Varlorg the Valium Dreamer (The final salt)

Do you know what it's like when a particular presence enters the vicinity? A cool breeze, an electric shiver down your spine and through your feet, a wafting of powerful fumes. He made good on all of the typical specifications, but took special note of his own personal space. It was his, he knew this, and no other person could possess it. This, as it was known to him, everybody was acutely aware of. So aware in fact, that tears of frustration were common. He wore a shirt that bear his name. Dr. Schimazal was responsible for his creation, and Karmichael P. Krammenheim was greatly indebted to him. They both spoke the 3 languages. The languages that are so often heard in each Starbucks and Crate and Barrels across America. The three languages that contained all of the known correct information. The languages that produced the modern idyllic children that we've come to depend on for our future. Some people, naturally, as with German, Spanish, Mandarin, etc., don't understand the language. They can't hear it. They get confused. The modern tribesman spoke their languages. They reversed it on occasion, to create a public spectacle mostly.

Karmichael entered his 6000 square foot home after driving through the relative maze of roads, meant to intimidate and bewilder potential opponents as well as deter non-speakers from entering his realm. He pushed play on his answering machine to listen to his 17 messages. He simultaneously drank fresh lemonade from an over-priced glass pitcher. He still maintained a land line and answering machine specifically so he could do this, and so that everyone who might stop by would see that he had accumulated a respectable amount of messages (sometimes as many as 50!). Sadly, only two messages were personal - one from mother and the other from John Weir, his patent attorney who had never actually been utilized. The remaining messages informed him of debt relief, boxes of staples for sale, and donation possibilities to the highway patrol. Karmichael went to sit down on an over sized sofa meant for 10.

He drifted off into a waking slumber and thought about the local intelligencia: the mayor, the neighbors, etc. He knew of several classes. The dumb, blundering their way through existence, attracting the prime attention of local advertisers and those seeking to bolster the amount of thought diversions in order to control them which they stood little chance to resist, the extremely intelligent, who fell into three classes themselves: those that absorbed a high quantity of information and pressed others into their molds, those that became sharers of information, and those that drifted apart from the rest in response to the general mayhem created by the others - the amount of absorbed information being too much for their psyche to handle comfortably. They knew too much. Karmichael sat at the top of this mess, or at the bottom depending on your frame of reference. His language was not universal, yet it held the most power. His language was the one that created the structure. All of his rivers would always remain. All those that proceeded would have to live by his example. This is the way it had always been. Past cultures without the ability have been imploded based on its simple but effective measures. He looked at his watch, then the symbol on the wall that completed his thought always. The hinge on his head, like new, opened automatically at 6:30 pm daily. A pipe extended down from the ceiling and dropped two doses of valium directly onto his brain. This put him back into his rightful position somewhere in the upper tier, and he opened his strategy book. Prior to Dr. Schimazal involvement, nervous breakdown was inevitable. Only now could he utilize his language and thus return to prominence. Varlorg the Valium Dreamer, forever snuffed out an otherwise miserable existence.

Orchard Mill Proving Ground (39 takes it and makes it big)

Chrome Cobra, the latest black metal band influenced heavily by the typical anti-societal tone of high school classrooms across America, was set to play their first show. Ever. It was their one shot at glory. Set to take place at Orchard Mill, they understood nothing of their world beyond the scope of their hideouts primarily consisting of parents' basements, efficiency apartments, large dilapidated houses with 6 tenants, etc. Justin "Gongroth Vargvenoms" Depson, lead singer, lived in a converted garage attic with a guy that looked like James Earl Jones, which had its benefits. But Justin had a special secret that he had not shared with his roomate, and had certainly not shared it with his band mates. Hardly would he even share it with himself. He knew if the secret got out too far along the history of nightstick kisses and neon crosses would ensue. He did not, contrary to musical beliefs, want to write history in this way. He did, however, hope to someday make a music video similar to "Here I Go Again," by Whitesnake, which was more of secret he dare not tell anybody due to the social consequences. What he would admit, is that through the known powers of black metal, he had developed the ultimate evil riff. Admittedly ripped from icons Dark Throne, at least initially, the riff was nothing to be scoffed at, anybody would admit. What will not be admitted, or wholly understood, is that the riff was developed by creating a bong out of cantaloupe, which was awesome, believe me, but required expert skill. The bong itself had limited use, but its initial aromatic powers created a new sensation in black metal. And thus, the cantaloupe would become the ultimate in evil, creating a unheard of social mayhem, pun intended. To Justin, who currently sat comfortably sweating with a cold Mug root beer on a torn piece of cardboard, the cantaloupe power should be highly respected and only used again to unleash further evil, if required.

