Horrors {Intro}

The following are erotic horror, but I will slip a page out of 
my personal writer's "Necronomicon" (c)  H. P. Lovecraft, AKA 
"Abdul Al Hazrad".  

   I will strive here to keep the horrors Supernatural in the 
sense of doing things not found in nature, but still plausible 
according to current understanding of Biology.  With the caveat 
that there's more thet we don't know about life, and the way it works, by orderS of magnitude.

I will posit no spiritual energy, medium, nor force that is 
unmeasurable, yet more powerful than hard physics.  Probably 
won't whip out the quantum mechanical tools, try to keep it 
under the universal speed limit, and Conserve Energy, not from 
an efficiency standpoint.  

Psychosymbolicly, I'm going for hopefully some original 
variations on a few of the more popular arcetypes of erotic 
fiction.  As media, such perversities as Tentical Rape, 
Necromance, and orgiatic rites are hitherto neither rare, nor 
well done.  (I'm gonna have to give this one to Allannis 
"Moose" Morissette.  There's no designated symbol for this type 
of credit, I'm not even sure it was her joke.)

Regardless, I plan on changing that, but here's some quick 
spoilers:

No vampires, they suck.  No lycanthropes, scroll back up to the 
first paragraph.  Also, one of my favorite tricks in stories 
like this is to leave you with a more rational explenation.  I 
ain't gonna promise no spelling errors, but consistant ones are 
intentional.

This is all set in an alternate universe, so you can fall 
asleep faster knowing they can't get you, and get on with the 
wet nitemares.  This also affects minor things like language.  
For instance, if you hike far enough in the back woods of NE, 
you will eventually run into someone who says "Shewn."  This 
scales up through brand names, certain scientific terms, 
measurments, and so forth.

The Lovecraft is a psychological measurement, or open ended 
scale for "Oh Shit" factor.  {Yes, I used to run tCoC!} 1-
infinity, 1Lv is about the dose neccisarry for a baseline 
adult woman to cry.  10 is gibbering unitelligably, and loss 
of social function to the point of trauma induced Neurosis for 
a Mean adult psyche.  169Lv is right around dying instantly 
of fright, I probably won't go any higher than that.

When I finish them, I'll post an LV# relative to what the 
principal Narrator/s encounter.  Now I hate to stress one 
influence over others, but there's just one in the Genre' who 
ever made me literally scream alloud in affrite from Reading.  
I will try not to Shew my influences through constant 
allusions, a nasty habit I picked up from someone.

This is not his universe, the works of Howard Phillips 
Lovecraft are fiction there as here.  Hopefully, all the 
allusions will be made by characters who read, and remembered 
it.  I will re-iterate, explicitely here, I Don't Do Fan-Fic.  
I am a fan, but anyone I respect that much, his characters, 
creations, and settings are about as close as I get to 
Sacrosanct.  Each allusion is a tribute of reverence, nothing
more, nor less.

That's why you will not run into Nyarlathotep, as a character, 
least of which will mighty Cthulhu {F'tagn Cthulhu, F'tagn.} 
stop by Sydney for the breakfast to end all breakfasts.

Another reason for the language is this is a little deeper in my head where I still think likeat.  The realm of the Qyzak Had'rach, and abomination, Amanda Hunt, and Basiatus live here in their oldest forms.  Basicly, I'm getting this off my subconcious to make room.  

I used to have Schitzotypal Personality Disorder, now it's not a disorder, just my personality.  Back then, I was one of this world's real horrors, a wretch crouched over it's precious, dreaming of becoming a serial killer.  I never did.

Back then, I was Rüby Anarchris+.  The symbol, which I will no longer draw was an Omega, wrapped around an Alpha, wrapped around a Crucifix.  An Anti-cristian, I plotted a systematic terror war to bring down the christian Church (Differnetiating between the god, and Worship) From the inside.  I never did.

I did have a symbol for each of the 24 triangular faces, aligned with the 3 elemental axis', and planes intersecting at right angles to each other.  The 4 States of Matter (classical "elements", Greek.), types of energy, (Thermal, Dynamic{EM}, Massive{G}, Neucleic{U. S/w}, Kinetic(V), and Pattern Axis, with
Chaos/order on the infinetely opposite ends.}  Basicly hung upside down relative to everbody else's alignment.

I made a scale model of a tesseract, with drinking straws, and poster putty.  I had a framed document, declaring me a Heretic, signed by an ordained preist, and my copy of the Corruptor's Pact, written in my blood.  I burned \/his\/.  Lost both when I was homeless.

Since then, I learned to fictionalize all this in my head, and converted my Self into a fundaMental Agnostic.  As long as I don't invest any faith in them, the magical thoughts don't affect my life.  If I do, than Mjöldin again rides the 
lightning storms across the sky.

I may eventually get to the Fantasy, where Genevive lives, a long time from now, on a planet not that far away.  If you want a sound track for this, find Rabbit Junk - Ghetto Blasphemer II, From the Stars (r) J. P. Anderson, and please give him some money for it.

Now, here's a glance into the place in my head.  Down my leg, 
and the shaft concealed within, past the gears, and springs 
which keep me rotating above, and the bald man dutifully 
winding the crank, in fishnets, and a blindfold.  To the right, 
a hall with endless doors, each unique, the first with a Labrys 
growing out of a head covered in phrenology symbols.  Not pausing my sysiphean crancking, I reach out, and point left.

A little door, locked inside, and out, and stairs twisting widdershins down the back of my neck.  To the bowel, (Http://Google/Image.search) Background, M.C. Escher, "Another World," seven impossible corners, with "Ascending, and Descending" 
around the top, and a fountain in the middle reflecting "3 
Worlds."  

Population, H. Bosch, about 36 hours into his first dose of pejote', diptyq on the back of a Brugell pastoral.  R. Mappelthorpe, bending the Marquis de Sade over the fountain beating him with the whip/tail.  Finger painted by A. Warhol, stone sober, a few decades into an eternal Delerium Tremen.  
Me, goggles down, backing up a dump truck load of art supplies.

"Punish artists, we'll do better work."

In the back corner, a mousy man, archaic of dress, and manor, 
watching and writing furiously.  Broken in, his own personal 
daemon around him, grown more powerfull over the last century.  
Looming over all, the background, in shadow, only the barest 
menace of unnatural proportion, terrible claws gripping the 
edge of the pedistal, protectively around It's creator.  

Absently sucking out the sockets of H. R. Giger's skull with two tenticals.  Eyes closed, sighing a terrible sound, slipping back off to dream.  F'tagn Cthulhu, F'tagn...  {now your line is "AÏ AÏ, Cthulhu F'tagn!" please try to say it Rite.}