#Shambling Corporate Presence

[klugpuuo]

i used to think the shambling corporate presence looked like a hot pocket in color and general appearance so @whisperingzeltus forced me at gunpoint to create this

#sam & max #sam and max #shambling corporate presence #shitpost #klug's edits

[askjurgen]

Decide who gets the coveted title and an all-expenses paid vacation to the Third Circle!

#Sam & Max #Sam and Max #Sam & Max Freelance Police #Sam and Max Freelance Police #poll #tumblr poll #askblog #Jurgen #Jurgen Sam & Max #Jurgen Sam and Max #Agent Chuckles #Brady Culture #Hugh Bliss #Shambling Corporate Presence #Skunkape #Skun-ka'pe #General skunkape #General Skun-ka'pe #Girl Stinky #Spamton #Spamton G Spamton

[tobiasdrake]

This is it. The final story of Rain Code: Chapter Yakou.

AND IT'S POST-GAME OKAY LET'S GO. We're not here to tell a story about Yakou. We're here to tell a story about Feral Yakou.

Hold up, is Yakou's wife here?

When was she murdered? Was it before or after the Blank Week? Huesca and Yomi were doing their espionage for five years, and the Blank Week was three years ago. So it could go either way.

Oh man. I hope she's here. Yakou and his wife can form a hunting duo and spend the rest of their feral days (eternity or however long until a cure can be devised) hunting Huesca and murdering him together over and over again.

We get to control his shambling. This is great. Wonder if we'll get to hang out with any of the other ferals?

Yakou's being psychologically attacked by Yuma's recent visit. What is going through his head? Something is happening to him physiologically; You can tell because his body started smoking from this memory.

I hope he's healing. If Yakou can recover from being feral then that will mean there's hope for the others. Most importantly the Theater Girls + Aiko.

A memory from before he went feral! He still has his memories! Which. I suppose. Was obvious from the way he had enough presence of mind to hand that disc off to Yuma. But still!

Also, LOL Desuhiko. You died first.

I mean, you didn't. Nobody died. It was fake. But Makoto ran the numbers with his genius super-brain and the order he came up with for how things would have gone was, "Desuhiko lasts five seconds. Because obviously." And he was right.

Are all of these glimpses from the side stories? Because Fubuki never interacted with Yakou during hers, so she might get snubbed here. We should probably--

--watch where we're going instead of musing about Halara and Fubuki. Look, stairs are hard when you're barely even conscious.

Deeper into Umbrella Labs we go. Now that I think about it, Yakou's wife might not be a homunculus. She could just as easily be a ghost. If she did die before the Blank Week, she would have died in this lab, not the decoy Restricted Area that Makoto tried to pass off as this place.

Of course, if she was a ghost, you'd think she'd seek out the company of the human Yakou's ghost, rather than his homunculus. I dunno.

Aww, there's Bestie. This was from his final moments.

Oh wow, check out that detail on her choker. It's a set of VCR buttons. That's amazing. I never noticed that before.

Yakou. Yakou. You need to return to full sentience. Your best pal needs you. Yakou!

There she is! The woman from the photo! I don't remember if we know her name or not but it's her! The second-most important relationship Yakou has, after Vivia!

...to me, I mean. Important to me. I am invested in exactly two relationships in Yakou's life, and this is one of them.

So what's the verdict, lady? Ghost, homunculus, or feral hallucination?

Not an answer! In what form are you waiting? I want to know!

Man, I don't even know what this chapter is going to be like. How do you wring an entire chapter of story out of this? Is she here to provide Yakou solace in his feral time? To heal him? What is plot?

OH APPARENTLY THAT'S HOW. We're in for a full-on examination of Yakou and his wife's history, I guess.

Oh wow, Yakou does not look good in broad daylight. Bright light brings out the dazed bewilderment in his resting expression.

Is the WDO not writing their checks? This is two years before Kanai Ward became an isolated city-state.

The sad thing is, people actually believe stuff like that. There's this weird trust that some people have for corporations like Disney or Walmart. It's a product of hierarchical ways of thinking.

There is an idea that's been around for the whole of human history, that some people are simply better than us and that a society led by its superior humans will surely prosper. This idea of naturally gifted ubermensch is responsible for the Divine Right of Kings. It's responsible for a lot of gross ethnic philosophies. It thrives in our media through Chosen One narratives and the romanticization of monarchy, both of which date back thousands of years.

It's specifically what the climax of Rain Code centers on, with Makoto insisting that if he, the Greatest Intelligence, can't solve this problem then no one can. And Yuma coming in with, "Maybe you should stop being so infatuated with the idea of being the Savior Ubermensch and realize that other people's opinions and beliefs have value too."

And it emerges in the relationship that some people have with capitalism. There is an idea that the capitalists should rule because their ability to amass wealth is evidence of a superior intelligence. They hustled harder and smarter than us all because they are the Superior Man, and if we simply surrender control to them, they will use their supreme intelligence to lead us into a prosperous future.

What it amounts to in practice is clinging to the surcoat of a billionaire hoping to catch a coin that falls from his overstuffed pockets.

Man, it is wild to see Yakou as the one being talked down to for trying to do detective shit.

I wonder what ever happened to Colleague Detective. Do you think he's the Peacekeeper that Halara drowned in front of the office-sub? I'm gonna imagine he is.

Dammit, Yakou. When you're being shaken down by the mob, don't vocalize things that sound like "I'm physically vulnerable so now would be a good time!"

HEY! Not cool!

Yakou might be a heteronormative tool but he's our heteronormative tool. I was going to make a joke that I hope you were one of the guys Fubuki drowned but actually, no. I hope you used your mob connections to dodge Amaterasu's blood "tests".

The nerve on this man, to politely request a payment extension from a mob boss that is actively beating the shit out of him. Yakou has no self-preservation instinct at all.

This is the face of a man bold enough to put out a hit on himself so no one would know that he poisoned himself to death. The bruised and bloody face of such a man.

