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There in the Black Room of the Temple Thamiel, Sarah sits naked in Lotus position, her hands shuffling with impossible speed the Invisible Tarot. A peroxide blond gypsy goddess, a wolf buddha avatar, sitting like an island fortress in a sea of unconscious lovers. Her eyes roll up into her skull, milk white sclera glows orange with the light of a single dying candle. Her lips mouth the words of the Question:

"Where is he?" the Question turns like a puzzle in her thoughts shifting itself into a whispered mantra. The cadence of this mantra is then swallowed up by the serpent of breath, traveling through the Kundalini rivers of Ida and Pingala. There the serpent is released from the belly with a sigh, flowing slowly out of her into the darkness.

The Question expands to fill the limits of the Black Room, pressing itself against the walls until it seeps through the cracks of the windows out into the night air. The Question rises up in widening spirals, circling the perimeter of the city like a Falcon in flight. It drifts through the canyons of the Terminus skyrise; flowing along the grid currents of street, avenue and road, washing up along the shore of sidewalks in a red tide of whispers, soaks the surface of each and every door it touches, lingers like a ghost in the frosted breath of the citizens below. The Question is hunting it's own death, searching for the Answer that will negate it.

An image of him flares along the screen of her thoughts. Sarah, with the grace of a sleepwalker, stops shuffling and lays down a single card from the top of the deck. Her pupils return back to her stare and she looks down to see whether or not the Question worked. She is answered with the visage of a single figure in the card, who with a madmans smile, holds in his left hand an upside down cup emptying itself of it's last drop and in his right hand covers half his face with a single card. That card is in fact the very card he's in.

The Knave ov Windows.

A flare of smile flashes briefly across Sarah's countenace. It's him, well his signifier at least, the Qlippoth of the Knight of Cups. Her former lover. Her rogue chess piece. Her Judas Ally: Adam Last.

Mysteries of the Invisible Tarot )
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The waters brown and it don't look like its getting any clearer. He coughs and spits up something gray flecked with red into the sink. Under a wax yellow light, dimming and brightening on it's own accord, he studies himself in the bathroom mirror. The swelling on the right eye has gone down a bit. The corner of his lips have caked themselves into riverbeds of black dried blood. There's a dirty white bandage across his nose with a motherfucker of a scar crawling out of it. Self consciously he runs his fingers through his stringy blond hair, the roots are starting to show and he's overdue for a haircut. He closes his eyes and just shakes his head to himself. He's slipping and slipping fast. While it can be said on a good day that Adam can pass for 'a seedy Owen Wilson', today is not in fact a good day, and right now he resembles ten miles of hell stuffed into 200 pounds of shit.

"Man you have got to be one of the dumbest mo-ther fuc-kers i've ever met. You know that?" Skinhead Ronnie bark-laughs to him from the living room.

'Well... I guess it ain't all bad.' thinks Adam to his reflection 'At least I got my friends'.

Read more... )
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He falls backwards on his bed pressing an old t-shirt packed with ice cubes up to his eye. He's had worse ass kickings, sure that goes without saying, but not in a long time and he's older now and his body don't rebound from the pain like it used to. The problem is shit's happening to fast and he's reacting when he should be thinking. He's gotta put the pieces together and quick. He allows his one good eye to gaze over the maps of cracks etched in the ceiling while through the thin walls of his room a TV set hums with laugh tracks and applause. It started with Sarah, his ex, showing up last week. It was typical Sarah all sex and madness with just the right mix of blackmail and contempt thrown in:

"What do you mean it escaped?"

"What do you think I mean? One day he was there. The next...." Sarah shrugs dismissevely.

"It's a fuckin' Tulpa, Sarah. It's an artifical intelligence made out of pure thought and will. It can't escape..." Adam's eyes go wide with an exhausted horror as he realizes the conclusion she's leading him to."...unless... oh for fucks sakes!" He mutters and lays down across the bed.

"Unless...." Sarah says prodding him on.
Read more... )
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"The thing is,(and believe me I cannot stress this empathetically enough), is that men suck. Period. The best of you, y'know the real nice guys who care and cuddle and all that crap, well they're all inevitably bad in bed. Fumbling in the dark, racing clumsily inside with their mom tattooed across their mind..."

We're two floors up from the strip bar, up in my room. 80 bucks a week and all the roaches you can stomp. She puts out her cigarette in the beer I was still drinking and continues."Meanwhile those of you who are worth a fuck when it comes to fucking, seem to be in some kind of contest to outdo each other for the worlds biggest asshole prize! It's like the orgasm drains the civility right out of your balls leaving a dull meanness in it's place, a meanness that seems to always get mistaken for confidence... I mean really what is up with that, Huh? Do your dads take you aside one day and say 'Now son, if you find you can't fuck worth a damn, then and only then should kindness, decency and humility be an option...'?" She ends this rant with a frustrated growl and a fresh cigarette. The room settles back into silence.

