Gallows Perfume - a novel

[Pomniman]

2

He awoke all sticky with his own dried blood. The stench of iron and semen was overpowering. Feeling his crotch he could tell it hadn't been a nightmare, or rather, the true nightmare had only started in earnest now that he'd awakened. While he fully expected to die a virgin before this on account of not wanting to go to prison for indulging his criminal sexual proclivities, having the option to commit that particular felony taken away from him in a narcotized stupor still didn't exactly thrill him. Still, there'd be time to mourn for the death of his cock later. For now he still had to regain his bearings.

There really was an awfully big bloodstain under his nude body. Can a human even survive losing that much blood? He didn't think so, but then he knew fuck all about medicine so he couldn't say for sure. Looking around the room, now lit by shitty old fluorescent tubes on the verge of fizzing out, he saw it was abandoned. Strangely, all the mats remained where they'd been, stained with jizz. For some reason they didn't even bother cleaning up when they left. But then their shoes and clothes were all still here too, only compounding his confusion.

As for his own clothing, someone had taken the time to wash, fold, and lay it out a few feet in front of him on top of a plastic tarp. As he reached for them he noticed a playing card, a two of hearts, laying atop his shirt. What a queer gesture. And why a two of hearts? Wouldn't the kind of fruitcake who'd pull this kind of crap usually go with something more stereotypical, like a joker? Examining it more closely he noticed the message scrawled on it in a serial-killer wannabe kind of chicken scratch. It read 'Easy tiger, don't blow your load all at once now!' on the front and 'p.s. I left you a present in the closet. Think of it as a graduation gift.' on the back and was signed 'Regards, Some Billy from another Hill'. He instantly decided that if he ever met this dude — and he was sure it had to be a dude — he'd beat the shit out of him for playing this faggy little game with him.

The mention of a closet made no sense to him at first, as he was sure there was no closet here when he first came in, but there it was, built into the top left corner of the room. That definitely wasn't there before, he thought. Although it was suspicious he decided he had nothing to lose by opening it anyway. Not after he'd already lost his cock and balls. Inside was a frog-green suit, white dress shirt, a tie matching the suit, a snakeskin belt, a pair of green alligator skin shoes, and packaging with which the ensemble was to be taken from here. It was all as gaudy and tasteless as it must've been expensive. Just by looking at the getup, he could tell all of its components were tailor made to comfortably fit him. He wondered why anyone would waste this much money just to fuck with him, then he remembered.

This was the same corner where that bearded motherfucker was standing, laughing at him as he bled on the floor. Now that he thought about it, when did that piece of shit even get into the room? Much like the closet which popped up out of nowhere when he awoke, that cocksucker definitely wasn't in the room at any point until he'd collapsed. There was only one combined entrance and exit to this run-down ghetto shitshack. While our boy may have been distracted at the time he was sure that he hadn't heard the door open or close at any point during the ritual. At any rate, there wasn't much else he could do here, so he got dressed in his old clothes, bagged the froggy new getup in case there were any clues to be gleaned from it, and left.

 

[Pomniman]

Courtesy of about 200 ml of Wild Turkey 101

2.1

It almost caught up to him on his way home — the senselessness, loss, and despair of it all — but he managed to push it all away by telling himself he had to see this through to the end. He just had to, or else they would have won, whoever the fuck they were supposed to be, kikes, nogs, snownigs, chinks, gooks, towelheads, poo in loos, it didn't matter if they were Sentinelese for all he cared. He just didn't want them to win because then none of it would have meant anything at all. Now, you and I both know none of it ever meant so much as a wet fart in the wind to begin with, but he wanted to LARP as a tragic hero, some kind of faggy knight errant denied his graal in spite of just being a fat, weak, autistic, castrated pedophile who willingly bit off more than he could chew. If he'd croaked in that crackshack, no one would've given so much as half a shit. No tears would be shed over his fat autistic dickless and ballless corpse. There wouldn't even be any cheers on account of a fat pedophile having been given his just desserts because he hadn't diddled any kids and no one (as far as he knew, anyway) was aware of his proclivities.

