Peggy held one wrist with the other hand to steady the shakiness. Every movement weight shift was a conscious embracing of searing, crippling pain. She could only smile if she remembered that in WD066, she had been cut off by a shopping box at the shivmart and wished just a fraction of her pain on the infractor. The pusher, a large man, died almost immediately with agonies. They made a cement pill for Mthyuh of him.
Peggy have incennive as well as desire. She got to go, go on. For one, she always itchy down there. Peggy like, "This is bullshit. Gemme a man down here." She only wanna drink and fuck. But she a deity, and so it goes, you gotta suave it on your streetcorner crew, take personal interviews, not too many speeches, live in a graciousness safely above the minimum mark for a milk slave of Mthyuh.
Ceremonies. That the main job of a milkuh. And they caint be cynical cuz when you do-- ooo watch it grrlz. You must believe it baby or you suffer so bad. You wouldn't burden your own family with dangerous knowledge, rational doubts, so why do that to yourself either. Under pressure, you'll have no idea, you won't be a fink. Only problem is they torture you.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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Since the visual story of a comic book or possibly graphic novel is all right there in your face, it is not the journey through the forest that text-only has to offer. It is instead like scrambling up and down a monument.
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