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John Austin · (03-17-2014)

Life, as more than you
And all of you

I am going to kick your ass so bad, you are going to wish you where, dead and when those lights go out, and you hear the clocks ticking.....maybe the thought of being buried six feet under doesn't wont sound so bad after all. – John Austin

Bury me in a nameless grave!
I came from God the world to save.
I brought them wisdom from above:
Worship, and liberty, and love.
They slew me for I did disparage
Therefore Religion, Law and Marriage.
So be my grave without a name
That earth may swallow up my shame!
- Aleister Crowley, Konx Om Pax

Let’s do this Johnny Austin style, or is that Nero lite style? Here I am, I’m sitting in a nondescript room, either to make sure your attention is focused on me instead of the periphery, or because I’m uninspired. You can decide. Let’s not dwell on this inane chicanery. I’m sat in a room, it has walls, and I am talking to you.

Now then.

The Buddhists of the East have a very simple philosophy; that when the human body dies, that is to say, when the vessel dies, the spirit moves to another place; it transmigrates. In keeping with this, the Tibetans especially became accustomed to a unique treatment of the body after death, known to the world as ‘Sky burial’.

I assume the majority of viewers here will be unaware of this practice, so please, allow me to adumbrate.

It looks something like this;
[Image: Tibetan%2BSky%2BBurial.jpg]

No, your eyes do not deceive. Those are human remains, fed to vultures. You see, because these people believe that the spirit moves on, they believe that in turn the body becomes obsolete. And rather than glorify it as we may in the West; putting it inside pine boxes so that nothing gets in until way past decomposition, or mummifying remains to try and keep them intact, or any other manner of memorial; the monks, or their assistants in this task, break the spines of the corpse, bind the feet and hands, and leave them to the vultures. And once the vultures have picked the bones clean, the bones themselves are crushed and ground, then fed to the loitering crows and hawks.
Exquisite, n'est-ce pas?

This thinking is somewhat in line with a general philosophy I like to hold within my life ; no wasted motion.

You know why they call a group of crows a murder of crows ? It’s because in the middle ages, people associated flocks of crows with unnatural deaths. They were seen as a harbinger of death, and murder was originally a word for a flock of crows, which was simply bastardised over time through its use.

You know why you shouldn’t always listen to everything I say? Because I pulled that last bit about crows out of my arse. I haven’t researched the etymology of the word ‘murder’, but I bet you took it for granted that I had, right?

Disappointing...disappointing.

What do we learn from all of this, dear viewer ? Simple: Morbid Angel and his little mortuary are pretty obsolete.

What, you expected something profound?

Let’s go deeper then. Let us leave the concept of death as an overarching narrative so to speak, so that we may enter the realms of pleasure and pain, as if we were the writers of some Hellraiser spin off.

John Austin, you talk a lot of talk, but you don’t appear to know what it is that you’re talking. It is clear that you desire my punishment, true. But you also seem to think you want to give me punishment. I refer you to the statement with which I opened this promotional material; that you will make me wish death upon myself, via an oxymoronic line where you said you would not tell me how you’re going to kill me, but how you’re going to kick my ass. So basically, your message, bungled as it was, is that you wont kill me, you will just make me wish I was dead.

Let me just pause for breath, that was a cunt to explain.

…

Okay. So, you crave my punishment so badly, yet you want to punish me for making me want you?

Isn’t this a bit schoolyard crush?

Little boy likes little girl, little boy pushes little girl over so she notices him. Little girl gets mud on her skirt and scorns little boy for the rest of her school years. Little girl turns into little woman and sleeps with baseball te – oh fuck it there I go with baseball again. What the hell?

Anyway the point before that useless tangent was that what you want isn’t my destruction, nor my destruction of you. What you want is my attention, so that you may consider yourself my equal, or more. The pain stuff is an aside; in the same way that sex is an aside to a relationship. Many people can get by on vapid relationships based solely on sex with no communication; if the sex is good enough, why not? But not many relationships have bad sex and no communication, those tend to fail.

So, that’s why you want to hurt me; you want our mutual destruction so that it may bring us closer in some form of union. I don’t detect a sexual thrill in the sense that you WANT me, just that you want ME. Am I making sense? No? GOOD!

