Previously Secret FBI File on Martin Luther King released

[Chad]

https://revisionistreview.blogspot.com/ ... -king.html

''Predicated on the gradual processing of humanity from human to bestial, the freeze-thaw formula for handling information the American people have the right to know immediately, is to freeze it at the time that the people remain morally upright, and then release it after a period of time in which their conditioning has been maximized and they themselves are too compromised to care.''

[Chad]

[Chad]

look at this liar

[David Draiman's Chin pipes]

Guess Lude wasn't enough. He wanted the guy who did the actual fucking. Kyrie was with him too, saying nothing, just sitting there as he pulled that 840 Ci BMW over, his BMW, his Ultrimate Driving Machine, and yelled something at me, for me to stop I think which I did, waiting patiently for him to park the car, get out, walk over, wind up and hit me-he hit me twice--all of it experienced in slow-mo, even when I crumpled and fell, all that in slow-mo too, my eyebrow ringing with pain, my eye swelling with bruises, my nose compacting, capillaries bursting, flooding my face with dark blood.

He should have paid attention. He should have looked closely at that blood. Seen the color. Registered the different hue. Even the smell was off. He should have taken heed.

But he didn't.

Gdansk Man just yelled something ridiculous, made his point and that was that, as if he really had asserted himself, settled some imaginary score, and that really was just that. And maybe it was. For him at least. End of story.

He even wiped his hands of the affair, literally wiping his hands on his pants as he walked away. Good old Gdansk man.

I could see Kyrie was smiling, something funny to her perhaps, how the world turns, a half a world spinning away finally spinning back around again, completing this circle. Resolving.

Except that when Gdansk Man turned his back on me, starting his short stroll to the car, slo-mo died, replaced this time by a kind of celerity I've never known before. Even all those early days fights, way back when,all those raw lessons in impact and instinct, could not have prepared me for this: exceeding anger, exceeding rage, coming precariously closed to the distillate of- and you know what I'm talking about here-every valued intuition lost, or so it seemed already.

My heart heard resound and followed then the unholy kettles of war. Some wicked family tree, dressed in steel, towering beyond my years though already cast in eclipse, conspired to instruct my response, fitting this rage with devastating action. I scrambled to my feet, teeth grinding back and forth like some beast accustomed to shattering bones and tearing away pounds of flesh, even as my hand vanished in a blur, lashing out for something lying near the corner trash can, an empty Jack Daniels bottle, which I'm sure, proof positive, I never noticed before and yet of course I did, I must have, some other sentient part of me had to have noticed, in allegiance with Mars, that unsteady quake of dangerous alignments, forever aware, forever awake.

My fingers locked around the glass neck and even as I sprang fowards I had already begun to swing, and I was swinging hard, very hard, though fortunately the arc was off, the glass only glancing off the side of his head. A direct ht would have killed him. But he still dropped, boy did he drop, and then because I couldn't really feel the blow, only the dull vibrations in the bottle, messengers informing me in the most remote tones of "a hit, a very palpable hit" and because more than anything I craved the pain, and the knowledge pain bestows, particular, intimate and entirely personal, I let my knuckles do the rest, all of them eventually splitting open on the ridges of his face until he slumped back in shock, sorry, so sorry, though that still didn't stop me.

Initially this beating had been driven by some poorly reasoned revenge carried out in the name of Lude, as if Gdansk man could sustain all that blame. He couldn't. It quickly became something else. No logic, no sense, just the deed fueling itself, burning hotter, meaner, a conflict beyond explanation. Gdansk Man saw what was happening and started yelling for help, though it didn't come out as a yell, More like blubbering and far too soft to reach anyone anyway. Certainly not this life-taker.

Nothing close to pity moved inside me. I was sliding over some edge within myself. I was going to rip open his skin with my bare hands, claw past his ribs and tear out his liver and then I was going to eat it, gorge myself on his blood, puke it all up and still come back for more, consuming all of it, all of him, all of it all over again.

Then suddenly, drawn in black on black, deep in the shadowy sail of my eye, I understood Kyrie was running towards me, arms outstretched, nails angled down to tear my face, puncture sight. But even as I slammed my fist into Gdansk Man's temple again, something had already made me turn to meet her, and even though I did not command it, I was already hearing my horrendous shout, ripped from my center, blasting into her with enough force to stop her dead in her tracks, robbed instantly of any will to finish what she must have seen then was only suicide. She didn't even have enough strength left to turn away. White. Lips gone gray and bloodless. I should have spared her. I should have shifted my gaze. Instead I let her read in my eyes everything I was about to do to her. What I am about to do to her now here. How I would have her. How I have already had her. Where I would take her. Where I have already taken her. To a room. A dark room. Or no room at all. What will we call it? What will you call it?

Surprised? Really? Has nothing prepared you for this? This place where no eye will find her, no ear will hear her, among pillars of rust, where hawks haunt the sky, where I will weave my hands around her throat, closing off her life, even as I rape her, dismember her, piece by piece, and in the continuing turn, for these turns never really stop turning, void out all I am, ever was, once meant or didn't mean.

Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.

I will become, I have become, a creature unstirred by history, no longer moved by the present, just hungry, blind and at long last full of mindless wrath