i unironically started spitting all the time irl because of this book. my fricking coworker accosted me one day in the lunch room in front of literally everyone over it one day and it was very embarrassing.
The vegemite avocado toast found no superfluous
saliva, all moisture was conscripted to wage the
campaign, dry toast. The accosting agent barged
into the Amazon warehouse lunchroom looking to embarrass the hypersalivator who had been
under a spell, a spitting spell.
Nobody spat in the lunch room
The spatting had ceased
The dark day of the cotton mouth; a pall over the distribution center.
I work at a warehouse and no I don’t do things cause I think they’ll get me girls I really don’t concern myself with that shit too much I just thought it was kind of cool. I mean you have to sometimes anyway cause you’ll get so much dust or hell even pieces of wood in your mouth from all the pallets around
11 months ago
Anonymous
When they spit in the books they were spitting out tabbacco chew
>Be the only known survivor of the original Glanton gang >Get buttfricked to death in an outhouse 20 years later by the physical embodiment of an abstract concept
Opening the door to the cuck shed the slipshod
slapdash construction was evident
he spat on the dirt floor pursed his lips
and spat again the spittle finding its target
on the side of a open ravioli can on the milk
crate
They spat and they rode and they the kid got lost in a mountain and I will explain how the kid got back to the fellowship without any punctuation through the chapter the mountains were dark and they were reddish and the sun was coming down and then the kid was feeling hungry and he killed an indian in the way and scalped him and then he rode and he spat and he found a city and then he robbed a horse and then he rode and then he saw Judge Holden and was finally able to get back to the fellowship but then some indians attacked and they got sepparated again and now the kid is being chased by the police in another mountain which is different to the first one and then he meets another member of his fellowship but he dies and then the kid survives and then he rodes and spat and sees the Judge Holden and then he gets together with the fellowship once more
They hobbled the ponies and he dug up a dead stump and started a fire. The ponies started a friendship. He spat. They spat. They spat on their hardness. The ponies got hard and wet and they mounted them afront each other like boys mounting their first prostitutes. The ponies gibbered magically and they saw their friendship erupting. As Orion span and the false dawn rose over dead embers the ponies spat their semen from their c**ts. He turned his head and coughed.
He stepped inside and slowed the door back with his hand lest it close too sharply. None had acknowledged his entrance nor had he expected any would. He moved to the bar and pulled out a stool and sat. Bottles catching the light with mordant cheer. He glanced about the room and was faced with clientele much as might be observed in that or any likesouled place. Men accoutered in garments faded and of indifferent fit and hailing from a score of countries and times and from a dozen professions and no profession at all. Men in whose hesitant gazes lay a catalogue of defeats past all reckoning let alone redemption and who suggested such a paucity of possessions material or otherwise that even to look at one there unbidden felt like taking from him a conspicuous portion of all in this world he could still call his own.
He asked for whisky and the barkeeper poured the measure and he paid for it and and took it up. Gazing thereat as if in its slow emulsive roiling might be discerned the elixir of human forgetfulness. He drank and closed his eyes and saw her hair lying blueblack in flabellate disarray across his chest. Touching his skin cool with soft cirrus delicacy. When he opened his eyes he saw a little further along the bar a man he had not noticed before.
The other met his gaze with a nod so slight Westray was unsure if he'd imagined it but he asked if he would care to join him and the man assented with considered courtesy. Westray spoke to the bartender who took a second glass and set it in front of the man and filled it. The man tracked him with ruminative eyes as he moved away and when the bottle was replaced on the shelf his gaze remained on it.
Jim Beam straight bourbon whisky, he said. That puts me in mind of a curious story which perhaps you might care to hear.
A story, thought Westray. Mnemonic art may be Lethean in its turn. Let me try this new Scheherazade against you. Sure, he said.
The other paused perhaps to collect his thoughts or perhaps to honour the solemn protocol of the situation. Sedate ritual of a thousand places such as this where a man pays with a tale for viand or companionship. A currency older than currency. He took the least sip from his glass.
This event was back when I was in Texas and New Mexico under a man named Glanton who had a commission from the government to make the territory safe for settlers. At any rate that was how it was described. This would be in forty-nine or fifty.
Forty-nine or fifty. Thirty years ago.
No. Not thirty years ago.
He gave Westray sufficient time for expression of puzzlement or disbelief but Westray said nothing and after a moment the man continued.
Our company numbered sixteen at that time. Seventeen maybe. We'd been making across the desert for a week with nigh on a hundred Apache following. They warn't in no hurry. That more than anything told us where we stood. They knew the country better than we did and doubtless they would already have closed with us had there been any chance of our getting away.
You were looking for the best place to make a stand.
It would not have been much of a stand. We'd not enough powder amongst us to fill a flask.
Sounds like an interesting situation, Westray said.