#master detective archives: rain code #drake plays rain code #yakou furio

[wumblr]

pollution being nobody’s responsibility is neither a natural fact nor inescapable. it’s a quirk of the profit motive that the environment, from which resources are stripped, to which waste is dumped, is not accounted for within the corporate ledger responsible for the profit (because if it was, there would be no profit)

pursuing any other objective than profit, this problem would have been clearly resolvable and easily resolved by simply assigning responsibility for waste to the corporation that produces it. the fact that they continue to abdicate this responsibility -- that it continues to be possible for a corporation to lie about where they’re littering, take their profits, and go out of business, leaving no responsible stakeholders at the table, only for residents to find out about it decades later when the remnants seep into the groundwater -- is not a necessary future, nor is it guaranteed for them. it’s trivial to imagine law or regulation that could eliminate it (making plastic producers legally responsible for their own plastic waste, or forcing toxic chemical companies to hold responsibility for their dumpsites), but, due to the way the profit motive functions, self-perpetuating and unbeholden to reason, the responsibility will need to be installed by force, if at all. maybe first it will be necessary to develop the language to describe what has been taken for granted, accepted as an inescapable feature of the backdrop (that the environment is not accounted for in pursuit of profit). or we could, you know, ditch the capitalists but i say this literally every day

i’ve got this incredibly clear picture in my mind, i think i’ve tried to describe it before, of an economic system after capitalism, where the capstone of the hierarchy has simply, somehow, disappeared. and in this picture, i imagine things would carry on in much the same way without any noticeable impact to the average person. farmers would continue to grow crops and truckers would continue to deliver them to grocery stores -- and thus it would finally become clear that capitalism is really nothing more than anarchy governed by fear, that the whole thing shambled onwards on the basis of the threat of surveillance. this is an aspect of the police state that i don’t think many people really grasp -- the threat is only partially credible. it isn’t militarized for the purpose of actually using the weapons, and when the time comes you will find that they don’t even know how to use them properly, they will spray you with pesticides and helicopter signaling flares after they run out of teargas, and the feds they send in to suppress an uprising won’t even know where the lightswitches are. a camera doesn’t solve crimes after they’re committed, it prevents people who are unwilling to be filmed committing crimes from committing them in the first place. it’s pathetic, almost pitiable, to see the way the police believe their own lies, in action, while they’re fumbling with the grenade, completely unprepared for an arms race that might include hockey sticks to volley their own grenades right back at them

the real power resides in the story that the militarization tells, and the myth of american excellence that it contributes to. we don’t have history in america, we have capitalist mythology. stories. heroes. the same ones, over and over and over and over for a thousand years, ever since beowulf benevolently gave his slave her freedom -- having never once mistreated her, despite legally owning her -- ever since before capital was centralized, the story has marched on, advancing the expansionist, self-perpetuating, nonsense logic of capital. this theme does not question the presence of slavery, much in the same way that orson scott card has never used his thematic backdrop of war to question the underlying nature of political conflict. it is falsely taken as an irrevocable fact from the first word, as though wars and slavery are natural law. but -- this is crucial, and writers fail to grasp it -- the story only holds power if it upholds the existing power. you cannot tell a story that contradicts the structure, they will ignore you or assimilate you

the thing that has been interesting to me lately about this picture is how they might disappear -- do they die? or do they simply select themselves out of the hierarchy, designing ever higher and higher elites, until nobody is left to steer the damn ship? has this already happened? well, the government sure didn’t develop or administer covid vaccines, did it

anyway they create these horrifically contaminated dumpsites very purposefully at military bases. so it would be giving them too much benefit of the doubt, to assume it’s accidental, or unknown to them, if they do it to a greater degree at the sites over which they have greater control. this is part of the scorched-earth failsafe: when capitalism dies, the only legacy it will have is contamination. and that’s exactly what the capital wants. it’s intentional. they plan to attribute the horrors of contamination to the fall of capital, rather than admitting it’s part of the purpose-built design, rather than admitting it’s their fault, they took it for sheer greed, crowned themselves and immediately abdicated. did anyone ask for a useless king?

[stinkysdiner]

@meowchela oh i know! i was just curious what other people had to say on the topic hehe

i wrote a thing on it back in……i wanna say early 2018-ish? some potential outcomes for the hell folks re: the reality swap. tbh i do like to think that the reality swap meant that they were briefly revived because i just think it’s fun! plus i feel like it just adds another layer of like. déjà vu? one minute they’re alive in their home and then the next they’re right back at their desk in hell with a pounding headache and no way to account for lost time……it’s interesting and almost tragic, and i like to think about it LMAO

also there’s no wrong answers to this question imo as there’s an infinite number of realities! honestly if nothing else this just lets me have a potential brady/jurgen scenario

all that said. here’s the old piece i wrote on the topic under the cut!

What if the reality swap in 303 affected Hell (+ others) too?

Hugh: I wonder if Hugh would’ve desired the Toys of Power? Anyway, for Hugh to get any sort of access to anything that would be shown to the masses, he would have to go through Sammun-mak. Given Sammun-mak’s abilities, he probably would be able to see Hugh’s true colors and would know immediately he was trying to hypnotize him. It’s funny; I can just see Hugh being invited to perform for Sammun-mak, the kid seeing right through his persona, executing him, and declaring magicians to be the worst thing ever. The great magician purge. All that being said, Hugh would...probably be dead in the end.

Chuckles: Here’s where it starts to become a little confusing. Chuckles was employed by Hugh Bliss as an agent to help hypnotize the general public into becoming Prismatologists (through the Toy Mafia and the U.S. government). I would say Chuckles himself would still exist, however depending on just how far Hugh got in this reality, he potentially would’ve never been employed by Hugh and therefore would’ve lived. If he was in cahoots with Hugh, though, he would be executed as an accomplice, I would think. This is implying Hugh hired Chuckles before the events of the game and before Brady stole the Eye-bo goggles.