Tonight, the wind at his back, in front of 24 or so local metalers, Justin played with the idea of unleashing his tune. Meadow Songs (and shipping) inc., the group responsible for getting the gig lined up, was not impressed with the showing, and considered prematurely ending the show due to the high amount of non-paying concert goers sneaking through the fence combined with the relatively high cost of stage lighting. This did not trip up Justin's plan as one might expect. Instead, he played on, drilling onward through 5 guitar solos. Killer instinct, animal supreme. Several metalers left based on the rumor of a cult-like ceremony taking place at the old Grieverson's cement storage facility. Although this caused a slightly hopeless feeling develop somewhere in the front half of Justin's THC and cantaloupe soaked brain, he continued on for the 14 or so remaining (and apparently hardcore) listeners. They were die hard. They were keeping so many scenes alive. Live music, for example, played in this manner and in venues like this, was, in the past at least, the only form of entertainment available. That, and loitering at various locations around town. Since the advent of the internet, more and more social introverts found it all to easy to become anonymous, adventurous extroverts via the internet. Twittering and message boarding allowed them abnormal freedoms of speech and behavior while sitting naked on a computer chair while eating corn dogs and dreaming of the outer worlds as if it were a place hospitable to them. The internet had been developed, by their thinking, to accommodate them. It was for them. Those that showed up that evening understood the long-term consequences of such nonsense, and so chose to keep the scene alive. It would be a night they would never forget, Justin thought.

At mid-riff into the chorus for the song, "Melancholic fear of Helmazut," he stopped playing. Everyone stopped playing. At least 3 'fans' noticed since most black metal songs don't have a chorus. He understood that he would not get an encore, so now was the time. It became the time by default. He recalled playing last winter in the VFW basement. Out of the clouds of smoke that enveloped him there, he had come to realize two things: one, never stop playing because most people will assume that your stage time is up, and two, never play the "The Trooper" as a cover unless you want people to indiscriminately punch each other. Only number one applied here, and he broke that rule. But, slowly, he began to get the attention of the small crowd with a slow wind up and a double clutch at 4F on the fret. He barely knew what that meant, but his fingers reacted with the delightful charm of instinct. He played out the chords as he knew them. For him, a black mass was held. In the crowd, faces melted into evil. The word was out. The ultimate evil had finally been released, pleasing Pat Robertson greatly and most certainly bringing him great deals of prayer money. But now, as Justin thought, with the evil that was released, money would only be as good as a church with an upside-down neon cross: no good at all, and blasphemous. The riff took 37 seconds to play, short and sweet. Quick and painful, etc. All local metalers listened, arms crossed. Finished, and breathing hard, Justin spread his sight over the crowd. He wished he could shoot lasers out of his eyes. He couldn't. No response meant either ultimate evil had taken hold, or that the world was not ready for such evil. He reached behind the drum kit and picked up his secret bong weapon. He held it high in the air like the conch of Lord of the Flies. Even Piggy wouldn't listen now. The crowd dispersed. Indeed, ultimate evil was unleashed, and Justin knew just that. He resolved to never play again, instead opting for a telemarketing job held locally. He knew that this was the only safe haven in such evil times. Work of the devil he was doing. Sacrifice is going on tonight. Keep the scene alive.

The Quaker Promise

Wholesome family gatherings, homemade peanut butter and lots of love. That's what was promised initially by William Penn. The natives saw things from a different point of view. Roger Simmons, as the whites called him, was a Delaware chief, set to gain about 50 pounds sterling from Penn for lands held by for at least 500 years by his tribe. His real name wasn't Roger at all, but was easy for the Quakers to remember. He looked like a Roger. He lived simply off the land, as was well known at the time. By comparison, 50 pounds of sterling today could supply a family with food for a week. Back then, 50 pounds didn't mean shit to a tribe of Indians. "They didn't even have a money economy for Christ's sake," says one modern scholar. Christ's sake was what the Quakers relied heavily upon. They later forced the Indians at gun point to take the fucking worthless money and also pay the Quakers back in grand meals of food. Roger and his wife, Marlene, scrounged up what they could. This was hard on them all, considering they didn't even have any land to gather from. Everything they took they had to pay back to the peace loving Jesus freaks. The Quakers, they called themselves. If they only knew then that Wolford Brimley would become their spokesperson they probably wouldn't have acted so arrogantly. So, with that, the Quakers took over their land, gave Roger and his family the final parting gift of smallpox inoculation, and parted ways with them for good, satisfied that they had done fair business. This is the Quaker way, above all. Roger, in reflection, realized that the universal cultural rotation had occurred, and that the tribe was better off dead.