Interesting. Yes. Nightfall of the sixth day we were making what speed we could alongside a great mesa on our left and each man pretty well occupied with his own thoughts and then it was like someone throwed a switch and everything was bright as noon. White brightness, like lightning. You couldn't look at it. I looked up as far as I could under my hatbrim at the base of the cliff. The light was coming from above for sure because here and there was an overhang and each one threw a shadow as sharp as a knifeblade. But other than than you couldn't tell what was the cause of it. Wasn't like nothing I ever saw on this earth.
I believe I was somewhat numb at this point. Leastwise it never occurred to me to take any action. Although what action I could of taken it would be hard to say. Then it seemed I was moving. I guess the closest I can come is that it might be what a bullet feels like when it gets fired. Next thing I know I'm alone in a room somewhere. Still in one piece it seems. You ever been in a hospital ward.
Once or twice, said Westray.
Don't care for 'em myself. But this brought such places to mind. Not white but so clean it felt white. As if my just being there was going to smudge it. I reached out and rubbed whatever it was I was sat on but didn't leave no mark. Which did not surprise me. I guess my capacity for surprise had been pretty much used up by that point.
Well it so happened I had a bottle of whisky in my coat pocket, maybe two thirds full. Jim Beam same as that bottle there and I resolved that whatever was coming I was not going to experience it sober. You might ask would it not have been wiser to hold off on that. I'll allow there's times a man needs to be entirely awake to make it through a situation. But here it seemed plain to me that whatever ability I might have for dealing with events weren't going to change the outcome any more than a newborn baby's idea of where it wants to be has any bearing on where its mother decides to take it. So I drank that bottle and I kept on drinking until it was finished.
He raised his glass and put his lips to the rim and tipped the glass and he held the liquor unswallowed a while as if to maintain thereby the tenuous filament connecting events present and past and then his throat moved and he set the glass down.
Next thing I remember we was all of us back on the ground beside our horses and it was early morning and nothing to be seen when I looked around for some clue as to what had happened. It seemed safe to assume that whatever I had gone through the others had likewise but nothing was said and no-one was showing much interest in anything beyond the ground in front of his feet. Even Glanton seemed a little uneasy and let me tell you this was not a man given to that particular emotion. I felt somewhat stiff as I recall. Like I'd been riding six weeks instead of six days. I did notice every man lowered himself very carefully into his saddle. Much as you might set a crate of eggs down and your life depended on not cracking a single one.
He smiled and Westray matched the expression in wry confederacy. The horses were where you'd left them? he asked.
They were. You want to know did they get the same attention as the rest of us? The thought did cross my mind and I dare say some others too but there warn't any way to know.
I guess not.
They was somewhat skittish for a day or two afterward I'll grant you that.
Westray included the bartender in his glance and gestured and the bartender moved forward and replenished their glasses and when he had stepped back the man continued.
There was no sign of the Apache. They could hardly have failed to see what we saw. I imagine they decided it wasn't anything they wanted any part of. Maybe they'd been taken too. Either way we never saw trace of 'em again. Took us another two days hard riding to reach a place with anything growing but finally we struck water and made camp and you could feel the same thought in the mind of every man there. Glanton gave voice to it.
I see no reason why this need be spoken of again, he said. Well the whole company supported that motion almost without acknowledging it existed. Like the words was resting atop something they didn't want waking. I went along with it although I still had no better recollection than before. Then the judge speaks up.
The judge?
Our second-in-command I guess you could call him although I'm not quite certain what he was. He never gave an order nor took one. Glanton asked his advice from time to time. Anyway there was a fellow with us, Chamberlain, used to keep a journal. I'd never read it. Couldn't read nor write except my name when this all took place. I learned some since. The judge asked this Chamberlain how long back did he leave off making entries and Chamberlain said the night before last. So he had three four pages describing the desert and the Apaches. Are you planning to let that stand, says the judge.
Chamberlain says he hadn't even got around to considering the matter.
The judge said that unless the whole episode were cut out it would be necessary to add some explanation for how we came through it and if he might make a suggestion he could dictate an account in which we unearthed the necessary materials and synthesized — that was how he used to talk, synthesized — a supply of gunpowder and put paid to the Apaches that way. Glanton said no-one would believe that but the judge smiled and said I can tell it so they'll believe it. And he took Chamberlain to one side and said you just write what I say.
I read it since. Talk of charcoal and saltpetre and suchlike. I guess maybe it's plausible enough. But what I told you is the way it happened.
Quite a story.
It was a curious situation. There we was all bound to secrecy and about what I could not say. Remember that all of them had surely been through what I had, but sober. I've wished at times I'd not had that bottle with me. Other times I'm glad I did.
Have you spoken to anyone since, Westray said. Or read something. There are similar accounts published.
I've heard some. Seen some too. One in every ten there might be something to it. None of 'em prompted my memory anyhow.
What happened to the gang?
Most of 'em got theirselves killed one way and another. Glanton was killed by indians.
The judge?
The man reached for his glass again but perhaps this was only for the sake of prevarication for he had already drained it. I don't know where he is, he said.
Right.