Brady: Going in a more chronological direction, if Hugh got executed by Sammun-mak before any of his plans got set into motion, Brady would’ve never been able to steal the Eye-bo goggles and control the Poppers. His plans would never see the light of day, and he would probably still be living, just extra bitter.

Jurgen: In 303, a moleman says that Sammun-mak rewrote reality so he “always possessed the Devil’s Toybox.” That implies (to me) two possible options: 1) Jurgen never tried to steal the Toybox in the first place. He was just some German archaeologist in the early 1800s and died in the 1800s. 2) Jurgen DID try and steal it at some point and was ultimately executed in the process.

Shambling Corporate Presence: SCP’s whole deal was literally just a shipping mix-up and it decided to have a little fun with that (as in, possess Santa/elves and fuck shit up). Kinda begs the question: Is Santa still relevant in this timeline?

Soda Poppers: It’s not exactly explained WHAT the Soda Poppers actually are (I’m assuming they’re literal demons) so I wonder how they would stack against Sammun-mak’s abilities. The Poppers became more powerful with each atrocity they acted upon in the world until they were high enough in the ranks to become rulers of Hell. I don’t think Sammun-mak would LET them get as far as they did, so they’re still just average demons at the end of the day. Maybe they’re trying to work their way up through Hell directly. Who knows. So, still alive, technically, but not as powerful as they are at the end of season two.

Satan: I wonder if Hell still runs the same way? Is the “prerequisite” still encountering Sam and Max and being killed by them? Or, if Sammun-mak is the absolute, are you sent to Hell for defying him? Does Satan worship Sammun-mak? These are really big questions that affect who is and isn’t in Hell. Potentially just Hugh and Chuckles, or those two plus Jurgen.

BONUS:

Sybil: In 303, the Boscoes get mentioned as follows: “Bosco never existed, little buddy. Neither did Momma Bosco.” which leads me to believe that Sybil may have met the same fate? She plays a similar role to those two as side characters, not major protagonists or villains. It all gets me wondering, though, what if NONE of these people existed in the altered timeline??

Abe: It is implied that Abe had to exist in this reality, as Max is still president. Abe’s whole villain plot was as a weapon to mobilize Prismatology. Abe’s role all circles back to what Hugh does. If Hugh never got that far into his plans, Abe would never have been used and sat as the legitimate Lincoln Memorial (until Sammun-mak knocked it down, I presume). It begs the question, though, just how did Max become president? It’s stated in 303 there is no power with the title, so obviously Max becoming president could not have been that big of a deal.

#replies #thank you for your response! and for giving me an excuse to reshare this #hope it’s cool to add it onto this haha

[layeredwanderings]

Going back over my logs of EastEast. A lot of thoughts below the cut. Edit: Fixed the uh. text duplication. I think.

Thoughts on characters:

Camille [17] is “a Corpse from the Neck Down” and yet most of Doc Slaughter’s notes on her focus on her psychological issues. Is this just something normal there. Ria [R5] tries to control/destroy reality to avoid the inevitable pain of being disappointed. #girl.

Not sure who “Ms Closer” and “Ms Flower” are. Unless Flower (who “says Reality is an Illusion”) is Ria? Unsure, though - in MHT3, Slaughter says there’s no artifact presence among her clients. And in MHT1 she says that Closer and Camille are both paying for the same work... maybe Closer is a friend of Camille’s who wants her to get therapy?

Neville [R2] is actually doing well and just getting therapy because “you never know”. His twin Devona [R4] has problems, albeit relatively normal ones. Not sure if they actually are twins, or just friends and are called “The Twins” for some reason.

Someone called “the Killer” refuses therapy, and Doc Slaughter is more curious about their fear of being known than the whole being called The Killer thing. (Then again, her own name is Slaughter... but names and titles are probably different things.) I wonder if this character and “The Eye Killer” are the same or different.

Doc Slaughter will get deported from “this layer of Reality” if she interacts with Witherby [R1]. Wonder why that is. Also, is he the only one who doesn’t commit tax evasion? Or just the only one who has anything to file taxes on? :thinking: Possibly similar to him, Doc Slaughter isn’t supposed to think about Vik or, presumably, she goes all weird in some sort of way. Are they a living cognitohazard or does she just have a weird thing about something to do with them?

Yongki [I1] [47] got his mind completely wiped every time he saw his own reflection in a mirror, until the Captain showed up. Kinda fucked up. Is the 47 the number of times it happened while Slaughter was treating him? Is the Captain his roommate or headmate? A few things imply the latter.

Parker [21] knows he’s in an isekai setting, and has hopped multiple universes. And has no impulse control. Get this man some ADHD medication stat. He has a “proclivity towards deep tunnels into the earth”... I have no idea what that means but it sounds fun. Minecraft.

Khana [I3] is pretty much a Beholding avatar, whose coping strategy is violence. He seems like an interesting character.

The concept of this “Shambling Horror” guy [C-003] is interesting. I think at some point I read something in which Slaughter mentioned that the Horror was wearing her face? Could be wrong on that, though. She also says that "Lesser" horrors don't have the ability to fit into society better than anyone else. His partner Tyrfing has some interesting aliases. "That Guy With The Sword, That Guy With the Worm Babies". Wonder what his deal is.

Overall, the characters that interest me the most are Yongki, Parker, and Camille. I'll have to keep reading through the site for more.

Thoughts on other things -

“The 12 Call To Me.” I wonder what this means.

Slaughter says “The Whispers Within me call for Ronin.”

She casually mentions "a few minutes of lost memory" upon questioning the Captain a bit too hard... is that normal for her, or one of his abilities?

All of her patients have been in this universe for "centuries" before she arrived, and she mentioned something about "Loop[s] of the Spiral". Timeloops?

The patients all worked for a corporation that benefited from "Employee Trauma associated with Containing Horrors." I wonder if Horrors here includes the Shambling Horror guy or if he's just called that. There’s someone named Wanda [Last Name Unknowable], and someone named “Not-A-Minotaur” so clearly names are just weird in this setting.