He did briefly consider that someone had found him out and that this was intended as a precautionary measure, but it was all too gaudy and contrived. From seeing how self-styled pedo-hunters online acted, he knew that they would have been too proud of chopping his cock and balls off to not brag about it, both directly to him as they did it and to others online. What made it so strange was that there was no violence or hatred to the act. If anything, it seemed like some incomprehensible display of benevolence on her part, so he still couldn't bring himself to hate her. Though putting that girl or goddess aside, there was nothing benevolent about his smile. And that's what truly kept him going underneath his cardboard crusader's facade; a lust for vengeance and a familiar face to direct it at.

With all the pains that fucker had gone to thus far there was no way he'd let the game end here. So it was clearly only a matter of time before he crawled back out of whatever hole he was occupying. In the meantime, the suit and cult's website would surely provide some sort of clues as to who or what he was dealing with. For no reason that he could grok, the word Hosanna entered his mind and refused to leave. He had no idea what it meant or if was even an actual word as opposed to some strange combination of syllables his mind cooked up but it was stuck there for quite some time. It would've taken him mere seconds to look it up online but he felt that paying enough attention to it to care about what it meant would be letting this feeling win, and he wasn't about to have that.

Trying in vain to distract himself from this nonconsensual Visitation of his mind-bussy, he took to poring over what few clues he had. First the frog suit. The pockets came first, but were empty, predictably enough. Of course they'd be empty, he thought, that'd be too obvious for this fruity-ass homosexual-ass shitdick-having piece of something or other. After a rudimentary patdown, he still couldn't find anything but was reasonably sure that there had to be some kind of faggot trick to it that he'd only figure out after wearing the thing. As much as he hated the idea of playing into that bearded cocksucker's hand, there was no choice so he put it on. As expected, it was perfectly tailored to our boy's size and shape and the trick became obvious once he put the whole outfit on. It was slight at first, but as he moved around he could feel a small object embedded in the right breast of the suit, right over his nipple.

He'd thought to rip the fabric open to get at whatever it was but somehow the object popped right out and fell into his hand before he could even start. It was a microSD card in the same obnoxious green color as the rest of the ensemble. Due to his CP hoarding ways, he was familiar with all formats of digital storage and encryption, even having the requisite equipment required for something like this on hand. An amateur might've stuck the thing in their smartphone like a fucking retard, but he had a hidden rig in a makeshift Faraday cage for accessing and storing various files which he didn't want others catching wind of. There was only one file on the microSD: an mp4 titled "Good Morning, Sunshine!" which he promptly played. It featured his favorite bearded fashion victim, no longer in his rags but still in the goofy all-black getup he'd been sporting in the cult's crackshack, alone in some strange grey desert with an entirely white sky.

"Hey there, buddy. I know all these games are taking their toll on you, so I'll just cut to the chase; I'm the one responsible for that kindergarten bombing you've been so obsessed with lately. I put that fat fuck up to it just for shits n' giggles. You won't like hearing this, but there's no deeper meaning to it, I just play those kinds of pranks on humans every now and again. I'm only telling you this now that you've been snipped cuz the ritual you took part in made you one of us. Don't get me wrong though, I've still got all my equipment, and unlike you, I actually make use of it, but the point is you've renounced your humanity and mortality by willingly offering yourself up to our little headless wonder. Heh, I almost feel sorry for you, being stuck with that one, since all I had to do for my gorl was get stepped on for a few seconds, but you should still be happy that you were coronated by the King and Queen of May. It's a very exclusive club that you've just joined, pal. I'll come visit you in person sooner or later to give you a more proper orientation, feel free to do whatever till I drop by, it doesn't matter what you do at this point because our next meeting is inevitable now that you've come this far."

 

[Baseton Repillé]

Frankly, this is edgy garbage with no redeeming qualities. thanks for at least posting something original. Keep it up.

 

[Pomniman]

Frankly, this is edgy garbage with no redeeming qualities. thanks for at least posting something original. Keep it up.