The man pushed the empty glass from him and rose as if obeying the dictates of a authority which laid down with precise strictures the timekeeping of all such anonymous interactions. He inclined his head briefly to Westray and thanked him for the drinks and like a man newly unencumbered he crossed without haste to the door and passed through. Like one with task discharged. As if confident that though chronicler and recipient alike were unrecorded and destined to be forgotten yet nonetheless the story being told once would be indelible and would not need repeating.
Our company numbered sixteen at that time. Seventeen maybe. We'd been making across the desert for a week with nigh on a hundred Apache following. They warn't in no hurry. That more than anything told us where we stood. They knew the country better than we did and doubtless they would already have closed with us had there been any chance of our getting away.
You were looking for the best place to make a stand.
It would not have been much of a stand. We'd not enough powder amongst us to fill a flask.
Sounds like an interesting situation, Westray said.
Interesting. Yes. Nightfall of the sixth day we were making what speed we could alongside a great mesa on our left and each man pretty well occupied with his own thoughts and then it was like someone throwed a switch and everything was bright as noon. White brightness, like lightning. You couldn't look at it. I looked up as far as I could under my hatbrim at the base of the cliff. The light was coming from above for sure because here and there was an overhang and each one threw a shadow as sharp as a knifeblade. But other than than you couldn't tell what was the cause of it. Wasn't like nothing I ever saw on this earth.
I believe I was somewhat numb at this point. Leastwise it never occurred to me to take any action. Although what action I could of taken it would be hard to say. Then it seemed I was moving. I guess the closest I can come is that it might be what a bullet feels like when it gets fired. Next thing I know I'm alone in a room somewhere. Still in one piece it seems. You ever been in a hospital ward.
Once or twice, said Westray.
Don't care for 'em myself. But this brought such places to mind. Not white but so clean it felt white. As if my just being there was going to smudge it. I reached out and rubbed whatever it was I was sat on but didn't leave no mark. Which did not surprise me. I guess my capacity for surprise had been pretty much used up by that point.
Well it so happened I had a bottle of whisky in my coat pocket, maybe two thirds full. Jim Beam same as that bottle there and I resolved that whatever was coming I was not going to experience it sober. You might ask would it not have been wiser to hold off on that. I'll allow there's times a man needs to be entirely awake to make it through a situation. But here it seemed plain to me that whatever ability I might have for dealing with events weren't going to change the outcome any more than a newborn baby's idea of where it wants to be has any bearing on where its mother decides to take it. So I drank that bottle and I kept on drinking until it was finished.
He raised his glass and put his lips to the rim and tipped the glass and he held the liquor unswallowed a while as if to maintain thereby the tenuous filament connecting events present and past and then his throat moved and he set the glass down.
[2/4]
Next thing I remember we was all of us back on the ground beside our horses and it was early morning and nothing to be seen when I looked around for some clue as to what had happened. It seemed safe to assume that whatever I had gone through the others had likewise but nothing was said and no-one was showing much interest in anything beyond the ground in front of his feet. Even Glanton seemed a little uneasy and let me tell you this was not a man given to that particular emotion. I felt somewhat stiff as I recall. Like I'd been riding six weeks instead of six days. I did notice every man lowered himself very carefully into his saddle. Much as you might set a crate of eggs down and your life depended on not cracking a single one.
He smiled and Westray matched the expression in wry confederacy. The horses were where you'd left them? he asked.
They were. You want to know did they get the same attention as the rest of us? The thought did cross my mind and I dare say some others too but there warn't any way to know.
I guess not.
They was somewhat skittish for a day or two afterward I'll grant you that.
Westray included the bartender in his glance and gestured and the bartender moved forward and replenished their glasses and when he had stepped back the man continued.
There was no sign of the Apache. They could hardly have failed to see what we saw. I imagine they decided it wasn't anything they wanted any part of. Maybe they'd been taken too. Either way we never saw trace of 'em again. Took us another two days hard riding to reach a place with anything growing but finally we struck water and made camp and you could feel the same thought in the mind of every man there. Glanton gave voice to it.
I see no reason why this need be spoken of again, he said. Well the whole company supported that motion almost without acknowledging it existed. Like the words was resting atop something they didn't want waking. I went along with it although I still had no better recollection than before. Then the judge speaks up.
The judge?
Our second-in-command I guess you could call him although I'm not quite certain what he was. He never gave an order nor took one. Glanton asked his advice from time to time. Anyway there was a fellow with us, Chamberlain, used to keep a journal. I'd never read it. Couldn't read nor write except my name when this all took place. I learned some since. The judge asked this Chamberlain how long back did he leave off making entries and Chamberlain said the night before last. So he had three four pages describing the desert and the Apaches. Are you planning to let that stand, says the judge.
Chamberlain says he hadn't even got around to considering the matter.
[3/4]
The judge said that unless the whole episode were cut out it would be necessary to add some explanation for how we came through it and if he might make a suggestion he could dictate an account in which we unearthed the necessary materials and synthesized — that was how he used to talk, synthesized — a supply of gunpowder and put paid to the Apaches that way. Glanton said no-one would believe that but the judge smiled and said I can tell it so they'll believe it. And he took Chamberlain to one side and said you just write what I say.
