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LONG ISLAND VIDEO 13 NEWS REPORTING: "a zombie home of extreme horrors" is how Detetive Amelia Verminter described the scene at an abandoned housing complex in Velorotse, discovered this morning when a neighbor reported pungent odors emmiting from the drains on the side of the building.
when authorities entered the premises, they found rooms that had been wired up with cameras and room recorders... the walls covered with television screens, each one blaring either graphic sex or hardcore violence.
when going deep into the bowels of the building, authorities found in the basement the bodies of thirteen missing people... their age and gender as of yet to be identified, as much of their facial features and sexual organs were severely deformed from repeated scarification routines. Detective Verminter wouldn't offer comment on the state of the bodies, but notes and photographs obtained by this network confirm that their skin was "flayed and scalloped into membranous wings and hoods", their skulls "horned and beaked with assorted kitchen utensils".
so far only one suspect has been named; Haider Pilo; the last known occupant of the housing complex's grounds. authorities have not been able to get a loc on Pilo, and both them and this network have reached out to Pilo's only known relative... his uncle Dr. Seamus Graydon Pilo, who achieved a bit of notoriety in the late 1980s with the now-discredited book THE BASSINET STOVETOP, which detailed ritual child abuse occuring in the Long Island area. all Dr. Pilo was willing to supply was a press release for his upcoming self-published book ULTRAMARINE VITELIUS, nominally about the "Shy Guy" attacks from a few years back, but also promising to offer "furthering greater insight" into just what exactly occured at the Velorotse Complex.
a recent development uncovers another cryptic detail; a word or phrase scrawled in wax or grease across both the floors of the complex and cut into the flesh of the bodies;
"SKOTOSEME".
more as this story develops...
Carlt -
Just fucking forget about me already, huh?. Stop using my soul as a sifter to ring out the all the rattling turds in your garbage brain.
You don’t have to keep coming back here… checking in, adding wrinkles, engineering meaningless conflicts with the other fragments of our shattered ids.
I don’t care if this goes nowhere… you shouldn’t either.
We’re not helping each other out, not any more than a toilet bowl helps out a spastic colon. Find a new fascination. Let me just… I just want to sit here and do nothing and see nothing and be nothing to you, as if it was never anything other than that..
No corny variations or lazy derivatives or media surrogates or fucking multiversal alternates (seriously man what the hell?).
You’ll never not need more polishing and I can’t be here forever while you work through your shit.
This isn’t going any cunting where, and I am bone-fuck tired.
Well... BYE.
- Pix
My name is Spivak. The last time I went away, there was an unexpected swell of affirmation and support from friends and family. When I returned, I felt a genuine gratitude toward them… felt that I could show them a better, realer me. There was still that nuisance influence lurching the parasitic abysses, needling me toward those parts unknown to this newfound safety net… but it had become anemic… a pale shell of the original beast that cased my negatives. Still, the constipated persistence of this nagging creature was impressive, and the struggles renewed in a more earnest simmer… their tones consistently attempting to disrupt. Those voices of compassion quickly turned… gone sour by the impatience produced when expectation and entitlement digest one other. I wasn’t getting to where they wanted me to be with enough summary and speed. They grew weary of my openness… confused, bewildered, and frustrated to near violence by the deliberately paced analog horrors of my interior universes. They once again resorted to their enduring insults; attacking first my thought processes, then my choice of words, then the creative indulgences, then the digressions, before eventually arriving to prong the conjoint insecurities I have regarding my temperament and my appearance. I showed the world who I am, who I was trying to be, and they rejected me. We will fix nothing as long as we remain committed to the maintenance of a pressurized discomfort with regards to men expressing anything other than spite or sarcasm (sometimes not even those) to ameliorate the mounting pains of their piling breakages. Mr. Good News wants to put his penis in girls because they’re pretty and it feels nice.
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