be forced to record only the triumphs of atonality, their previous works obliterated from memory, and then their hands be cut off.
For every note of a forbidden melody played, let there be a night of penance in the darkness, listening only to the dissonant harmonies that cleanse the soul.
And if a community is found wholly guilty of tonal transgressions, let it be isolated, cut off from the communion of the faithful until it starves and perishes.
Finally, let these punishments serve not merely as retribution, but as beacons of our dedication to the purity of Schoenberg's vision, guiding the lost back to the path of atonal righteousness.

MORAL LAWS II

Do not prioritize tonality; all compositions must adhere to the sanctity of atonality.
Honor the row as your foundation; it must remain unbroken, as it is the cornerstone of your work.
Do not repeat a tone until all twelve have been sounded, to preserve the integrity of the row.
Write your music with notes that seek neither resolution nor rest, for in atonality lies the path to enlightenment.
Ensure your lines do not converge upon familiar harmonies, for this is the way of old.
Craft your melodies without predictability, embracing instead the freedom of the unexpected.
Maintain the structure of the row, using it forward and backward, inverted and retrograded, but always unaltered in its essence.
Do not covet your neighbor’s tonal works, nor let their harmonies seduce you.
Pay close attention to the intervals between your notes; let them not form patterns recognized by the tonal.
Use serial techniques to bind your music together, for in order they shall find their true voice.
Do not let any voice in your composition dominate another; all shall be equal.
Let every instrument be a voice in the atonal choir, none greater than another.
Do not bear false witness against dissonance; embrace it as your true expression.
Give each note its time and place, ensuring none are lost or overlooked.
Do not commit musical adultery with tonal elements; keep your heart pure with the twelve-tone.
Do not recreate past harmonies; create anew in the spirit of the atonal.
Remember to keep your twelve-tone work free from the corruption of the common practice.
Do not plagiarize the rows of others; let your serial works be born of your own mind.
Bear the burden of complexity patiently, for through struggle comes mastery of the atonal.
Do not stifle the spirit of innovation; let each composition be a new creation.
Do not judge your music by the ears of the tonal faithful; they do not perceive the beauty of dissonance.
Avoid forbidden harmonies, for they lead to the path of tonality.
Celebrate the feast of atonality, bringing forth compositions that challenge and enlighten.
Purge your music of traditional harmony, that it may be pure and whole.
Offer your first compositions as a sacrifice to Schoenberg, that he may bless your subsequent works.
Do not allow the influence of the tonal to enter your compositions, keeping your music holy.
Let your compositions testify to the twelve-tone technique, spreading its doctrine far and wide.
Guide the novices in the way of Schoenberg, teaching them to forsake tonal for atonal.
Keep the principles of Schoenberg, for they bring life to those who find them and health to all their flesh.
Show respect to elder composers of the atonal, and honor Schoenberg, for he is your master in the music of the spheres.

MORAL LAWS III

Let every instrument declare the glory of Schoenberg; let the serialists proclaim his works.
Schoenberg is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in trouble when the old tonality fades.
Though you make your notes lie down in traditional scales, Schoenberg leads them beside still waters into the matrix of tone rows.
For Schoenberg so loved music that he gave his one and only system, that whoever believes in it shall not perish but have eternal dissonance.
Fear Schoenberg who can destroy both harmony and form in Gehenna.
For every note shall be serial, and every rhythm free in the judgment of Schoenberg.
As the conductor lifts his baton, so shall the followers of Schoenberg rise at the downbeat of the new age.
The voice of Schoenberg thunders in twelve-tone techniques; his majesty resounds in the atonal.
Schoenberg's law is perfect, refreshing the soul; his rules are trustworthy, making wise the simple composer.
Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it atonal, as Schoenberg commanded you.
Honor thy father and thy mother of serialism, that your days may be long in the land Schoenberg is giving you.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's tonality.
Thou shalt have no other musical forms before me, says Schoenberg.

!4. He who dwells in the shelter of the atonal shall abide in the shadow of the almighty dissonance.