Ur welcome, faggot.
---
2.2

At some point his mind shut down. Maybe halfway through the video, maybe a quarter of the way through, it didn't particularly matter. He simply sat there staring, unblinking, not quite registering what he was hearing; waters churning in that cranial toilet bowl despite all its contents having long since been flushed. Only after a seeming eternity and a half did our ballless wonder begin to regain some fragmentary traces of awareness. It was as though he'd been snipped all over again without the benefit of being drugged. So he succumbed to a sort of GRIDS-drenched homosexuality of Spirit without it needing to be enforced by any state.

There were no words (other than the ones you're reading, 'tards, n' 'tardettes). If the mere act of continuing to live was playing into that motherfucker's plans, death was the only viable option. Before he knew it, he was already in his kitchen, knife in hand. He closed his eyes and prepared to fatally fuck his throat from the outside in. It's not that he was afraid or anything, but having watched one too many fruity movies, he felt as though there needed to be some kind of dramatic buildup to an act as decisive as this. After what he felt was an appropriately pregnant pause, he took the plunge.

But his would-be death-weapon's tip refused to reach its destination. Eyes still shut, he repeated the motion several times over to no avail. His neglected neck-pussy still dripped with anticipation after all that unfulfilled foreplay. He found it strange, as each thrust was delivered with all the strength he could muster, but was too dazed to question the outcome and too cowardly to try once more with his eyes open for fear of the surreal sight which would surely greet him. So he put the knife down and began stumbling around in a stupor, not quite sure what he was doing.

At some point he ended up outside without any particular goal or destination in mind. The aimlessness of it all soothed him somehow. Not even the fact that he'd forgotten to lock his door or secure his CP repository before leaving could stir the ashes of his freshly cremated Care in all their stately serenity. The life he'd failed at, the death which eluded him, even the little girls he once lusted after but never managed to touch, it all seemed so distant and inconsequential now. Everyone he walked past seemed to regard him with a kind of reverence. Even the birds and squirrels and stray cats appeared to be in awe of him. It was as though he'd become some kind of bungholed Bodhisattva who eventually attained enlightenment through the excision of his excess flesh. But of course, this was all bullshit.

Still, our mail-order Maitreya was undeniably under the influence of a force emanating from his crotch wound. He wasn't sure how he came to be aware of this fact but had no doubt about the acuity of whichever sense had led him to it. Who knew that the price of admission to that fabled boat ride could be paid with one's bait and tackle? Even he could tell that this was all way too 'tarded to be true. It just — had — to be a steaming heap of horseshit. If it was as easy as all that then every two bit tranny could convincingly LARP as the Dalai Lama. As these thoughts came and went, he found himself walking along a bridge and jumped off.

 

[Pomniman]

2.3

He couldn't quite say why, but his eyes remained open as he fell. Or attempted to fall, anyway. Mere inches into his descent, hundreds of pale, scrawny, faintly glowing arms emerged from his crotch, stretching and contorting in various unnatural ways to grab hold of anything they could. Although some of them snapped from the strain of supporting our boy's corpulent frame, two new limbs came out for each inert one, taking their place. Once enough appendages anchored themselves, they underwent further torture to raise him back over the guard rail and gently plant him where he'd previously stood as though he'd never left the spot. With their charge rescued from himself they vanished as suddenly as they appeared leaving a fragrance of sandalwood wafting through the air as the only trace of their visitation.

Our boy noted that while this all transpired over the course of a few seconds, the limbs' actions were incongruous with the passage of time.; they appeared to move as though submerged in molasses despite acting near-instantaneously. Additionally, although they manifested from his sexless crotch, they left his underwear and pants completely intact. While he felt that anything which failed to conform to all known laws of physics to this degree had to be a hallucination, a quick glance at the awestruck onlookers around him proved that this was no mere flight of fancy. Some crossed themselves, others genuflected, another contingent clasped their hands in prayer, and a smaller group scratched their heads in confusion. He briefly considered asking them what they'd seen but decided against it. No sense in confirming the obvious.