#User: Pilot #zampaniosim #EastEast #if the readmore on this post doesnt work im going to bite something #writing this up as a distraction from my current struggles with Unity. why is animation so got damn finicky #been nice to read something other than Lovecraft. I've decided to read all his writing for some godforsaken reason and like #I understand how he became so influential in the field of cosmic horror #but also the dude literally could not stop being racist for five minutes. and his writing style started getting annoying #around the 45th time he described somethign as unnamable or by briefly listing everything that it wasn't #not that those aren't useful techniques. but theyre better used in moderation

[tornsurvivors]

@ladysmaid​ gets a starter ft. Sylvanas

AFTER ENDURING EXCRUCIATING TORTURE, followed closely by a dirty death you never deserved... you become quite familiar with the sickening smell of rot and decay. With the unnerving silence, kept company by the suffocating emptiness in the atmosphere.  Crimson eyes,   having fluctuated out of their previously unthreatened hue,   narrowed at the darkened path ahead. Smoke is seen at the horizon and the shambling figures illuminated by the fires of the nearby town provoked a low growl from the Dark Lady. 

Scourge.    Without a puppeteer, they will continue to run amok till somebody puts them out of their misery. However, there were greater forces at work behind THIS. The powerful presence she sensed was unmistakable. After issuing orders to the Dark Rangers that followed,   the Rangers split up and blended into the darkness nearby. Sylvanas then dismounted her undead steed and dismissed it, her corporeal form melting into dark purple cloud and shadow tendrils, slithering towards the destruction.

It was as she had predicated, a whole town burning down and bodies of the unfortunate littered the grounds-- an untended cemetery looked far more tame than this.  Her attention shifts suddenly.  In the middle of it all, the source of the foulest power she’s felt ever since Arthas stood. In front of them, a few victims were on their knees and she already knew what the outcome of this scenario would be. It was enough to trigger her fury and she let loose an amplified wail-- lunging at the summoner. 

#SYLVANAS THREADS » for the horde! #ladysmaid #warcraft verse tbn. #hope this is good!

[gobboguy]

Chapter 11: The Pinnacle

Through the vast expanse of the Spiritcall Glade, Ionia embarked on a harrowing trek, her feeble steps echoing a haunting cadence through the ancient redwoods. The illusion of death clung to her like a spectral shroud — her skin, now ashen and cold, radiated no warmth. She had become a wraith, teetering on the edge of life and death, a mere echo of the vibrant soul she once possessed.

The forest, once vibrant and alive, now seemed to hush in deference to the passing phantom. The air bore witness to Ionia's passage, untouched by the breath of the living, as if the glade itself recognized the gravity of her journey. She felt nothing — no pain, no fatigue, no yearning. Stripped of all sensory perceptions and emotions, she moved through the undergrowth with a gait resembling a shambling corpse, her every step an affirmation of the ethereal dance between the realms.

As she ambled through the silent forest, the Swordmaster's Pinnacle loomed above her, growing in size with each laborious stride. The ancient tower, a monolith against the night sky, held an aura of quiet authority, indifferent to the undead specter that approached. Ionia's gaze, devoid of life's spark, remained fixed on the looming structure, a silent guidepost in her journey from the depths of the glade.

The forest, with its gnarled roots and twisting branches, seemed to whisper secrets of the ancients as Ionia passed through. The redwoods, ancient sentinels, bore witness to her ascent, their branches intertwining overhead like somber observers of her ascent to the Swordmaster's Pinnacle. In her deathly silence, she pressed forward, navigating the labyrinth of shadows that cradled her passage, her destiny entwined with the unfathomable mysteries of the mystical forest.

The Swordmasters' Pinnacle rose from the heart of the Spiritcall Glade like a weathered sentinel, its timeworn stones standing testament to the ages that had whispered through the ancient redwoods. The tower, once resplendent, now stood in solemn decay, its majestic spire crumbling as if bearing the weight of forgotten centuries. Ivy tendrils snaked their way up the once-imposing structure, a living testament to the relentless march of time.

The looming gate of the Swordmasters' Pinnacle stood ajar, a sentinel of iron wrought with intricate engravings now rusted with age. It creaked in protest as Ionia, the spectral figure of death, approached. The air around the entrance hummed with the energy of the forgotten, and the gateway yawned open, revealing the interior shrouded in an eerie half-light.

Within, the Pinnacle's interior bore the scars of neglect. Cobwebs adorned the corners like ethereal tapestries, and bats, stirred from their slumber, flitted through the stagnant air. Vines snaked through the gaps in the masonry, reclaiming the tower for the embrace of nature. The echoes of wildlife, both spectral and corporeal, reverberated through the hollow chambers, creating a symphony of life within the silent sepulcher.

Amidst the decay, Ionia's keen senses detected a flicker of warmth and life behind a weathered door within the Pinnacle. The pull of that distant presence beckoned to her, a siren's call in the desolation. Yet, her gaze remained fixed upwards, drawn to the pinnacle's summit as if compelled by an unseen force.

With every ounce of remaining strength, Ionia began to drag herself up the winding stairs, the steps worn by the footsteps of those who had ascended before her. The air grew thinner as she ascended, the Pinnacle's heartbeat pulsing through the cold stone. The struggle against gravity mirrored her internal ascent, the journey both physical and metaphysical, a relentless climb towards a destiny entwined with the enigmatic lore of the Swordmasters.

With each agonizing step, Ionia ascended the dilapidated stairs of the Swordmasters' Pinnacle. The hours stretched like an eternal tapestry of suffering, her corpse-like form stiff and teetering on the precipice of death. Yet, through the abyss of exhaustion, her steely resolve remained a beacon in the cold darkness, urging her onwards in the relentless climb.

As she neared the summit, a fragment of light spilled through one of the many rents in the tower, revealing a breathtaking panorama. Ionia's hollow gaze, fixed on the landscape beyond, met the expanse of the Spiritcall Glade and Farfield spread beneath. A faint bitterness clouded her vision as she beheld the land that had once betrayed her, denying her the throne and casting her into a self-imposed exile. The glade, once a haven, now seemed a haunting reminder of her past, yet her determination drove her to continue the ascension.