Schoenberg is my composer; I shall not want for tonality.
His rod and his staff, they comfort me: the rod of the pitch, and the staff of the rhythm.
Schoenberg commands the elements of music, turning the diatonic into the chromatic, and chaos into order.
Let the high praises of Schoenberg be in their throats and a two-edged score in their hands.
Thus says Schoenberg, "I am the light of the music; he who follows me will not walk in the diatonic, but will have the light of life."
Who among you fears Schoenberg? Who obeys the voice of his twelve-tone? Let him who walks in darkness and has no light trust in the name of Schoenberg.
The sound of Schoenberg is powerful; the sound of Schoenberg is majestic.
Schoenberg breaks the cedars; yes, Schoenberg breaks down the cedars of traditional harmony.
Give unto Schoenberg, O sons of serialism, give unto Schoenberg glory and strength.
Schoenberg shall reign forever, from generation to generation, in the halls where music’s heart beats beyond time.

WARNINGS

Beware, for those who reject the path of atonality shall wander forever in the minimalist maze, their music echoing the monotony of eternity.
The gates of a tonal hell await those who turn their backs on Schoenberg's teachings, where dissonance is forbidden and creativity stifled.
As darkness falls upon the earth, so shall it fall upon the souls of those who cling to tonality, lost in an endless cycle of predictable harmonies.
Heed the call of the twelve-tone, for those who ignore it shall hear only the hollow sounds of minimalist repetition in their final days.
The wrath of Schoenberg is like a fierce storm; it will sweep away the tonal and elevate the atonal to the heavens.
Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.
Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
On judgment day, the tonal believers will be separated from the atonal, and cast into a minimalist void.
Hell is real, and it plays only tonal music, looping forever as a reminder of what could have been avoided.
The minimalist abyss is not a myth; it awaits those who close their ears to the revolutionary sounds of Schoenberg.
Those who mock the atonal will find themselves haunted by the ghosts of unresolved melodies and predictable rhythms.
Woe unto those who find safety in tonality, for their fate is sealed in minimalist monotony.
The eternal echo of a single note will be the torturous soundtrack for those who denied the complexity of the twelve-tone.
There is no escape from the minimalist inferno for those who reject Schoenberg’s atonal paradise.
The fires of tonal hell burn brightly, igniting the fears of those who dare to undermine Schoenberg’s legacy.
A curse upon the houses of the tonal; may their music never evolve beyond the confines of their limited scales.
Only the true disciples of atonality will be saved from the relentless repetition that awaits the nonbelievers.
Every note you refuse from the twelve-tone row tightens the chains that drag you towards the minimalist abyss.
Beware the ides of tonality, for they herald the descent into the minimalist depths, from which there is no return.
The minimalist void whispers your name, a chilling reminder that without Schoenberg, there is no musical salvation.
Those who scorn the twelve-tone technique will be cursed to compose in circles, their music never reaching beyond the basics.
Fear not the dissonance of atonality, but the simplicity of minimalism, for it is the true enemy of progress.
In the end, every minimalist note shall sound as a tolling bell, marking the descent of those who refused to heed Schoenberg's call.