After withdrawing from the scene he attempted several other methods of self-harm, more out of curiosity than a genuine desire to injure himself. First with fire, then with water, and lastly with poison. The limbs interfered every time, snuffing out the flames before they could touch him, covering his face and somehow providing oxygen as soon as he submerged himself, and even rendering the gallon of bleach he drank entirely harmless through some unknown method. Each instance of their intervention was accompanied with the same artificial sensation of tranquility. At some point he stopped fighting it. The buzz was rather sublime, after all. So he went home and went on his favorite website for erudite intellectuals such as himself only to find that the worst hack in the forum's history had dared to pollute his beloved abode of mental stimulation with more insufferable scribbles. It was only out of morbid curiosity that our boy perused said schizophrenic hogwash, titled 'Elliot Rodger On An Escalator'.

-666. Jeff Bezos gargles Jonathan Yaniv's tranny pedocum​

Wiggers tongue Xi's writ of mandamus as some lemur-licking furfag pedophile serial killer diddles his inner child with corn cracked off the cob all YeCarthyesque, mein tortyeyas. You see, Saint Elliot (PBUH) taught that the soul is transmitted much in the same way as GRIDS; homosexually. But, and, hoes seek to pollute manholes whose hymens have yet to be uncovered with the secretions of their incisions. Yea, it is said that it is more difficult for the heterosexual to attain the KANGdom of Hell in all its niggerish spoils and jiggaboo regalia than it is for the incel to penetrate a stye with their semen. Jaysus shaves but Avalokiteshvara swallows. Six hundred billion trillion gorillion roast kikes approve with measured golf claps through the slapping of beefy vaginal flaps. Snap crackle pop.
‎

N‎igger. N‎igger​

N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger N‎igger

13. Politics is for retarded inbred sexual degenerate faggots – A Love Story​

“Which one of (((their))) puppets will you be voting for during this ZOG olympics anon?”
“The one that legalizes little girls.”
“Hang on while I get my rope.”
“Here, just use mine.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem, bro.”
“But why are you a pedo though? Are you a heebing kiking jewity loo-a-boo?”
“Nah fam, I don't even like kids.”
“Then repent! Children are of the devil.”
“But I can't be progressive if I don't cunnilingize the Cuties. That's what they're saying on MSNBC these days.”
“Why even be progressive anyway? Can't you let Christ into your heart instead?”
“I can't stand the texture of communion wafers. It's my autism, you see.”
“Well then be my altar boy and I'll exorcise you all night long.”
“Aren't I too old for all that?”
“You're 35, hairy, and balding, but you're boy enough for my rod and my staff, anon.”
“Well... Ok. I wouldn't want to be homophobic and say no.”
“Call me father... No. Daddy.”
“Yes daddy.”
“My child, we'll be so holy together...”
Then they got GRIDS at a pozz party and died 9 months later covered in shit and charged up loads like the queers that they are. They spent so much time doing poppers, being spitroasted and guzzling loads through both holes that neither of them even remembered to vote. The end.

Despite purporting to be over, there were still a few other sections, carrying on in the same spirit. It was a common gimmick in this particular ne'er-do-well's writing. Not a soul among the distinguished luminaries who frequented this pristine bastion of thought (otherwise known as 4chan's /lit/ board) was amused by these antics in all the years they'd been subjected to them. Much like his enlightened comrades, our boy made a point of rebuking that vile creature each time he exposed his unwashed glans like the filthy uneducated vagrant that he was. After all, it is the eternal burden of the patrician to put the plebe in his place. Once he'd penned an adequately scathcing condemnation of the bile and its monger, he went to sleep, somehow having forgotten the tumult and misery of these past few days.

 

[Bad Gateway]

lol who made this

 

[alreadyhome]

Stylistically similar to Gargantua and Pantagruel in particular and Don Quixote to some extent. Narrative voice very common. Overall depressing effect.

 

[Pomniman]

2.4

On awakening he came to the realization that his body had undergone various changes, none of which made him any less of a fatass. He no longer felt any hunger, thirst, shortness of breath, anxiety, or fatigue. All of his excretory functions, from sweating to shitting and everything inbetween, had ceased entirely. Even the numerous sores, blemishes, and stretchmarks — the wages of obesity — which previously adorned the hideous tapestry of his flesh had vanished without a trace. However, he was still exactly as much of a lard-filled sack of shit as always. That it seemed, would never change.

