- Joined
- Jan 26, 2020
Time is a flat circle. There's nothing like Lou Gagliardi's unending cycle to trigger an existential crisis. I think his bizarre skull shape and ample head lard might be putting pressure on the memory center of his brain. Either that, or he truly thinks we're that fucking stupid.
How long has it been? One year? I used to use tablets to mark the time, but there's been so many that I can no longer remember how many he's accrued. I scroll back through the thread, to see if he's begged for this particular model before, but all I can see is an endless litany of iPadSamsungArtPodcastsTransgenderDiabetes Please#TRAMSCROWDFUND. Desperate for a glimpse of reality beyond Lou's delusional ouroboros of grifting, I throw open the window to my apartment, hoping that the night air will clear my head, but something is terribly wrong. The stars are dim, and the stagnant air is laden with the sickly-sweet scent of decaying flesh and a sour tang of grease-- almost as if someone had thrown a handful of septic flesh into one of those paper bags McDonalds uses to hand you your Crispy Chicken Sandwich. What little I can see of the deserted street below is lit only by the greenish, infected light of the moon. It hovers close to the the horizon, and with a sinking sense of dread, I see that, like some dark stigmata appearing on the palms of the faithful, its surface is marred by a vision of Lou's infected foot crater. As the old madman wrote: "if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination." That syphilitic old German was right. The void had come for him in the end, and now it had turned its gaze to me.
I sit in the apartment alone now. They are coming for me. This I know for sure. The dark shapes skittering around on the street below will not be deterred by my makeshift barricade forever, and even if the deformed weasels that populate this hellscape don't kill me, the nauseous light of the moon will eventually bleed its way into my soul--a fate too terrible to contemplate. As I hear the sounds of talons on the floor come closer, I take solace in one last blessing, here at the end of all things: better to die as literally anyone else than live as Lou Gagliardi.
I sit in the apartment alone now. They are coming for me. This I know for sure. The dark shapes skittering around on the street below will not be deterred by my makeshift barricade forever, and even if the deformed weasels that populate this hellscape don't kill me, the nauseous light of the moon will eventually bleed its way into my soul--a fate too terrible to contemplate. As I hear the sounds of talons on the floor come closer, I take solace in one last blessing, here at the end of all things: better to die as literally anyone else than live as Lou Gagliardi.