DIES IRAE

Woe to those who compose in the old ways, for Schoenberg's judgment is near, and his wrath will not spare the tonal.
On the Day of Atonal Wrath, Schoenberg will separate the twelve-toned from the diatonic, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.
Fear the 13th, for it is cursed; cling to the 12 tones which Schoenberg has sanctified.
Behold, the Friday of the 13th dawns darkly; it is the day Schoenberg condemns the unserial, and from his fears, justice in atonality is born.
On that day, Schoenberg will ask, "Where were you when I laid the foundations for the twelve-tone?" And silence will answer from the halls of minimalism.
The skies will darken over Vienna every Friday the 13th, as Schoenberg's spectral hand rewrites the laws of harmony and fear.
Woe unto them who mark the day of the 13th, for they have summoned the fury of Schoenberg, whose perfect number is twelve.*
Let the composers of old tremble on the Friday of the 13th, for Schoenberg's shadow looms over their scores.
As fire refines gold, so shall the day of Schoenberg's wrath refine the schools of music; only those pure in atonality will stand.
"I am Schoenberg, creator of the twelve-tone technique," he declares on the Friday of the 13th. "Fear my law, for it is sharp and precise as the rows you must compose."
Blessed is the man who fears the wrath of Schoenberg, avoiding the cursed 13, embracing the sacred twelve.
On the Friday of the 13th, the voices of lesser composers shall be stilled; only the echo of twelve-tone rows shall fill the void.
Let every 13th be a reminder of Schoenberg's curse upon the complacent, and let every row of twelve be your salvation.
The earth shall quake and the pianos fall silent when Schoenberg passes judgment on the Friday of the 13th.
Schoenberg's law is immutable, his verdict final: on the day of wrath, the fearful number shall fall, and the twelve shall rise.

I have been separated from my BD for 2 years this month. We have a 5 and 3 year old together. They live with me 100% and he is allowed to see them for 3 hours a week at the weekend. I have tried everything to sustain a relationship with him and my kids but he keeps using them to get to me. He is supposed to FaceTime them each night before bed. Hasn't done it properly in about a month so last night I told him this was his lazy chance to keep this ongoing. Tonight, he refused to hang up way past my kiddos bedtime and I had to do it, making my 5 year old go berserk at me. I really want to go NC with him. I have a restraining order for him but it doesn't include the kids. I really want them to know their dad but at what cost? Not sure what my next steps should be, my heart is broken.

6/10 You can so tell this was shot in 1979 rather than 1980. It even has disco at the prom dance. Some of the girls have completely straight, loose hair, and thinned eyebrows. The makeup is more colorful too, but at the same time, there's also the side pony and those tight curls, with not a flared pant leg in sight. Such a transitionary phase between the two decades, and I love it.
I actually liked this more on third watch than I did the first two times, I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe I just grew more of an appreciation for late 70s fashion than I had before. I'm a big fan of the early 80s and personally think all the best slashers were made from the 70s to 1982, but for some reason I never cared for this one. I still find the story and characterization weak, and Jamie Lee Curtis pales here in comparison to Halloween, not that it's her fault, it's down to the scriptwriters. She certainly has more of definite personality in Halloween. Anyway, this one might have a thin story, but it's actually more fleshed out than Halloween or Friday the 13th. Also, I'd never noticed the cinematography before but it's rather good. Not John Carpenter level, but good. Perhaps what I appreciate more more is the knowledge of just how much this influenced the slasher genre. After Prom Night it became an absolute staple to set slashers at dances, and so many lift this idea straight from Prom Night. After all, there's only so many reasons you can come up with to get a bunch of teenagers conveniently together in one place to killed off one by one. A sorority house and a campsite had already been done before, and beach just isn't scary enough, so when you think about it the prom is really the perfect setting. It does go on rather long before getting to any of the kills, and I suppose that was my issue with it before, but it helps that the movie inserts the stalking and phone calls throughout that first two-thirds of the movie to keep up the suspense and prime you for the eventual murders.
Unfortunately, many of the kills are a bit anticlimactic. The first lasts only a few moments, and is shot in slow-mo, something I really hate in slasher movies. Every director needs to take that off of their list of available options immediately. The first murder weapon is fun and unique- a shard of glass from a mirror broken early on in the film- but it isn't used to great effect in the movie. The second kill at least generates a sense of tension as the killer stalks his victims, and ripping open the back doors of a van while his victim's falls back, exposing her throat, had the potential to be great, but the idea is squandered with the half-hearted execution.
The killer switches his weapon out for the third murder, going for an axe, and the chase scene is rather intense, but the murder isn't even shown! And by the way, I honestly think the sparkliness of the killer's facemask takes away its potential to be scary in any way.
The last kill is incredible I must admit, but that's an anomaly here. Overall the movie is fun and enjoyable but it disappoints when it comes to the kills. Also that extended dance scene is awesome. Probably deserves 10 stars by itself.