I read it since. Talk of charcoal and saltpetre and suchlike. I guess maybe it's plausible enough. But what I told you is the way it happened.
Quite a story.
It was a curious situation. There we was all bound to secrecy and about what I could not say. Remember that all of them had surely been through what I had, but sober. I've wished at times I'd not had that bottle with me. Other times I'm glad I did.
Have you spoken to anyone since, Westray said. Or read something. There are similar accounts published.
I've heard some. Seen some too. One in every ten there might be something to it. None of 'em prompted my memory anyhow.
What happened to the gang?
Most of 'em got theirselves killed one way and another. Glanton was killed by indians.
The judge?
The man reached for his glass again but perhaps this was only for the sake of prevarication for he had already drained it. I don't know where he is, he said.
Right.
The man pushed the empty glass from him and rose as if obeying the dictates of a authority which laid down with precise strictures the timekeeping of all such anonymous interactions. He inclined his head briefly to Westray and thanked him for the drinks and like a man newly unencumbered he crossed without haste to the door and passed through. Like one with task discharged. As if confident that though chronicler and recipient alike were unrecorded and destined to be forgotten yet nonetheless the story being told once would be indelible and would not need repeating.
— 'The Passenger', Cormac McCarthy [early draft]
[4/4]
I don’t know if you wrote this, if AI did, or if it really is an early passage but I wish I was this good getting at his style.
His hands were sweaty and the spaghetti was falling from his pocket in long strands like of hair the like of which was leaving his young scalp too soon like leaves to early frost. Is this book reddit he asked and she looked back at him not knowing what he meant.
Excuse me?
Is this book reddit or IQfy?
He pulled out an illustrated diagram that explained the concept and he held it up to her and he spat.
They reeked and their cartoon stink lines were taken by the wind emerging from the blood red western sky dotted with stratocumulus and silent lightning silhouetted against the timeworn slate outcropping of the haze covered mountain ranges farther into that inhospitable place like some sort of forced simile that goes on for far too long and slows the pacing to a glacial crawl.
The reeking, proud, confident, erect, glochidium like, the severity unknown until you were too
close, the olfactory bulb penetrated under a
blood western sky. They spat. The inhospitable Mexican desert sand accommodating all moisture and asking for more They spat again.The cartoon stink lines exited the nasal cavity at
a glacial crawl
A forced smile went on long enough
to allow for another instance of saliva
They spat again
The infamous KYS, the letters repeated
themselves in his minds eye then in a thought
bubble over over his reeking balding head, cartoonish, under the blood
red western sky
He spat after sounding out the letter S out loud, loud enough
only for him to hear, a whisper ,again K-Y-S he spat again
The thought bubble gone, announcing its departure with an audible popping sound. Flashes of an inhospitable kindergarten class now
formed its own thought bubble above his stinking head, he spat. The infamous ABCs, an unconquerable beast for a brainlet. The beast
has sent out mercenaries, troopers K-Y-S
"Don't need no schooling ya hears" he spat.
KYSABC KYSABC "its nothing" he spat
"a captcha "
have a nice day troony
The homosexual lisp of the bartender hung in the air like a patch of reeking spit. The party reeking and caked in the mud of countless roughhewn miles like an undead terracotta army in service to cosmic judgement itself seemed to look past him into his own degenerate being.
We done look like trannies to ye?
That's right.
Before the charged words even reached the eardrums of the party members sitting outside in the catalogue the janitor sitting in the shaded corner of the smoky canteen leveled her heavy revolver directly towards the bartenders head and a golf ball sized hole appeared in his head sending grey matter and bloody chunks of skull spewing across the recently polished oaken tabletops and maple stools. Without a word the janitor took her seat and continued to fill out her order form for knee high programming socks out of the Sears catalogue.
After ransacking the larder and drinking the last of the late bartenders stock they rode out of this hovel called a thread hooting and hollering and discharging their arms against the predawn light like the earth itself revitalized by the blood of the homosexual.
11 months ago
Anonymous
Under the blood red western sky the thought bubble, the seed husk containing the future, letters that would be consummated with the earth and birth a future of reading, ABCs, hung
to the side of his wretched head.
To him the thought bubble was a cartridge of lead slugs not seeds ,also containing the future. The ABCs were gonna do him in , erase him from the present for a literate future, He spat on that tip of his boot and rubbed of a spot
of dry shit, maybe his own , maybe the Lil pony's. "Ta hell with letters and figures...don't
need me no learning I tell ya !"
KYSABCsLGBTQl , the battalion forming a separate thought bubble on the opposite side of the seed pod above his stinckin god forsaken head. "Das dat dam CAPTCHA" he spat , the spittle refusing the invitation of the dry desert sand hung on his chin.
have a nice day butthurt troony
11 months ago
Anonymous
The grave mistake assumed by the analphabetic, anonymous, scat poster, the projector always assuming everyone is a trap bottom and would become resigned to pangs of the posterior ; he spat, a lizard scampered.