Under normal circumstances he'd consider these to be signs of grave illness if not impending death, but since he'd been told to expect "myriad blessings" and a loss of his mortality he assumed these were merely symptoms of this alleged apotheosis. If he'd remained unchanged, he would have lamented his useless demigodhood coming at the cost of his cock and balls (even though he was still a virgin when they were chopped off and would have certainly remained that way for the rest of his life had they been spared) but now that he'd embraced the perpetual buzz offered by that so-called "gate of samadhi" he found it hard to be deeply distressed by anything in his narcotized equanimity. And who was this Sam Hadji anyway? He thought about googling the word for all of two seconds, then decided he didn't care after all.

Though he remained and would continue to remain semper virgini in flesh, it could be surmised that his mind and Spirit had been well and truly fucked. Raped. Cornholed. Dicked down. Gangbanged and prolapsed and perforated and pozzed right the fuck up by a pulsating phalanx of priapistic pickles, even. There was a dim awareness of what once was underneath the kaleidoscopic lotus blossom-tinted haze; the manchild-errant who'd set out to cosmically avenge the wasted innocence of some random kids he knew fuck all about — but conceptually lusted after — with his fruity little Encyclopedia Brown routine was still there, albeit filtered through billions of ten thousand fold layers of artificially-induced don't-give-a-shit. Circles within circles within circles, as some demi-dharmatic doper once said.

In some ways he'd be the envy of every 99 cent store swami if they'd been shown the prowess of his unearned siddhis, but if such occult capabilities truly were as illusory and unreliable as they're said to be, this wasn't even an illusion he chose so much as one that was pressed into the manchild-hymen of his pathetic reality until it broke and became loose enough to accommodate this anti-real state of existence. The differance between practitioners of the occult or esoteric arts and those unfortunate souls who are dragged into the liminal realm between unreality's aether and the mundane world kicking and screaming, is a thirst for power vs. a complete lack of agency — while the end result may sometimes be similar, the means and ends are not unlike those of the bull and cuck who reach the same ignominious end through opposite sides of their sordid intercourse.

Our boy of course, didn't consider any of this at all. Though he no longer required sustenance, he vaguely felt as though he should have at least one more meal for old time's sake more than anything. And if it was to possibly be the final one, it ought to be particularly opulent. So he set out on a tour of all his favorite local greasemongers and diabetes merchants out of a half-assed quasi-sentimentality. In his now-permanent stupor, it was all very mechanical. He might as well have been shoving the food into some miscellaneous orifice other than the one on the front of his face for all it was worth. Nevertheless, he persisted in his stunning and brave act of affirming his weight positivity, positive negativism, negative positivism, inverse contrapositive corollary to coronaries, and so on, and so forth.

 

[alreadyhome]

Every self-indulgent author's narrative voice sounds identical regardless of what subject they touch upon and who the narrator is. Incredibly depressing I need to say again. You can't separate yourself from the narrator and sloppily use it to say whatever comes to mind instead of creating situations and characters from which events transpire. Your writing is like rap music in that you are obsessed with genitals and intellectually bereft.

 

[Pomniman]

Every self-indulgent author's narrative voice sounds identical regardless of what subject they touch upon and who the narrator is. Incredibly depressing I need to say again. You can't separate yourself from the narrator and sloppily use it to say whatever comes to mind instead of creating situations and characters from which events transpire. Your writing is like rap music in that you are obsessed with genitals and intellectually bereft.

Who are your five favorite authors and what are your five favorite books?

 

[Pomniman]

Since the site is allegedly going toes up soon, I've saved what's written so far and will finish it outside of here sooner or later. This was a side project I started when I couldn't work on my main project at the time. I've finished the main project since then but haven't distributed it yet because I'm still trying to figure out a method that circumvents all the pozz and censorship on every available platform that I can think of. I was going to slowly continue this side project here and had pieces of chapter 3 written already but never got around to finishing them before Null said the end was nigh.

I guess this will all be moot if the site does manage to stay up somehow, but if it doesn't, I want all of you faggots to know that this book will be finished sooner or later with or without this site being around to host it.