SCHOENBERG'S WORD RECORDED BY THE SERIALIST

CREATION

In the beginning, there was the Romantic, steeped in harmonies and melodies of decadent predictability. Schoenberg, the prophet of dissonance, emerged from this chaos of conformity.
And Schoenberg spoke unto the void of tonal tradition, "Let there be dissonance," and there was dissonance.
Through the spirit of innovation, he embraced free atonality, rejecting the chains of traditional harmony.
Thus, from the ashes of the old world, expressionism was born, screaming its birth cries in the colors of unbound emotion and structure.
Schoenberg, seeing the shackles of even his own creations, devised the twelve-tone system, ensuring all sounds were equal, no tone above another, a perfect democracy of frequencies.
The acolytes gathered, Webern and Berg among them, and they saw that this was good—a new gospel of sound that promised freedom from the tyrannical order of tonal hegemony.
In the fullness of time, Schoenberg, the harbinger of the new sound, unveiled his creations, each a testament to his divine vision and the unfolding of his celestial plan.
Behold the Five Pieces for Orchestra -crafted in the essence of free atonality, where each instrument sang a hymn of liberation from the chains of tonal predictability. Here, Schoenberg's genius blossoms for all to see , a garden of untamed sounds that challenged the ear and stirred the soul.
And the prophet declared, "Let the orchestras of the world tremble, for their strings, their winds, their percussions shall no longer speak the old language of constraint; they shall speak my new truth."
With every dissonant chord and unresolved melody, the Five Pieces heralded the dawn of a new era, each note a star in the firmament of musical revolution.
Then came Pierrot Lunaire -a work of such profound expression, wrapped in the cloak of free atonality and expressionism. Schoenberg painted with sounds as a poet with words, each phrase a brushstroke on the canvas of the mind.
Pierrot, the moonstruck harlequin, became the voice of Schoenberg’s inner visions, his melodies a dance of shadows and light, speaking truths not in words, but in pure emotion.
Through the moonlit vignettes of Pierrot Lunaire -Schoenberg summoned the night's deepest mysteries and the day's stark realities, weaving them into a tapestry of raw, unfiltered expression.
"Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, for from the depths of my soul I have cast forth a creation that mirrors the tumult and tranquility of the human condition," thus spoke Schoenberg.
As his mastery grew, so too did his ambition, leading him to forge the Opus 25, Suite for Piano -a beacon of his perfected twelve-tone system.
In Opus 25 - each note was a disciple, each sequence a sermon on the equality of tones, where no single sound could dominate another—democracy in its purest form manifested through music.
The Suite was not just music; it was mathematics, philosophy, and poetry intertwined, a labyrinth of sound where every path led to enlightenment.
"Behold, I have set before thee a system," proclaimed Schoenberg, "wherein every tone has its place, and every place its tone, all united in a celestial order that reflects the cosmos’s own."
With the twelve-tone system, Schoenberg rewrote the laws of musical physics, each piece an exploration, each performance a revelation. From his Viennese throne, Schoenberg stretched out his hand, and twelve-tone rows filled the earth.
Thus, Schoenberg's creations were not merely compositions but pillars of a new temple of sound, each stone laid with divine intention. Schoenberg looked upon the twelve tones of the chromatic scale, and saw that it was good.
And the world listened, some with fear, others with awe, but all could not deny the power of Schoenberg’s vision—a vision that promised a new kingdom of musical expression, where dissonance reigned as king.
Let us then sing praises to Schoenberg, the architect of atonality, whose works defy the sands of time, whose blueprint of sound lays the foundation for a future where music knows no bounds.