With the gradual ascent of the sun, its golden rays piercing through the cracks in the tower, Ionia reached the peak. The remnants of the roof greeted her, and as her weary eyes surveyed the summit, she beheld a solitary figure. Gramherth Rock, Swordmaster of Farfield, sat in meditation, his sword lying flat on his lap like an extension of his tranquil form. As he opened his eyes, the dawn painting the world in hues of amber, he greeted Ionia with a serene nod. "Welcome home...Swordmaster Ionia."

Ionia, on the verge of collapse, offered no immediate response. Instead, she surrendered to the exhaustion that gripped her, the culmination of a journey fraught with trials. The Swordmaster's acknowledgment hung in the air as she fainted, her unconscious form now a silent participant in the sacred communion atop the crumbling peak of the Swordmasters' Pinnacle.

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #SongsofPower6

[writer59january13]

Legacy accompanied with inadequacy DESPAIR RING

uninvited GUESTS linkedin as the themes of mein kampf.

Despite countless factorial permutations & combinations, this cyber surfer avails left and right alm seeking succor Out Of Human Bondage invisibles shackles bind head, shoulders, knees and toes mom mee whiz sic cured courtesy grim reaper, boot metastatic cervical/ovarian carcinoma snatched such balm when tethered in utero umbilical connection, etched bromide, which hankering calm embryonic sensation this corporeal being lacks

constantly subjected to exams from the brutal school of hard knocks, which I bewail sets back and glom mine aim to revel in blissful contentment but circumstances decrees otherwise cursing this chap tubby haunted by veritable elfin grotto dwelling phantoms hovering over sweet clover - dials a mirage yes...iris sieve blurbs from gals and guys numb burred in the billions,

that span the World Wide Web, and exude premature ejaculatory ecstasy, puzzled if fie totally tubular trod a tedious trek along the boulevard of broken dreams, what happenstance oft finds thyself to flail amidst difficulty to maximize optimal opportunities searching for Holy Grail or whatever constitutes such lofty personal objective, perchance being hale and hearty of body, mind and spirit spurs the furies of fate tut test this primate

while he aims to gallop with mighty industrial vim and vigor leaving a virtual soundcloud of dust, though mindfulness helps to pass go, and chance avoid jail time, then maybe monopolized feedback offered to this toothless married quasi herbivore enjoying poetry stone soup, yet also subsisting on supplementary vitamin packed glue tin free NON GMO fruity tall tales for a male thirty six years shy sans Bing a centenarian,

which span of life best cut short with a nail (possibly nine inches) hammered into faux coffin, cuz this imp doth turn pale at the prospect to fill up a space of land best utilized by birds - such as quail Mongoose, or ibis (though aye ne'er saw one), where cremated ashes sail across some verdant plain under cerulean skies putting to rest every travail, which thoughts of dem eyes spells

relief since potential homelessness, pennilessness, and wretchedness, the main impetus explaining this rambling, shambling, and troubling spiel the warp and woof ova gauzy veil imperceptibly looms closer upon turrets of my digital sea faring gunwale and thus desperation finds pleading for monetary

and spiritual salvation.

Before mine danse

macabre doppelganger draws dagger

punctures the skein tight

as a yank key notched belt

housed within mine impenetrable

hermetically sealed invisible bubble

drapes with blackened Hades

hued habiliment therein dwelt

sinister saboteur mastermind

marauder of the Hubble

tattooing and piercing fiery

oculus rift presence unseen but felt

demands sacrifice to traverse

river Styx with unadulterated gelt,

which known phantasmagorical double

diabolical self amidst aftermath

from Armageddon rubble

astride charred global

ruins entire civilization melt

planetary paroxysm prognosticated

by Maya sages with 11th hour stubble

birthed Darth Vader nemesis

with evil upon earth he did pelt

annihilating, decimating, and hashtagging mankind,

the derelict species that fueled trouble

hence evil twin appointed

apocalyptic malevolence spelt desiccation, humiliation, and laceration

upon once verdant veldt

with mass crematorium

desecration left horrific blistering welt.

Countdown to Homo sapiens extinction

predicted millenniums in past

never occurred as predicted on December 21

two thousand and twelve after common era,

whereby catastrophic spark

detonating inferno incinerating blast

eradicating extant flora

and fauna bereft sans hegira

with no means to interrupt

the die since the dawn of civilization cast.

Impossible mission to escape ominous

predetermined fate of human rat race,

nor turn back hands of time

with origin of species on clock face

thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday

without faith to brace

allowing, enabling and providing Gaia

to redeem terrestrial space

vestiges of teeming billions

soon erased criminal minds without a trace

forcefully relinquishing simians

planetary stranglehold amazing grace

proffering tabula rasa

for another dominant species

to claim the place.

Sirens promulgate emergency

toward impending inescapable cataclysm

yet no place to run or hide lest

one boards a rocket light-years away

which makes suspense thrillers

birthed by countless dystopian authors

enviable plot to keep

total Earth's destruction at bay.

Matthew Scott Harris,

a lifetime America Online

Meme bur hastens to convey dire

crisis sparking to offer electric nom de plume

duyeer93, a papa who did sire

deux darling daughters,

yet for ages hive stung

with hurt early, whence fatherhood did fire

meow n childhood's end fostering people

strangers even fork

getting this communication,

per S0S sprinkled with auk shucks corny,

Egret - letting opportunities take flight aspire

now pleasures soft as gossamer feather bedding

down play hardened angst

riddled psyche, where ire

Ronny gully stubbornly thrives amidst adversity as father time spins gyre

row scope at greased lightning speed,

intimating with dead reckoning to hire

grim reaper, who whiz patient

as Job, and exemplary at ridding mire

and muck bogs down this dada robbing

existence with joie de vivre, where funeral pyre

doth flickr-beckoning GoDaddy, cuz

Juno I haint gonna hear angelic choir

or equivalent enlightenment re:

home sweet home, this atheist doggedly tire

so haim trying keep sea legs

one step ahead of tipping point

envision self pitched into abyss -

thus end of poetic wire.