"I don't know. What did your dad say when you asked him?" I'm looking out the window, but really talking to her reflection. I find it easier to talk to reflections than people lately.

"Beats me. Mom found men a disposable pleasure at best."

"Well there you go. But I thought we were talking about Tulpas..."

"All business now? That's not like you Adam."
She's smiling vicously. Why not. She's got me by the balls here and if she wants to take the long way on this story that's her call really now isn't it?

"Fine then, whydoncha tell me which one I was then? Nice guy or an asshole?"
She stops smiling and arches an eyebrow at me, taking a long drag to stall for time.
"You're one of the rare ones Adam..."

"Yeah" I say unable to muffle my enthusiasm.

"Yeah... your that one asshole who's still no good in the sack."

Ouch!

"But at least you're sincerely interesting and that's a rarity these days...as far as both genders go actually."

Have I mentioned that I normally have this rule about not talking to ex's unless it's for their funeral?

"Hey can I have your last beer?" She yells from the kitchen, already I can hear the hiss of the lid being popped. Fuck this, i'm skipping the funeral in fact.

"So as I was saying..."

"Guys suck. Nice ones in bed, the rest everywhere else. Was this going somewhere?"

"Yep. That's why me and the other girls in the Bacchae decided to do something about it..."

"The Backey...?"

"That's Bacchae..."

"All Greek to me darlin'..."

She let's out a long sigh that resembles something like a tea kettle blowing.
"The Bacchae were the female worshipers of Dionysus..."

"Skip the cliff notes, huh hon. I was jes fuckin' with you before. I've read Euripedes."

"Sorry, I wasn't aware that they had translated the Greek tragedies into comic book format..."

"That's graphic novels and you still haven't told me what this has to do with me."

"This isn't sex Adam, there's no need to race to the ending. So the Bacchae, aside from the myths, is also the name of a little organization I belong too... think of it as a roll party Coven for ladies only... now try to think of it without drooling."

"So?" I say tracking an old man turtling his way down the length of Ponce.

"So... the ladies and I came to the same conclusion..."

"Right, 'Men suck'... got it. We're going in circles now."

"Then stop interupting me. So we decided to do something about our mutual frustrations. We created ourselves a Sex Tulpa..."

"Excuse me...?"

"Tibetan word. A being created by sheer willpower...."

"I know what a Tulpa is..."

"Said being in this case was created purely for pleasure. The perfect man really. Speaks when spoken too and ever so adaptable to our needs. And when we're done..." She snaps her fingers dramatically."Bang...gone. Finito. No more. Back to the void we made him out of."

I light up another cigarette and give a low whistle.

"O-ooookay. A 'Sex Tulpa'. Fine. You've mastered Tibetan Magickal techniques to create a walking dildo..."

"Ohhh he's much better than that..."

"Whatever... I just don't know what all this has to do with me?"

"Nothing. Yet. Sit down a second Adam. Things are about to get interesting."

Continued from http://www.livejournal.com/users/jackbabalon23/204617.html#cutid1
jack_babalon: (Default)
Playing with matches, sitting here at the bar, doing my best to pretend I don't see her dancing up there. She does a bored two step shuffle, an almost sleepwalk trance dance. Occasionally an arm will reach out for her, a single bill held with either a clenched fist or delicately between three tips of the fingers. It's usually a dollar, five if she's lucky. She takes it with an almost imperceptible nod and keeps on moving. She's got the black wig on, and spray paint make up across the eyes. Her eyes are broadcasting live from a cold place and there's frost on her lips where the men don't kiss no more. Y'know we almost had a thing going once... a long time ago. I live three floors up from here and occasionally we'd run into each other in the hall. Polite nods led to chit chat and chit chat to small talk. Had a drink with her once, then another and another. We'd meet down here over in the corner booth. She got a discount on her drinks and so did I by extension. One night she knocked on my door. Bad fight with her man. I was the only guy she knew who didn't know him. I was the only guy who didn't care. It wasn't the greatest sex in the world, but it was honest. Raw, drunk and desperate. We spilled in and out of each other, neither one of us pretending to be any more than what we were. Two fuck up artists feeling the weather and huddling for warmth. I woke up to see her throwing out her panties in the trashbin and fumbling with her stockings. We never talked again for some reason. That happens sometimes. The only real attraction is the mystery, the novelty. Take that away I guess and your just another notch on the bedpost. The Tulpa-Ware Party )

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