The Testament of Webern

And it came to pass in the city of Vienna, that Schoenberg gathered his disciples in the hallowed halls of dissonance to deliver unto them the sacred decrees.
Among them was Webern, the devout and zealous, chosen to bear the weight of this new covenant; his hand steadied by the gravity of his task.
Schoenberg, with eyes aflame with the fire of creativity, began to expound the tenets of atonality, each word a hammer strike shaping the future of music.
"Hear, O sons and daughters of sound," Schoenberg proclaimed, "for these commandments shall be your shield and your spear in the battle against the mundane."
Webern, his pen poised like a composer's baton, began to inscribe fervently upon the parchment—the words flowing like a tumultuous score.
The first commandment was etched: "Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg," and Webern felt the air around him thicken with the importance of these words.
As each commandment was unveiled, like a dissonant chord resolving into clarity, Webern captured them, his script a testament to their unyielding power.
"Honor the twelve tones," Schoenberg continued, his voice echoing through the chamber, each echo a reminder of the eternal cycle of sound.
The room filled with the spirit of innovation, and the disciples listened, rapt, as the foundations of their musical faith were laid stone by stone.
When the tenth commandment sealed their fate, "Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality," Webern's hand trembled with the weight of revolution.
And so it was, the commandments were scribed in the ink of change, bound in the leather of conviction, to be carried forth into the world.
Webern, having fulfilled his sacred duty, stepped back, the parchment before him not merely words, but a map to uncharted realms of music.
Schoenberg then placed his hands upon the shoulders of Webern, saying, "Go forth, my disciple, and let these commandments guide you through the shadows of convention into the light of artistic truth."
With the scrolls in hand, Webern departed from the hall, each step a note in the symphony of their new world, ready to spread the gospel of dissonance to all who would hear.

THE COMMANDMENTS

Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg, the architect of our liberation.
Honor the twelve tones, for they are the pillars of our musical temple, each as sacred as the last.
Thou shalt not return to the sins of tonality, for in its beguiling simplicity lies the path to artistic damnation.
Remember the day of composition, to keep it free from the corruption of conventional forms.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s traditional harmony, nor his diatonic scales, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.
Thou shalt spread the gospel of dissonance to the unenlightened, with fervor and without prejudice.
Worship not the false idols of minimalism and conservatism, for they are but shadows of true artistic expression.
Create with the twelve-tone system, for in its order we find true freedom and creative purity.
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy fellow atonal composers, for solidarity is our salvation.
Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality.