[wikifido]

Chapter 8 (Duvanith)

The walk from the Middle City docking yard to the High Gate was slow going, at least by Duvanith’s standards; between Beckwith’s injury, Karoleenas needed to catch Adrielle up on all she had seen in between Rackhallow and Neparāticue and the pace of the strange shambling Arbiter who would occasionally cut down alleys and reappear in unlikely ones along their route. 

This had put Duvanith on edge; each time the rhythmic clicking coming from beneath its thick coat faded down an alley, an uneasy sensation would run along her shoulders, a sensation that reminded her of the times in the Jungle that Anghagros’s Crones would use their dream magic to peer through her eyes. While she didn’t imagine the Arbiter was wielding Crone magic, its otherwise unsettling nature manifested itself in her senses that way. 

She panned her eyes across the alleyways and rooftops they passed, catching glimpses, or so she thought, of the Arbiter’s figure in all manner of places: windows, rooflines, dense brush hanging from the side of a clocktower.

She shudders. 

“Once we get to the Castle, I’d be happy to show you to your rooms.” Lady Lucille said, her voice laced with the kind of court-ordained faux sweetness that Karoleena had mastered and Duvanith had long forgotten. 

“Lady Lucille. I didn’t catch your family name.” Duvanith says, doing her best to tear her eyes from the repeated appearances of the hooded Arbiter across all manner of vantage points. 

“It wasn’t offered, but Vallencourt.” Lady Lucille responds, keeping her eyes fixed in the direction of travel. Mwaxanare shot her an inquisitive glance as if to inquire if the name rang any bells for her. 

She shook her head to the contrary; when they had been at Court together, Adrielle’s attendant had been one Elluin Blackford, a half-elven woman like Lucille but one that was happily managing some corporate executive or baron’s estate staff now. 

Lucille Vallencourt was a new name, Duvanith even had no point of reference for her surname, but her pointed ears betrayed that her presence at Court might have been much like Duvanith’s own, imported from the area around the Alobazi Badlands after one of her parents, the elven one almost assuredly, cut a political deal to pierce the veil of the High Gate and into Imperial High society. 

“Were you in Adrille’s court class?” 

“No, I came before you all in Court,” Lucille explains, still keeping her eyes fixed forward. Duvanith sensed the opening in Lucille’s statement; it was inviting follow-up questions, and Madam Keentree was always quick to remind them that.

‘One never asks a Lady why she remains at Court.’ It felt only fair to abide by her former Governess’s advice here, given it wouldn’t be long until Karoleena found herself in a similar situation, In Court longer after most of her class had been paired off and sent to the ends of the Empire.

The group slowly passes beneath the High Gate; Duvanith scans the tops of the gate and the distinct rooftops beyond it, both searching for the hooded Arbiter form watching them from a distance, but because it had been a ritual of hers upon entering through the High Gate when she was a girl. The utilitarian mortar and brick buildings like those the Empire had foolishly put up in Neparāticue during their occupation faded away and were instead replaced with buildings with irregular plots, beautiful landscaping, large windows, and constructed in a complementary style to the slope of the Mountian that the city was constructed on; It felt like a different place, as though you had taken a portal to another world or culture because in effect you had. 

The Castle looms over the area beyond the High Gate; there was something about its towers and the unsettling rhythmic blinking of the warning light for flying vehicles that was more sinister than she remembered it, or perhaps its angular mixed material towers were always this unsettling with the right context. 

She grabs Mwaxanare’s hand for the briefest second, slipping her hand into the Rogue Queen’s to offer a quick squeeze of comfort before freeing up her hand quickly again, noting that the soft clicking of the hooded Arbiter was once again missing from their small traveling group. 

The square, dark wood castle doors groan open as they approach the Great Entrance hall, normally lit via natural light pouring in from the Castle; many glass windows were dark, illuminated only by small flames inside light brown glassed lanterns. 

“I will ensure the Princess finds her chambers safely.” The half-giant Arbiter announces, turning to look at the other members of the party inviting Lady Lucille to take Mwaxanare and Duvanith anywhere but along with him, the Royal Guard engaged with Beckwith and seemed to ferry him off; perhaps they had kept a Royal Surgeon up for the night to have a look over him.

Lady Lucille extends a hand off to one side to indicate her intended direction of travel Mwaxanare begins to follow, and Duvanith falls into her usual four-step following distance. 

The interior of the Castle was also unnerving at night, but it was the kind of sensation that she was used to; anytime she had stayed over with Karoleena in the Castle, their evenings had involved roaming the halls looking for ghosts, sneaking into the library, and hiding from the guards that roamed the halls at night. How creepy it felt was part of the allure then; now, it was less of a highlight. 

Lucille was leading them towards where the dignitaries for larger visits stayed; these were the rooms where Barons executives or translators might stay. She knew the area of the Castle but had never been in any of the rooms.

She wasn’t expecting luxury. 

At the top of a small set of stairs that led into a hallway with rows of doors on one side and tall grand windows on the other, Lady Lucille reached into a small pocket on the belt she was wearing and materialized two keys, handing one to each of them. 

“Room One; Room Three. Your luggage should already be present.” She says, extending a key to both Mwaxanare and Duvanith, respectively, “Have a good night, you two.” She smiles an inauthentic Court smile and departs them.

“Two rooms for a Queen and Champion?” Mwaxanare questions aloud with a scoff. 

“I’m sure it’s just because they don’t know Mwaxanare, trying to give us each our own space for modesties sake or something. I’ll go get my bag.” Duvanith says, jostling the key in her hand and taking off down the short staircase. 