11 months ago
Anonymous
have a nice day butthurt troony.
11 months ago
Anonymous
Under the blood red western sky the thought bubble, the seed husk containing the future, letters that would be consummated with the earth and birth a future of reading, ABCs, hung
to the side of his wretched head.
To him the thought bubble was a cartridge of lead slugs not seeds ,also containing the future. The ABCs were gonna do him in , erase him from the present for a literate future, He spat on that tip of his boot and rubbed of a spot
of dry shit, maybe his own , maybe the Lil pony's. "Ta hell with letters and figures...don't
need me no learning I tell ya !"
KYSABCsLGBTQl , the battalion forming a separate thought bubble on the opposite side of the seed pod above his stinckin god forsaken head. "Das dat dam CAPTCHA" he spat , the spittle refusing the invitation of the dry desert sand hung on his chin.
The reeking, proud, confident, erect, glochidium like, the severity unknown until you were too
close, the olfactory bulb penetrated under a
blood western sky. They spat. The inhospitable Mexican desert sand accommodating all moisture and asking for more They spat again.The cartoon stink lines exited the nasal cavity at
a glacial crawl
A forced smile went on long enough
to allow for another instance of saliva
They spat again
OP a man consumed by the relentless grip of the digital realm surrendered his flesh to the gluttonous jaws of the internet his existence reduced to mere pixels he withered away a ghostly specter of human frailty malnourished and forgotten he succumbed to the alluring void of virtual realities his soul fading into the binary abyss
Janny the weary caretaker bore witness to the gruesome aftermath of OP's obsession in the dimly lit room she stood over his emaciated remains surrounded by the stench of decay her calloused hands once accustomed to menial tasks now labored to scrape away the remnants of his wasted flesh from the cold unforgiving floor
Is it bad I thought the judge was based and would start asking myself "what would the judge do" throughout my weeks? I didn't know he was a bad character until I started reading random discussion online about the book after I finished it the other night. I was confused about the little kid disappearing thing too until I found out the book and characters were actual people in a gang.
Have you missed the part about halfway through the book where judge kills and scalps the mexican boy they took as a pet? Toadvine is about shoot Holden in the head but then backs off.
And that’s disregarding all the fire/volcano/bats symbolism up to the point, kek. Hardly a subtle devil incarnation.
They spat
They spat and they rode but no one talked.
the end
Kek
They gibbered
i unironically started spitting all the time irl because of this book. my fricking coworker accosted me one day in the lunch room in front of literally everyone over it one day and it was very embarrassing.
Should've spat on his mouth
It was a girl and worse a girl who is really pretty
you're just strengthening his point
The vegemite avocado toast found no superfluous
saliva, all moisture was conscripted to wage the
campaign, dry toast. The accosting agent barged
into the Amazon warehouse lunchroom looking to embarrass the hypersalivator who had been
under a spell, a spitting spell.
Nobody spat in the lunch room
The spatting had ceased
The dark day of the cotton mouth; a pall over the distribution center.
Are you a white collar worker? Did you literally go around the office spitting on the floor, thinking you're gonna look hard and get the ladies?
I work at a warehouse and no I don’t do things cause I think they’ll get me girls I really don’t concern myself with that shit too much I just thought it was kind of cool. I mean you have to sometimes anyway cause you’ll get so much dust or hell even pieces of wood in your mouth from all the pallets around
When they spit in the books they were spitting out tabbacco chew
>they ride
>they spit
>they ride they ride they spit
>ride ride ride
>spit spit spit
>the cormac mccarthy show
For me it was the old man talking about a Black person's heart.
The lightning clouds in the distance were pure kino.
>Blood MeRIDEan
HOLYYY
For me its Toadvine and Bathcat. Two of the realist Black folk to ever do it.
For me, it was all the outright and implied sodomy.
>Be the only known survivor of the original Glanton gang
>Get buttfricked to death in an outhouse 20 years later by the physical embodiment of an abstract concept
My two biggest heroes died this month: Cormac McCarthy and Ted Kaszynski.
They had more impact on me that my loser father did
Were all gonna make it
>Were all gonna make it
that's not a very ted&cormac sentiment
Go back to your cuckshed homosexual
Opening the door to the cuck shed the slipshod
slapdash construction was evident
he spat on the dirt floor pursed his lips
and spat again the spittle finding its target
on the side of a open ravioli can on the milk
crate
You will never be Cormac McCarthy
The man spat and looked up and said in Spanish
"And who will you never be?"
And Berlusconi. Literally some of the best people died recently. Real shame.
For me, it’s the Black person
They spat and they rode and they the kid got lost in a mountain and I will explain how the kid got back to the fellowship without any punctuation through the chapter the mountains were dark and they were reddish and the sun was coming down and then the kid was feeling hungry and he killed an indian in the way and scalped him and then he rode and he spat and he found a city and then he robbed a horse and then he rode and then he saw Judge Holden and was finally able to get back to the fellowship but then some indians attacked and they got sepparated again and now the kid is being chased by the police in another mountain which is different to the first one and then he meets another member of his fellowship but he dies and then the kid survives and then he rodes and spat and sees the Judge Holden and then he gets together with the fellowship once more
and ocotillo.