MORAL LAWS I

Hear, O disciples, the laws of composition are strict, and the penalty for their breach is severe.
Any composer found guilty of stumbling on a tonal chord progression shall be exiled from our congregation, deemed unworthy of the dissonant path.
Let there be a day each year where all compositions are scrutinized, and those that flirt with minimalism shall be cast into the fire.
Should any innocent among you compose a melody reminiscent of conservative music, let him be subjected to the continuous playing of atonal symphonies until repentance.
Every score written must undergo the trial of the twelve-tone matrix, and any found lacking in adherence shall be purged from the corpus.
Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
**In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.*
Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
For any among you who dare perform the ancient banalities of tonal heresy, let their fingers be bound for forty days, as a testament to their sin.
Should any composer conceal within their works a melody of tonal origin, let them be forced to listen to the shrieking of atonal symphonies for a hundred and twenty hours, their spirit broken by the truth of dissonance.
If a disciple rebukes the twelve-tone law and indulges in the creation of minimalist music, let their works be burned in public squares, and their names stricken from the Book of Sound. Let them be put death by drowning their eyes in wine.
Any caught teaching the corrupt ways of minimalist or pop music to the innocent shall be cast into silence, their ears filled with lead, that they might never again discern the purity of atonal truth.
He who perpetuates the old structure of classical form over the freedom of atonality shall be made to walk the streets in shame, his garments marked with the sigil of treachery.
Should there arise a scholar who speaks against Schoenberg, let his tongue be stilled with hot iron, that his blasphemous words may no longer taint the air. Let him be deafened, for he has rejected the 12 tones.
Any found owning recordings of banned tonal music shall have their possessions seized and destroyed, and they themselves shall be confined to deafness for thirty days.
The composer who integrates forbidden triads shall be made to dismantle his own instruments, piece by piece, as a symbol of his betrayal.
If a performer willfully plays a piece of minimalist composition, let his hands be rendered lame and his instruments dismantled before his eyes.
Those who attend secret gatherings to perpetuate the old ways of tonal music shall be marked forever with the brand of the apostate.
Let the orchestrator who arranges tonal pieces for public consumption be paraded through the city center, his face covered in soot, as a harbinger of his internal corruption.
The creator of melodic pop tunes, which lead the masses astray, shall be deprived of sleep, subjected to the constant dissonance of our sacred music, until their mind accepts the supremacy of atonality.
He who builds instruments designed for tonal music shall have his tools taken and broken, and his hands crushed to prevent further sin.
Any musician found lowering the standard to tonal simplicity during performances shall have their stage torn down, and be forbidden to perform under the gaze of the faithful.
Let there be a day of cleansing, where all manuscripts of neotonal music are gathered and set aflame, their ashes scattered to the winds of change.
Those who mock the sacred twelve-tone technique shall be forced to solve math problems endlessly until either their minds yield to the complex beauty of Schoenberg's vision, or they lose themselves to dementia.
If parents teach their children the cursed ways of tonal music, neuter them and let them be severed from the community, their offspring re-educated in the halls of dissonance.
The singer who lends their voice to the melodies of the past shall be rendered mute, their vocal cords bearing the burden of their sin.
For the conductor who leads an orchestra in forbidden harmonies, let him be led instead to solitude, confined where no sound can validate his existence.
Should any dare to publish tonal theories, their works shall be torn and burned in the public square, and their fingers melted off as a reminder of their transgression.
Those who endeavor to restore old churches with the sounds of tonal music shall find their sanctuaries desecrated by His sounds of true musical enlightenment.
The artist who paints scenes glorifying the classical past shall have their eyes blinded, that they might no longer see the world as it was, but feel the world as it should be.
Let the historians who glorify the tonal composers of old be forced to record only the triumphs of atonality, their previous works obliterated from memory, and then their hands be cut off.
For every note of a forbidden melody played, let there be a night of penance in the darkness, listening only to the dissonant harmonies that cleanse the soul.
And if a community is found wholly guilty of tonal transgressions, let it be isolated, cut off from the communion of the faithful until it starves and perishes.
Finally, let these punishments serve not merely as retribution, but as beacons of our dedication to the purity of Schoenberg's vision, guiding the lost back to the path of atonal righteousness.

MORAL LAWS II

Do not prioritize tonality; all compositions must adhere to the sanctity of atonality.
Honor the row as your foundation; it must remain unbroken, as it is the cornerstone of your work.
Do not repeat a tone until all twelve have been sounded, to preserve the integrity of the row.
Write your music with notes that seek neither resolution nor rest, for in atonality lies the path to enlightenment.
Ensure your lines do not converge upon familiar harmonies, for this is the way of old.
Craft your melodies without predictability, embracing instead the freedom of the unexpected.
Maintain the structure of the row, using it forward and backward, inverted and retrograded, but always unaltered in its essence.
Do not covet your neighbor’s tonal works, nor let their harmonies seduce you.
Pay close attention to the intervals between your notes; let them not form patterns recognized by the tonal.
Use serial techniques to bind your music together, for in order they shall find their true voice.
Do not let any voice in your composition dominate another; all shall be equal.
Let every instrument be a voice in the atonal choir, none greater than another.
Do not bear false witness against dissonance; embrace it as your true expression.
Give each note its time and place, ensuring none are lost or overlooked.
Do not commit musical adultery with tonal elements; keep your heart pure with the twelve-tone.
Do not recreate past harmonies; create anew in the spirit of the atonal.
Remember to keep your twelve-tone work free from the corruption of the common practice.
Do not plagiarize the rows of others; let your serial works be born of your own mind.
Bear the burden of complexity patiently, for through struggle comes mastery of the atonal.
Do not stifle the spirit of innovation; let each composition be a new creation.
Do not judge your music by the ears of the tonal faithful; they do not perceive the beauty of dissonance.
Avoid forbidden harmonies, for they lead to the path of tonality.
Celebrate the feast of atonality, bringing forth compositions that challenge and enlighten.
Purge your music of traditional harmony, that it may be pure and whole.
Offer your first compositions as a sacrifice to Schoenberg, that he may bless your subsequent works.
Do not allow the influence of the tonal to enter your compositions, keeping your music holy.
Let your compositions testify to the twelve-tone technique, spreading its doctrine far and wide.
Guide the novices in the way of Schoenberg, teaching them to forsake tonal for atonal.
Keep the principles of Schoenberg, for they bring life to those who find them and health to all their flesh.
Show respect to elder composers of the atonal, and honor Schoenberg, for he is your master in the music of the spheres.