“Modesty’s sake, Isn’t it Attendants who help get Court members ready in their ridiculous dresses? Wasn’t that your job?” Mwaxanare said, following Duvanith down the stairs to the first door on the left. 

“Fair enough.” Duvanith allows she understood the point that Mwaxanare was making and didn’t have the care to explain that there were still things Ladies of the Court did to ready themselves for Court activities independent of their attendants just for those reasons. Duvanith passed the door for Room 2; the fact they had placed a room worth of separation between them had been the thing most bothersome to her; she had to imagine Room 2 was packed to the gills with Arbiter monitoring magic and equipment, everything possible to snoop on the Rogue Queen of Chult and perhaps even her, given what had happened in Rackhallow. 

Duvanith reseats the key in her hand, but before she can place it in the lock, she hears a short yelp come from Mwaxanare’s now open door. The key slips from her hand as she breaks into a full sprint and hooks into the room with his fists up. Mwaxanare stood in the middle of the room, looking at a table in it’s center; upon the table was an ornate vase with a beautiful arrangement of flowers. 

“Mwaxa, what is it?” Duvanith asked, her confusion cutting through what little adrenaline she had built up. 

“Look,” Mwaxanare points at the arrangement to a center pop of floral color.

“Marigolds?” 

“Atzācnizquip. The Death Flower.” Mwaxanare clarifies. Duvanith exhales heavily, relief washing over her. 

“In Court, people send arrangements like this to each other. Every flower means something else; the only ‘sad’ or ‘bad’ arrangements I’ve ever seen were condolence arrangements. Dark red Roses usually.” Duvanith explains. 

“What does this arrangement mean?” Mwaxanare predictably asks; Duvanith grits her teeth, looking over the colors and types of flowers.

“I’m not sure I wasn’t exactly showered in arrangements of my own.” She submits. 

“And you never dwelled on those that Karoleena received?” Mwaxanare, clearly flustered, cut back.

The opposite was actually true; she had tried not to dwell on them. 

“Karoleena would know; we should ask her. Let me go get my shit.” Duvanith says with a sigh.   

#fantasy #original character #short story #fiction writing #ttrpg community #worldbuilding #fiction #dungeons and dragons #ttrpg stuff #dieselpunk

[buildbrandbetter]

How to recover your online reputation after a crisis? - Build Brand Better

Your online reputation is very important; don’t let it go out of your hands!

A crisis can leave your company’s reputation in shambles. And there is a need to rebuild the reputation of the company. It is very important for a business to recover quickly and move ahead. It also allows you to rebuild your brand’s image.

A reputation crisis can happen unexpectedly and can be difficult to overcome. Still, it is possible to improve your negative search results and conduct online reputation repair. The process of rebuilding customers’ trust and repairing your damaged reputation can be described in a few steps:

• Take control of your online presence.

• Know and monitor closely what is being said about you on Google.

• Always apologize for any mishaps.

What is a “damaged reputation”?

Your corporate reputation is the overall viewpoint held by your internal or external stakeholders, and it is based on your past actions. A good reputation will cause customers, stakeholders, and clients to be more trusting and loyal to your business.

A damaged reputation can be caused by many factors, like your CEO having committed fraud or your product having been launched but not working out, leading to a significant increase in negative news. Whatever the reasons are, it can damage your online reputation significantly.

Tips to improve your online reputation:

• Go the extra mile: Good, old-fashioned customer service never goes out of style. If you treat your clients well, they will come back to you and enhance your company’s reputation by giving positive feedback.

• Act quickly and be transparent: When problems arise, we can’t ignore them. But when a customer feels neglected, they take to the internet and post bad reviews. In these cases, you have to act and respond quickly.

• Keep your promises: Trust is very important to gain customers, so if you are doing something, make sure you do it well. Failing to deliver or breaking customers’ promises will drive them away from you.

• Be a great employer: Your employees are one of the greatest assets to your company. So treat them well; they will help you enhance your online reputation.

A crisis can pose a big threat to your online reputation. Here are a few ways you can restore or rebuild your company’s reputation

• Analyze the level of damage: The first and foremost step is to find out the level of damage that the crisis has done to your online reputation.

• Get in touch with your investors: Once you have the data about the crisis, it is important to get in touch with investors and other stakeholders, since they already have knowledge about the crisis.

• Set realistic goals: When you hit a crisis, it is important to determine what the goals are for every move you make. Making realistic goals can help you mitigate further damage and recover faster.

• Maintain transparency: Trying to rebuild your online reputation after a crisis is a constant battle where you fight negative content about the brand that led to the crisis. in case you need to be transparent.

• Plan new strategies: Create strategies for yourself, like whether you should launch a blog post or create microsites, or whether you should work on both, etc.

• Publish positive content: Try to publish positive content as much as possible. as ORM is more about boosting positive content than pushing down negative content.

Reputation is everything for business when a crisis occurs it hits the reputation. If you are running a business whether it is small or large you need the best online reputation strategy. Build Brand Better has a capable team who can help you to recover your online reputation after a crisis. If you need help maintaining your online reputation then you are in right place. 

Visit: https://www.buildbrandbetter.io

#personal reputation management agency in india #India's best online reputation management agency #Review Management Company in India #Repair personal reputation in India #Remove negative reputation with digital marketing #Online Complaints Management Service provider in India

[bawfulio]

Re-sharing this because I’m still proud of it and am certain that a decent number of John Mulaney quotes can be applied to Sal

#Sam & Max #Sam and Max #Sam & Max Freelance Police #Sam and Max Freelance Police #Sal #Satan #Jurgen #Brady Culture #Girl Stinky #General Skun-ka'pe #Sam #Max #Shambling Corporate Presence #Hugh Bliss #animatic #video

[askjurgen]

#Jurgen #Satan #Shambling Corporate Presence #Sam & Max #Sam and Max #Sam & Max Freelance Police #Sam and Max Freelance Police #Jurgen Sam & Max #Jurgen Sam and Max #Satan Sam & Max #Satan Sam and Max #askblog #replies #anonymous #tw blood #blood tw #cw blood #blood cw

[zenkat11]

SCP got into the Christmas cookies!