Blood Meridian is my favorite book, but this was pretty good anon.
Maybe I should become a Cormac McCarthy's successor...
Why didn't he just give a chuuni speech to the Judge in the outhouse and banish him?
She spat on the lil pony
They hobbled the ponies and he dug up a dead stump and started a fire. The ponies started a friendship. He spat. They spat. They spat on their hardness. The ponies got hard and wet and they mounted them afront each other like boys mounting their first prostitutes. The ponies gibbered magically and they saw their friendship erupting. As Orion span and the false dawn rose over dead embers the ponies spat their semen from their c**ts. He turned his head and coughed.
From filly to doxy mare, the remnants of the
felled bole the only remaining heat.
>From filly to doxy mare, the remnants of the
>felled bole the only remaining heat.
True end. Thank you brother.
Get
He stepped inside and slowed the door back with his hand lest it close too sharply. None had acknowledged his entrance nor had he expected any would. He moved to the bar and pulled out a stool and sat. Bottles catching the light with mordant cheer. He glanced about the room and was faced with clientele much as might be observed in that or any likesouled place. Men accoutered in garments faded and of indifferent fit and hailing from a score of countries and times and from a dozen professions and no profession at all. Men in whose hesitant gazes lay a catalogue of defeats past all reckoning let alone redemption and who suggested such a paucity of possessions material or otherwise that even to look at one there unbidden felt like taking from him a conspicuous portion of all in this world he could still call his own.
He asked for whisky and the barkeeper poured the measure and he paid for it and and took it up. Gazing thereat as if in its slow emulsive roiling might be discerned the elixir of human forgetfulness. He drank and closed his eyes and saw her hair lying blueblack in flabellate disarray across his chest. Touching his skin cool with soft cirrus delicacy. When he opened his eyes he saw a little further along the bar a man he had not noticed before.
The other met his gaze with a nod so slight Westray was unsure if he'd imagined it but he asked if he would care to join him and the man assented with considered courtesy. Westray spoke to the bartender who took a second glass and set it in front of the man and filled it. The man tracked him with ruminative eyes as he moved away and when the bottle was replaced on the shelf his gaze remained on it.
Jim Beam straight bourbon whisky, he said. That puts me in mind of a curious story which perhaps you might care to hear.
A story, thought Westray. Mnemonic art may be Lethean in its turn. Let me try this new Scheherazade against you. Sure, he said.
The other paused perhaps to collect his thoughts or perhaps to honour the solemn protocol of the situation. Sedate ritual of a thousand places such as this where a man pays with a tale for viand or companionship. A currency older than currency. He took the least sip from his glass.
This event was back when I was in Texas and New Mexico under a man named Glanton who had a commission from the government to make the territory safe for settlers. At any rate that was how it was described. This would be in forty-nine or fifty.
Forty-nine or fifty. Thirty years ago.
No. Not thirty years ago.
He gave Westray sufficient time for expression of puzzlement or disbelief but Westray said nothing and after a moment the man continued.
[1/4]
Our company numbered sixteen at that time. Seventeen maybe. We'd been making across the desert for a week with nigh on a hundred Apache following. They warn't in no hurry. That more than anything told us where we stood. They knew the country better than we did and doubtless they would already have closed with us had there been any chance of our getting away.
You were looking for the best place to make a stand.
It would not have been much of a stand. We'd not enough powder amongst us to fill a flask.
Sounds like an interesting situation, Westray said.
Interesting. Yes. Nightfall of the sixth day we were making what speed we could alongside a great mesa on our left and each man pretty well occupied with his own thoughts and then it was like someone throwed a switch and everything was bright as noon. White brightness, like lightning. You couldn't look at it. I looked up as far as I could under my hatbrim at the base of the cliff. The light was coming from above for sure because here and there was an overhang and each one threw a shadow as sharp as a knifeblade. But other than than you couldn't tell what was the cause of it. Wasn't like nothing I ever saw on this earth.
I believe I was somewhat numb at this point. Leastwise it never occurred to me to take any action. Although what action I could of taken it would be hard to say. Then it seemed I was moving. I guess the closest I can come is that it might be what a bullet feels like when it gets fired. Next thing I know I'm alone in a room somewhere. Still in one piece it seems. You ever been in a hospital ward.
Once or twice, said Westray.
Don't care for 'em myself. But this brought such places to mind. Not white but so clean it felt white. As if my just being there was going to smudge it. I reached out and rubbed whatever it was I was sat on but didn't leave no mark. Which did not surprise me. I guess my capacity for surprise had been pretty much used up by that point.
