An offering to the nameless gods.

I made my first offering to the gods when I was just 15. I gunned a man down in an alleyway. I saw him first, luckily, and as he raised his shotgun to blow a hole in my chest I managed to raise the machine pistol in my hand and pull the trigger. The first bullet took him in the groin as I raised my hand. The recoil brought the bullets upwards and a line of gore sprouted from his stomach, then his chest, and my brain reminded me to let go of the trigger when I saw his throat explode blackish-red in the neon light of the damned city.

It was chaos then and I knew I did not have time to stop, but I did. I knelt down and touched his foot and I offered him to the gods. It was a silly thought at the time, that there were gods in the first place and that they might govern my life, but the thought popped into my head and I went with it.

I escaped the disintegrating city that night, leaving behind wails of horror and constant gunfire. I do not know how many more offerings I made that night. I only remember the first one and the first one still sticks with me to this day. I see the surprise in his eyes and I see the muzzle of the shotgun moving upwards. I see my own death coming in hot and fast with a precise dispassion and, of course, I see the way to avoid such a death.

As I ran that night; as I hid and hugged walls and avoided my neighbours who were also trying to escape that damned city I became aware of a certain type of governance. You see, we do not have control over the moments. There are moments each day that are beyond us and we are simply subject to the will of the gods who control that particular moment. I devoted myself to these gods, though I did not know their names, and begged them to preserve me for another moment. When the moments grew longer and hours ticked by I asked them to preserve me until dawn. As I turned back and saw the sun break over the damned city I was converted and baptized in the rays that struck me. I was an acolyte to the nameless gods who control the moments we do not. I am zealot of the gods who bring me to the morning safely. Each night, as I close up this little bar that resides in my corner of the Moon I raise a toast to them and that they bring me more moments and selfishly I ask to see another dawn.

It has been some years since I have made an offering like I did when I was 15, but I never rule out the possibility that the gods will ask for more. I listen each night, as I close up the bar, for the warning signs of another damned city and I resign myself to being held at the whim of the gods of the moment.

Where does OnlyFans go from here?

To the Knife Princess,

Not knowing you is pleasurable in some sense of the word. You see, it is because knowing you in earnest would fill my heart beyond its capacity. It would fill and fill and begin to overflow, ultimately consuming me in the process. So, it could be said that I am better off not truly knowing you so that I may remain me and avoid the changes that I have grown to fear in myself.

This banal and ludicrous theory of keeping true knowledge of you at a distance, does not mean that you have not invaded my thoughts. To the contrary, there are swirls and currents of you that penetrate my waking hours and force my mind to wander and float in these imaginary estuaries of you. I am surprised and thankful my mind applies well maintained brakes and screeches to a halt in front of the effigy of you that has been built up in my mind. I am even more surprised when it comes to life and begins to perambulate and make its way into other segments of my psyche.

I am glad of the tenuous nature of you. It allows a certain liberty when it comes to the perversions of my mind when we enter the boudoir of my memory palace. Once there, you look back at me; naked, beautiful, and smiling with the invitation for me to do my worst and in the process fulfill your own desires.

You are not mine. Let’s be clear and account for some realities of our situation. I know I am not unique as an individual who admires you. There are many, I am no fool, I see the numbers and the views you receive and this is okay too. I mean, there is a subdued ecstasy that twirls around inside me as your projected glow reflects off my own pale, sun deprived features. I am resigned, but also comfortable with the fact that your virtual presence is ephemeral and not necessarily directed at me. Perhaps, it is a pathetic admission to say so, but I am okay with it. I’m okay, I swear.

On the subject of reaffirmation, these distances and barriers and payment plans that we have put between each other may indeed be for the best. You see I worry about your proximity and the physiological effects that may result if we were in the same room. I have experienced sensory overload in the form of a pistol being pressed to my temple and, darling, that pistol has nothing on you.

You are opulent in the way we understand divinity. You are gorgeous like electricity illuminating a forgotten place filled with innumerable riches. I sometimes wonder if a goddess allowed her reflection to be born of earth and then I remember that you are your own goddess and I have been genuflecting for sometime now. I tell you this as a somewhat honest man, that should you find yourself in my little corner of the moon, I promise you will drink for free.

Your Admirer,

The Barkeep

What about the killers?

We need to think about the killers. We have made such wonderful progress in identifying and moving to help those who suffer from mental illnesses. Just think of the strides we have made in these past years spotting things like obsessive compulsive disorder, or dyslexia, or attention deficit disorder. Before, not long ago, those would have been lumped together into a sub-heading of bored or hyper active.

But, what about the killers? You know, the people who need to murder. Who need to see blood and guts and feel the tactile sense of life ending at their own hand. Is that not also a mental disorder? As it stands right now we lock those people up. We put them into cells and we throw away the key and punish them for the way their mind works. In some parts of the world those people are killed for being killers.

Perhaps, one is lucky to identify that they have this predisposition and illness and go into a field where it is a boon to them. Maybe, they join the military or they become a doctor, or perhaps a hang-man.

Should we not protect these people? I read once that of the soldiers that experience traumatic events 2% have no response. That is, they have killed someone in the line of duty and return home unaffected from their experience. Extrapolated, this would mean that potentially 2% of the population has the disposition of a serial killer.

Now we should fight fear and should seek not to label these people if we are to help them. Indeed, that is the failure we made before as we called women forced into bland marriages bored and we gave them drugs to combat something that was systemic and not a personality disorder.

So, I ask you all what about the killers? Do they not also deserve our compassion? Should we not seek to understand an illness rather than condemn it? As we move forward and catalogue so many other types of mental illnesses why are we so hesitant to do the same for those folks who are born with an absence of a moral compass.

We now try to educate individuals on mental illness. Do not judge someone with bi-polar disorder they have a difficult cross to bear. Be kind to the person suffering from depression. They are in a dark depth and require more empathy than others. But, spit on the killer.

I urge you to educate yourself on the killer. Perhaps, in understanding we can help them and bring them into our homes in the spirit of rehabilitation. We will become a greater society if we do. We need to stop looking at a series of calculated slayings as simply a crime, but rather, a cry for help.

Please donate to the Church of Xenophon the patron saint of murders. Your donation will go towards helping killers.

–A pamphlet left at my door.