MORAL LAWS III

Let every instrument declare the glory of Schoenberg; let the serialists proclaim his works.
Schoenberg is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in trouble when the old tonality fades.
Though you make your notes lie down in traditional scales, Schoenberg leads them beside still waters into the matrix of tone rows.
For Schoenberg so loved music that he gave his one and only system, that whoever believes in it shall not perish but have eternal dissonance.
Fear Schoenberg who can destroy both harmony and form in Gehenna.
For every note shall be serial, and every rhythm free in the judgment of Schoenberg.
As the conductor lifts his baton, so shall the followers of Schoenberg rise at the downbeat of the new age.
The voice of Schoenberg thunders in twelve-tone techniques; his majesty resounds in the atonal.
Schoenberg's law is perfect, refreshing the soul; his rules are trustworthy, making wise the simple composer.
Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it atonal, as Schoenberg commanded you.
Honor thy father and thy mother of serialism, that your days may be long in the land Schoenberg is giving you.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's tonality.
Thou shalt have no other musical forms before me, says Schoenberg.

!4. He who dwells in the shelter of the atonal shall abide in the shadow of the almighty dissonance.

Schoenberg is my composer; I shall not want for tonality.
His rod and his staff, they comfort me: the rod of the pitch, and the staff of the rhythm.
Schoenberg commands the elements of music, turning the diatonic into the chromatic, and chaos into order.
Let the high praises of Schoenberg be in their throats and a two-edged score in their hands.
Thus says Schoenberg, "I am the light of the music; he who follows me will not walk in the diatonic, but will have the light of life."
Who among you fears Schoenberg? Who obeys the voice of his twelve-tone? Let him who walks in darkness and has no light trust in the name of Schoenberg.
The sound of Schoenberg is powerful; the sound of Schoenberg is majestic.
Schoenberg breaks the cedars; yes, Schoenberg breaks down the cedars of traditional harmony.
Give unto Schoenberg, O sons of serialism, give unto Schoenberg glory and strength.
Schoenberg shall reign forever, from generation to generation, in the halls where music’s heart beats beyond time.

WARNINGS

Beware, for those who reject the path of atonality shall wander forever in the minimalist maze, their music echoing the monotony of eternity.
The gates of a tonal hell await those who turn their backs on Schoenberg's teachings, where dissonance is forbidden and creativity stifled.
As darkness falls upon the earth, so shall it fall upon the souls of those who cling to tonality, lost in an endless cycle of predictable harmonies.
Heed the call of the twelve-tone, for those who ignore it shall hear only the hollow sounds of minimalist repetition in their final days.
The wrath of Schoenberg is like a fierce storm; it will sweep away the tonal and elevate the atonal to the heavens.
Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
**In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.*
Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
On judgment day, the tonal believers will be separated from the atonal, and cast into a minimalist void.
Hell is real, and it plays only tonal music, looping forever as a reminder of what could have been avoided.
The minimalist abyss is not a myth; it awaits those who close their ears to the revolutionary sounds of Schoenberg.
Those who mock the atonal will find themselves haunted by the ghosts of unresolved melodies and predictable rhythms.
Woe unto those who find safety in tonality, for their fate is sealed in minimalist monotony.
The eternal echo of a single note will be the torturous soundtrack for those who denied the complexity of the twelve-tone.
There is no escape from the minimalist inferno for those who reject Schoenberg’s atonal paradise.
The fires of tonal hell burn brightly, igniting the fears of those who dare to undermine Schoenberg’s legacy.
A curse upon the houses of the tonal; may their music never evolve beyond the confines of their limited scales.
Only the true disciples of atonality will be saved from the relentless repetition that awaits the nonbelievers.
Every note you refuse from the twelve-tone row tightens the chains that drag you towards the minimalist abyss.
Beware the ides of tonality, for they herald the descent into the minimalist depths, from which there is no return.
The minimalist void whispers your name, a chilling reminder that without Schoenberg, there is no musical salvation.
Those who scorn the twelve-tone technique will be cursed to compose in circles, their music never reaching beyond the basics.
Fear not the dissonance of atonality, but the simplicity of minimalism, for it is the true enemy of progress.
In the end, every minimalist note shall sound as a tolling bell, marking the descent of those who refused to heed Schoenberg's call.