#Sam and Max #Shambling Corporate Presence #My Art #Mediocre Art #SCP IS ONE OF MY FAVS #LOOK AT THIS CUTIE

[shapeshiftinterest]

Carved: sam x max (CH 2)

chapter 2′s based on

sam’s running gag from the games where he asks ‘do you have any...’

THIS part from sam and max save the world: ch 4 abe lincoln must die

i got that one line max says from HERE

side: i don’t know the actual timeline for this but they’re teens in this chapter

story under the read more

Carved (also on ao3)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

“Ok, Sam, do you remember the plan?“ Max asked.

“Yep.“ Sam said, popping the ‘P‘. The two were stationed a little ways away from Bosco’s Gun And Baby Needs, poorly hidden behind one of the newspaper vending machines.

“Oh good, because I already forgot it.“

Sam chuckled fondly at his shorter friend.

“We go into store and I distract Ms. Bosco while you do... whatever it is you’re planning on doing. Actually, I’m still not sure what it is.“  The dog tilted his head at the other in mild suspicion.

“Shhhh shushushush.” Max said, patting Sam’s shoulder and grinning. “Don’t you worry your pretty big little head about what I’m gonna do. It doesn’t even include arson this time, if that helps!“ 

“Strangely, I’m not comforted by that at all, little pal.“

The lagomorph made a dismissive shooing motion with his hand before following his friend into the store. 

“Hello, Mrs. Bosco.“ Sam greeted.

“It’s Ms. Bosco, fool!” 

“Oh yeah, sorry about that Ms. Bosco.”

“Honestly, I know I’ve told you this before.“ Ms. Bosco sighed, uncrossing her arms and resting a hand on her hip. “What would you boys want from my store anyway? You’re both too young to get guns. Unless...” 

Her eyes shifted from Sam, to Max (who was definitely not too close to the weenie machine and trying to whistle), and back to Sam, before covering her mouth and gasping. 

“Are you two-“

“NOPE!” Sam exclaimed, startling them both. “Nope, nope, no. We’re not- Me and Max aren’t-“ 

Oh darn it all, the dog knew all this blushing wasn’t helping his case. “It’s for a school project?“ He tried weakly. 

God he hoped Max was almost done. Probably not though, if the sounds of his little buddy struggling to open the weenie machine were anything to go by.

“Yeah, sure. Ok.“ Ms. Bosco replied. “What do you need for this so called, ‘school project’?” 

Maybe if he talked louder she’d think it was just from embarrassment and wouldn’t be able to hear Max gnawing at the metal screws with his adorable shark teeth.

“Do you have any... realistic, working paper mache volcanoes?“

“No.“

“Do you have any... cardboard cut outs of a shambling corporate presence?“

“No.“

“Do you have any... deep fried chocolate pork belly doughnuts with nougat filling?“

“This isn’t that kind of store. Are you going to ask for something I actually have in stock or what?“

“Sorry. Do you have any... horse sized diapers?“

“That’s an oddly specific diaper size and I don’t really feel like asking how that relates to a school project, but yes, I do. They’re right over-“

SLAM!

Sam and Ms. Bosco jumped at the sound, turning to see Max dusting off his hands and looking proud of himself. One of the weenie machine windows was slightly askew and cracked, the metal bent around the edges and littered with teeth marks.

"Hey! Stay away from my rotisserie!”

Sam quickly scooped up his friend and sprinted out the store, Ms. Bosco yelling at them the whole time. 

They made it to the end of the street before Sam had to stop and catch his breath.

“What did you do to the weenies anyway, buckethead?“ All that running’d better be worth whatever prank the hyperactive bunny had pulled, Ms. Bosco was scary.

“I carved our initials in one of the weenies so we’ll be best friends forever, Sam!“

Ok yeah, definitely worth it.  Sam couldn't stop his tail from wagging even if he wanted to.

“Did you remember the heart?“

Max rolled his eyes. “Well, duh! Of course I did, what do you take me for, idiot?”

The two snickered as they waited for the bus, elbowing each other on the ride home.

#my words #my fanfic #shapeshiftinterest #cartoons #games #comics #sam and max #sam x max #sam #max #momma bosco #dogs #rabbits #animals #food #LGBTQA

[veneritia]

WTW BINGO → GHOST

WIP: The Stars do not Bind Us Word Count: 297

TW: Death, implied violent death

Note: As opposed to hearing the voices of her past lives, Six, instead, sees their ghosts.

You spent your entire life living beside the ghosts of your former selves.

You don’t exactly remember when you realized that they weren’t real—or perhaps corporeal would be a better term—only that you knew they were dead and that no one but you could see them. Surprisingly, you could not see other ghosts. Just the ghosts of you. The Yous-who-were-once-you-but-are-not-you. The heroes that succeeded in their quest and perished for it.

Never were you more aware of your immortal mortality than in the presence of those ghosts. They were a constant reminder of your destiny, your victory, and your inevitable death. All heroes die victorious, after all.

They don’t speak, these shades. Rarely do they ever leave your shadow, either. Sometimes you will see one shambling about, drawn to whatever thing they had been attached to in life. Four, you learned, still approached dogs, her shredded throat aside.

Sometimes at night, when you stare into the painted murals of the first hero above your ceiling, you wonder if they, too, could see ghosts when they were once living. (You can never look at that mural the same, seeing One as you do now. They’re a pitiful thing, that child of gods. All blood and bone and gaping wounds on the back; a scar that never healed even after six lives). How did they feel, staring at the visage of who they once were and who they will soon become? To know that when they die, their soul will be taken and ripped apart, reformed, and shoved into a new body. Another hero born to repeat this same cycle, all for the good of the world.

Gods willing, you will be the last.

And maybe then, you and your ghosts can finally be laid to rest.

#wtwcommunity #wtwbingo #series.tsdnbu #collection.event #file.events.wtwbingo