Well it so happened I had a bottle of whisky in my coat pocket, maybe two thirds full. Jim Beam same as that bottle there and I resolved that whatever was coming I was not going to experience it sober. You might ask would it not have been wiser to hold off on that. I'll allow there's times a man needs to be entirely awake to make it through a situation. But here it seemed plain to me that whatever ability I might have for dealing with events weren't going to change the outcome any more than a newborn baby's idea of where it wants to be has any bearing on where its mother decides to take it. So I drank that bottle and I kept on drinking until it was finished.
He raised his glass and put his lips to the rim and tipped the glass and he held the liquor unswallowed a while as if to maintain thereby the tenuous filament connecting events present and past and then his throat moved and he set the glass down.
[2/4]
Next thing I remember we was all of us back on the ground beside our horses and it was early morning and nothing to be seen when I looked around for some clue as to what had happened. It seemed safe to assume that whatever I had gone through the others had likewise but nothing was said and no-one was showing much interest in anything beyond the ground in front of his feet. Even Glanton seemed a little uneasy and let me tell you this was not a man given to that particular emotion. I felt somewhat stiff as I recall. Like I'd been riding six weeks instead of six days. I did notice every man lowered himself very carefully into his saddle. Much as you might set a crate of eggs down and your life depended on not cracking a single one.
He smiled and Westray matched the expression in wry confederacy. The horses were where you'd left them? he asked.
They were. You want to know did they get the same attention as the rest of us? The thought did cross my mind and I dare say some others too but there warn't any way to know.
I guess not.
They was somewhat skittish for a day or two afterward I'll grant you that.
Westray included the bartender in his glance and gestured and the bartender moved forward and replenished their glasses and when he had stepped back the man continued.
There was no sign of the Apache. They could hardly have failed to see what we saw. I imagine they decided it wasn't anything they wanted any part of. Maybe they'd been taken too. Either way we never saw trace of 'em again. Took us another two days hard riding to reach a place with anything growing but finally we struck water and made camp and you could feel the same thought in the mind of every man there. Glanton gave voice to it.
I see no reason why this need be spoken of again, he said. Well the whole company supported that motion almost without acknowledging it existed. Like the words was resting atop something they didn't want waking. I went along with it although I still had no better recollection than before. Then the judge speaks up.
The judge?
Our second-in-command I guess you could call him although I'm not quite certain what he was. He never gave an order nor took one. Glanton asked his advice from time to time. Anyway there was a fellow with us, Chamberlain, used to keep a journal. I'd never read it. Couldn't read nor write except my name when this all took place. I learned some since. The judge asked this Chamberlain how long back did he leave off making entries and Chamberlain said the night before last. So he had three four pages describing the desert and the Apaches. Are you planning to let that stand, says the judge.
Chamberlain says he hadn't even got around to considering the matter.
[3/4]
The judge said that unless the whole episode were cut out it would be necessary to add some explanation for how we came through it and if he might make a suggestion he could dictate an account in which we unearthed the necessary materials and synthesized — that was how he used to talk, synthesized — a supply of gunpowder and put paid to the Apaches that way. Glanton said no-one would believe that but the judge smiled and said I can tell it so they'll believe it. And he took Chamberlain to one side and said you just write what I say.
I read it since. Talk of charcoal and saltpetre and suchlike. I guess maybe it's plausible enough. But what I told you is the way it happened.
Quite a story.
It was a curious situation. There we was all bound to secrecy and about what I could not say. Remember that all of them had surely been through what I had, but sober. I've wished at times I'd not had that bottle with me. Other times I'm glad I did.
Have you spoken to anyone since, Westray said. Or read something. There are similar accounts published.
I've heard some. Seen some too. One in every ten there might be something to it. None of 'em prompted my memory anyhow.
What happened to the gang?
Most of 'em got theirselves killed one way and another. Glanton was killed by indians.
The judge?
The man reached for his glass again but perhaps this was only for the sake of prevarication for he had already drained it. I don't know where he is, he said.
Right.
The man pushed the empty glass from him and rose as if obeying the dictates of a authority which laid down with precise strictures the timekeeping of all such anonymous interactions. He inclined his head briefly to Westray and thanked him for the drinks and like a man newly unencumbered he crossed without haste to the door and passed through. Like one with task discharged. As if confident that though chronicler and recipient alike were unrecorded and destined to be forgotten yet nonetheless the story being told once would be indelible and would not need repeating.
— 'The Passenger', Cormac McCarthy [early draft]
[4/4]
this homie writin turbo meta corncob fan fiction
I don’t know if you wrote this, if AI did, or if it really is an early passage but I wish I was this good getting at his style.
Do you know what it’s from?
.
At least the cover is different from the rest of the Blood Meridian threads
His hands were sweaty and the spaghetti was falling from his pocket in long strands like of hair the like of which was leaving his young scalp too soon like leaves to early frost. Is this book reddit he asked and she looked back at him not knowing what he meant.
Excuse me?
Is this book reddit or IQfy?
He pulled out an illustrated diagram that explained the concept and he held it up to her and he spat.
She laughed. It's a good book sir.
It was reddit.