You want me to be your pyramid head, but you fail to realise that I already am. I have been your pyramid head, or your bogey man, or whatever superlative you want to use. I’m both your hero and your nightmare. You aspire to me, yet you know I am the bringer of pain. And in this sense, you have earned my respect. Not many people have the inner strength to face their demons, never mind face them off in their own environment.

"Come at me bro"

Alas, for all your bravado, the ending will not be pretty. As you may have garnered already, I will draw no quarter here. You have chosen to face me in a Pyramid of Hell match, something which I and ..my ilk.. have perfected over the years. A match in which you must construct a pyramid of tables, chairs and glass sheets, and drop your opponent right through the top. The last time I saw a glass table, I was putting Griffin Macalister through it. In my second ever match here.

Let’s harp on that for a moment, since you are happy to pat me on the back. In my very first match, I retired a guy. His name was Seven, and he came to the ring in a porcelain mask. I destroyed his face, and he was never seen again. And in my next match, I put an XWF legend through a glass table. I drew no quarter even as a supposed rookie. So to suggest that your flattery might cause some kind of…waver? In my attitude is silly. There will be no complacency on my part.

So John, Buffalo Bill, or whatever you’d like me to call you, I have one more question for you:

What’s your safety word?

Just so I know which word not to look out for in the ring.

I bid you good day sir!

[Image: tumblr_lysq8i7zmc1qb7v4do1_r2_500.gif]

[Image: tumblr_lysq8i7zmc1qb7v4do1_r2_500.gif]

Or, I would if this damn door worked. Hall way it is.

I SAID GOOD DAY SIR™

We fade

Coin Locker Babies
Origins...?

On June 25th, 2013, the man known to the world as Neonero disappeared from public life. After being crucified by the man known as Eli James IV, Nero was seen to smile, before completely vanishing. Nary a sound had been heard from the man, until Morgan Eldred dropped the bombshell on Paul Heyman on Madness.

Disappearing seems to be a constant occurrence in Nero’s career. And each time he disappears, we get the same old schtick on his return; ‘location undisclosed’. But the time for this opacity draws near to a close.

Somewhere in the distant reverberations of the Universe, the stars beckon the mystery to come into the light.

07/04/1983

We're stood outside Tokyo Central Station; seemingly a large building on the outside, its architecture strangely reminiscent of that of central London. The sound of shunting trains greets the ear if one listens close enough, for this is not the modern era of high speed trains that run in near silence, never missing a stop. No, this is more comparable, to, say, London in 2013. However one can only really hear the trains when training, pun not intended, the ear. In truth, we're more overcome by the sounds of the street. There's a jazz band stood outside the main entrance, tootling along, almost oblivious to the fact they have a pocket of commuters in their thrall - so completely immersed are they in the juju.

Passing the doors now; to our immediate right lie a myriad of ticket booths and attendants who look as enthusiastic about their jobs as they would if you told them you'd just run their family pet over. With a hedge strimmer. Immediately ahead of us is an immense poster advertising Coca Cola; yes, even in the 80's corporate logos were besmirching our gaze at every turn.

We look left now; a wealth of silver coin lockers. Those ones that you can leave your secrets in for months, years. Unfortunately, today is not a day for secrets or exciting revelation. Today is collection day for a small group of men, who now, by complete narrator's coincidence, just walked into our line of sight. They are three in number, for in the number three all is told.

One, the discerning viewer will remember, has become known to us as the 'crooked Man'. Tall and gaunt, he stands clad in a long flowing black coat with fluffy grey cuffs. His extreme features look like they could slice cheese; his nose especially, hanging like a rapier from his sullen face, which hang from his cheekbones like wax from a weary candle.

Flanking him are two less conspicuous characters, faces buried beneath woollen hats, bodies wrapped in thick puffy jackets. No, these men do not stand out, but for their unmistakably western features. the crooked man is also western, although this is harder to confirm underneath his sagging features. If you were to give this guy a facelift, he'd probably look like, well, a woman. or at least like Ann Thrax.

What number, Abney?

The crooked man stoops to address the man to his right, the tip of his nose almost brushing his hat on the way down. the man, who we will now suppose to call Abney, looks up at the Crooked man with a hint of trepidation, but it doesn't seem to be trepidation for the conversation; more trepidation for the situation. He looks about himself nervously, then starts to rummage through his pockets.

Shit...shit. Del mate?

