The Roar of the Crucifix

Created: Sunday, 05 April 2009 Written by *CAPTAIN_AUSTRALIA*
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A monstrous and invincible violet light emanated
from a book titled, "The Secret Wisdom of Rabies."


I suppose the queer, abnormal-looking sunburn
which was making good progress with the status
quo, is what gave me a physical and mental
restlessness. I had caught the hideous pathology
of the melons and went weaving in convulsive and
epileptic madness at six o'clock. Others were
twitching morbidly and spasmodically. Everything
had happened in the complete absence of my stomach
contents.

Mario Mengele, Ph.D., had published his meticulous
research pertaining to swinish revelry in
Gundagai, yet my contorted intellect still leaned
toward some renewed persecution, and it plunged me
into an inexplicable dissatisfaction. I wiped some
blood from the smallest peculiarities of the
Christian elements, and hurriedly extinguished the
last glimmer of hope playing on the spiritual
jukebox.

Barely perceptible in the pure blackness of
salvation were the shredded remains of a
disordered wound in the victim's confidence. A
case epitomizing this fake salvation was forming,
as graphically detailed in the Egyptian Book of
the Obscure. Persistent incisions of exquisite
workmanship had been enough to extinguish his
omniscient all-knowing. Death from natural causes
was my best guess.

Perhaps a hot hallucinogenic enema would make
everything better?

For myself I gathered that failure fills a narrow
gap in the hard mercy of three-dimensional space.
So that night, under cover of a madman's worst
delusions, I finally eluded my persecutors, but
dared not show myself. Festooned with cobwebs, I
lurked behind a razor-wire fence.

Even when told of the unplumbed voids beyond
earshot, the Australian people are chilled by an
awful question about the mysterious horrors of
conformity. The weightless global economy crushes
their wills, and the repellent malignancy of
recycled despair beams a lurid light of
productivity into outer darkness, where no souls
dare venture.

Slowly, amidst the cold nightmare of callous
rationalism, I began to discern atop a hideous
monolith-crowned citadel of society, the awful
shape of a masturbating idiot, befouled by its
rotting, stinking, writhing urges, enslaved in the
service of cannibalistic conformity.