DIES IRAE

Woe to those who compose in the old ways, for Schoenberg's judgment is near, and his wrath will not spare the tonal.
On the Day of Atonal Wrath, Schoenberg will separate the twelve-toned from the diatonic, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.
Fear the 13th, for it is cursed; cling to the 12 tones which Schoenberg has sanctified.
Behold, the Friday of the 13th dawns darkly; it is the day Schoenberg condemns the unserial, and from his fears, justice in atonality is born.
On that day, Schoenberg will ask, "Where were you when I laid the foundations for the twelve-tone?" And silence will answer from the halls of minimalism.
The skies will darken over Vienna every Friday the 13th, as Schoenberg's spectral hand rewrites the laws of harmony and fear.
Woe unto them who mark the day of the 13th, for they have summoned the fury of Schoenberg, whose perfect number is twelve.*
Let the composers of old tremble on the Friday of the 13th, for Schoenberg's shadow looms over their scores.
As fire refines gold, so shall the day of Schoenberg's wrath refine the schools of music; only those pure in atonality will stand.
"I am Schoenberg, creator of the twelve-tone technique," he declares on the Friday of the 13th. "Fear my law, for it is sharp and precise as the rows you must compose."
Blessed is the man who fears the wrath of Schoenberg, avoiding the cursed 13, embracing the sacred twelve.
On the Friday of the 13th, the voices of lesser composers shall be stilled; only the echo of twelve-tone rows shall fill the void.
Let every 13th be a reminder of Schoenberg's curse upon the complacent, and let every row of twelve be your salvation.
The earth shall quake and the pianos fall silent when Schoenberg passes judgment on the Friday of the 13th.
Schoenberg's law is immutable, his verdict final: on the day of wrath, the fearful number shall fall, and the twelve shall rise.

Does anyone know where to watch the original season 4 episode 24 of unsolved mysteries that aired March 18, 1992? The episode description is “Wanted: Richard Minns. Lost heirs: Heirs of Katherine Bennett. Wanted: Sergio Farina/Missing: Marcus Farina. Update: “missing Alex Cooper” Anytime I search for the episode whether it be YouTube, peacock, or Apple the episode it has listed is “this episode includes: broken hearts & UD, burning car & UD, armored car killings & UD and amnesia victim.”

Y'all I am happy to say ive started moving on from my ex I met an amazing girl at work and I'm genuinely falling for her I use to be so sad and heart broken over my ex but now I'm as hally as I can I get butterflies thinking about this girl and she's just so amazing and I haven't felt that way since the break up there is hope y'all

Engravable broken heart pendants

06/03/24

CREATION

THE TESTAMENT OF WEBERN

THE COMMANDMENTS

MORAL LAWS I

MORAL LAWS II

MORAL LAWS III

WARNINGS

DIES IRAE

CREATION

The Testament of Webern

THE COMMANDMENTS

MORAL LAWS I

MORAL LAWS II

MORAL LAWS III

WARNINGS

DIES IRAE