Abney looks pleadingly at the other, shorter man, who completes the trio, on the left of the Crooked man. He looks as confused as we are, but pats his trousers; sure enough, out pops a small, memo pad sized piece of paper.

Oh I’ve only smeared me egg roll on the bastard.

Del starts wiping smeared egg white from the paper, but the Crooked man grabs it in a flash, clipping both men about their ear holes for their ineptitude.

One more word about your fACKing breakfast and you'll be feeding the octopus ticklers at the nearest sushi pit stop, savvy?

Ya...

Ya? Ya? Are you a fucking yank now squire? If you aint gonna use the Queen's tongue around me boy I've got two fists full of go fuck yourself addressed special delivery to your cunting pie hole.

Sorry Boss..

The crooked man shakes his head. it's unclear whether he's just a dick, or a bit of a dick, but he clearly enjoys the dominion he has over his two stooges, who both seem to be cowering at his feet since he raised his voice a notch. Without missing a beat he wipes the egg from his paper, smearing it onto the shoulder of Abney's jacket.

Let's see here then boys...Two drops today. Locker number...777..I'll take that one. Sounds like a lucky number to me lads. The other locker is number 42. Now can I trust you muppets to do this or shall I call a babysitter first?

The two men stand up as straight as they can, as if they were soldiers in a roll call. The crooked man simply shakes his head, sauntering off to find locker #777. Abney and Del disappear in search of #42, and we follow the Crooked man. His limbs move with an eerie elegance, almost like they were the limbs of a spider. Every inch of this man is either ghastly thin or ghastly crooked, there's no in between. It's as if he has 0% body fat, but simultaneously only 2% muscle mass. A very odd aesthetic; you could imagine the silhouette of this man leaping effortlessly over rooftops by the light of the moon, peering into peoples bedroom windows as they sleep. Kind of like slender man, but with jowls.

Passing row after row of identical lockers, and nimbly winding between travellers, the crooked man finally arrives at locker #777. Almost as if a signal to him that he's at the right locker, the door is moving back and forth in little increments, as if there's a rat running around inside. The crooked man looks about himself, looking inconspicuous as possible, which of course is folly given his appearance. Nevertheless he tries, and whether through success or intimidation, the commuters around locker #777 go about their day as if he weren't present. Slowly, he reaches out with his left hand, his spindly fingers clasping the top of the locker; fingertips slipping inside it just far enough to get a good grip, and he opens it three, maybe four inches, peering inside. As he does, a very human cry immediately reverberates through the locker, and almost simultaneously the crooked man reaches in. grinning a nasty, yellow grin, he plucks out a small baby, eyes screwed shut and tears streaming down its lonely little cheeks.

Yes, locker #777 contained a baby. A coin locker baby. Common enough. Sadly, due to the economy, and due to certain societal paradigms, many young parents are forced to abandon their children. But, rather than abort them and sell the foetus to the local chinese dumpling chef, these young ones are too wracked with guilt to do anything but give their child a fighting chance. the lockers may not provide nutrients of any kind, they are at least free from exposure, and most times a child will be heard and liberated long before its hunger overcomes it.

A girl!

The crooked man exclaims to no one in particular. His face remains unchanged, but there's enough edge to his voice to presuppose he was surprised not to find a boy here. In seconds, the crooked man has the infant tucked under his coat, completely concealed. He strides towards the exit, shaking his head. As he reaches the doorway, Abney and Del come clattering past him, clutching a baby boy, completely naked. Glancing over his shoulder, the crooked man observes a Japanese policeman in pursuit. With a hearty sigh, he extends his forearm as if waving to someone in the distance, doing so with such timing that the back of his hand strikes the policeman directly on the bridge of his nose, sending him sprawling. He spins around, feigning innocence, but as a crowd of concerned commuters gather to help the policeman to his feet, the smirking, satisfied crooked man sinks into the night.

Two abandoned babies, and three strange men, who knew exactly where to find them. We recognise the leader, from many disgusting encounters past, usually involving the torture and eventual murder of a small boy, who wore the same mask to conceal his face as Neonero. Just who are these men? Surely we aren't going to be left with more unanswered questions?

Curiously, we get the impression that some gnosis is on its way.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Neonero in: Coinlockers and Vultures (not literally, that would be hideous)
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