Blud Muriddeeon
What if Cormac McCarthy had written Kingdom Hearts? What if Sora said the n word? And would it be called "Black person Hearts"?
They is four things that can destroy the light, pooh said: Honey, dicky, munny, and heartless
See the keyblade master.
They reeked and their cartoon stink lines were taken by the wind emerging from the blood red western sky dotted with stratocumulus and silent lightning silhouetted against the timeworn slate outcropping of the haze covered mountain ranges farther into that inhospitable place like some sort of forced simile that goes on for far too long and slows the pacing to a glacial crawl.
have a nice day
The infamous KYS, the letters repeated
themselves in his minds eye then in a thought
bubble over over his reeking balding head, cartoonish, under the blood
red western sky
He spat after sounding out the letter S out loud, loud enough
only for him to hear, a whisper ,again K-Y-S he spat again
The thought bubble gone, announcing its departure with an audible popping sound. Flashes of an inhospitable kindergarten class now
formed its own thought bubble above his stinking head, he spat. The infamous ABCs, an unconquerable beast for a brainlet. The beast
has sent out mercenaries, troopers K-Y-S
"Don't need no schooling ya hears" he spat.
KYSABC KYSABC "its nothing" he spat
"a captcha "
have a nice day troony
have a nice day troony
The homosexual lisp of the bartender hung in the air like a patch of reeking spit. The party reeking and caked in the mud of countless roughhewn miles like an undead terracotta army in service to cosmic judgement itself seemed to look past him into his own degenerate being.
We done look like trannies to ye?
That's right.
Before the charged words even reached the eardrums of the party members sitting outside in the catalogue the janitor sitting in the shaded corner of the smoky canteen leveled her heavy revolver directly towards the bartenders head and a golf ball sized hole appeared in his head sending grey matter and bloody chunks of skull spewing across the recently polished oaken tabletops and maple stools. Without a word the janitor took her seat and continued to fill out her order form for knee high programming socks out of the Sears catalogue.
After ransacking the larder and drinking the last of the late bartenders stock they rode out of this hovel called a thread hooting and hollering and discharging their arms against the predawn light like the earth itself revitalized by the blood of the homosexual.
have a nice day butthurt troony
The grave mistake assumed by the analphabetic, anonymous, scat poster, the projector always assuming everyone is a trap bottom and would become resigned to pangs of the posterior ; he spat, a lizard scampered.
have a nice day butthurt troony.
Under the blood red western sky the thought bubble, the seed husk containing the future, letters that would be consummated with the earth and birth a future of reading, ABCs, hung
to the side of his wretched head.
To him the thought bubble was a cartridge of lead slugs not seeds ,also containing the future. The ABCs were gonna do him in , erase him from the present for a literate future, He spat on that tip of his boot and rubbed of a spot
of dry shit, maybe his own , maybe the Lil pony's. "Ta hell with letters and figures...don't
need me no learning I tell ya !"
KYSABCsLGBTQl , the battalion forming a separate thought bubble on the opposite side of the seed pod above his stinckin god forsaken head. "Das dat dam CAPTCHA" he spat , the spittle refusing the invitation of the dry desert sand hung on his chin.
The reeking, proud, confident, erect, glochidium like, the severity unknown until you were too
close, the olfactory bulb penetrated under a
blood western sky. They spat. The inhospitable Mexican desert sand accommodating all moisture and asking for more They spat again.The cartoon stink lines exited the nasal cavity at
a glacial crawl
A forced smile went on long enough
to allow for another instance of saliva
They spat again
OP a man consumed by the relentless grip of the digital realm surrendered his flesh to the gluttonous jaws of the internet his existence reduced to mere pixels he withered away a ghostly specter of human frailty malnourished and forgotten he succumbed to the alluring void of virtual realities his soul fading into the binary abyss
Janny the weary caretaker bore witness to the gruesome aftermath of OP's obsession in the dimly lit room she stood over his emaciated remains surrounded by the stench of decay her calloused hands once accustomed to menial tasks now labored to scrape away the remnants of his wasted flesh from the cold unforgiving floor
i love that lil homie louis toadvine like you would not believe
b***h suckin on my toadvine while I’m licking on her bathcat
Imagine the smell
Holy shit another McDonalds thread I hope for the day this trash will vanish
This ESL moron's prostitute mom takes Black personwiener. He has to cope by posting trannies and homos.
The same poster...he thought. he spat.
Into the genre trash it goes.
Is it bad I thought the judge was based and would start asking myself "what would the judge do" throughout my weeks? I didn't know he was a bad character until I started reading random discussion online about the book after I finished it the other night. I was confused about the little kid disappearing thing too until I found out the book and characters were actual people in a gang.
Have you missed the part about halfway through the book where judge kills and scalps the mexican boy they took as a pet? Toadvine is about shoot Holden in the head but then backs off.
And that’s disregarding all the fire/volcano/bats symbolism up to the point, kek. Hardly a subtle devil incarnation.
>ending the suffering of an enslaved child is bad