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apocalypsehowcomm2021-11-25 06:35 pm
stations) wrote in apocalypsehowcomm2021-11-25 06:35 pm
(Network Post) Tales from ADI - Blog Entry 01
Who: Jack Townsend, ft. a retelling of a log thread by Malcolm & Jeff.
Username: GasStationJack
Warnings: drugs, violence, murder
Tales from ADI - blog post, entry 01.
A universe away, on the outskirts of a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, at the very end of civilization just before the world disappears into trees and the sound of looming banjos, there's a shitty little gas station. It's not particularly remarkable except for all the ways that it is; maybe the most impressive thing about it is the fact that it's still standing, but what makes it worth mentioning here is all the absolutely insane balls-out crazy things that happen there. I don't just mean methed up locals showing up to try and rob the place with a banana in their pocket they're pretending is a gun, although that... did happen.
More than once.
In the same day.
I'm talking more like world-ending, invasion of the body snatchers, literal ghost of Elvis crazy.
That gas station is where I work. Well, me and my friend Jerry. You guys may have met him, he's the— well, you'd know, trust me. And I guess I don't just work there, I kind of... own it now, but that's a long story for some other time.
The point is, I have a pretty good frame of reference for things you might call supernatural. When you see the kind of things I've seen, it can be really easy to question your sanity. Especially if you happen to have a sleep disorder that kind of casts some serious doubts on what's real and what's not at times. Back home, one of the ways my former-therapist suggested I keep tabs on it is by writing it all down in a journal. Instead of doing that, I started keeping a blog - it's basically the same thing, except strangers can read your personal business and judge you for it publicly.
Don't ask me why that sounded more appealing. I don't really know.
But that's what I went with, and for the last few years I've gotten in the habit of writing down the weird shit that happens around me. Having other people around to confirm that it happened, or even just read it and leave some input, has been really... weirdly helpful.
Since I showed up here, things haven't really been all that dissimilar. Strange happenings keep unfolding on a semi-monthly basis, with the only real difference being the general sanitation here is about a million times better than it was back at the gas station. That being the case, I figured after the most recent round of shit hitting the fan it might be as good a time as any to start blogging about it again. And who knows, maybe it might help some of you guys, too — not that I'm trying to claim any real positive influence on anyone's mental health or anything, just... for me, sometimes seeing things confirmed by other people is nice. If you saw something you weren't really sure happened, or you think you're alone out there dealing with it, please absolutely feel free to discuss it in the comments with me or each other.
So anyway, about those dreams, right?
I could probably spend six months writing an entire novel on everything that happened, but I'm gonna just narrow it down to one story for right now and see how it goes.
This is the story all about how my life got flip-turned upside down-
Just kidding, that's Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
This is a story about how sometimes things that are normal can be way scarier and way worse than things that are magic, or cosmic, or otherworldly. This is a story about how sometimes the real evil is just... people.
I should preface this by saying I saw a lot of people's dreams, and I also hallucinated a lot, and I'm not... completely sure which one was which at any given time.
Anyway, I don't know if you guys know who I'm talking about, but there's this really pretty human specimen here that I haven't actually met personally. Crazy blue eyes, seems nice, name starts with an M, I think? Marvin? Matthew? I don't know. Seriously though, you can't miss the eyes, it's like if Smeagol were an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Congratulations on those, sir. But back on topic — for whatever reason, I think I walked through more of his dreams than almost anybody else's — except for dying repeatedly that one time with the sorcerer doctor, but I'm not sure if that one counts.
It wasn't an eldritch being haunting his nightmares. It wasn't Freddie Krueger, it wasn't some abomination from the abyss, it wasn't sharks with lasers on their foreheads (Jerry). His nightmare was a man.
Hot Gollum woke up for the first time in the middle of the street on a deceptively sunny, pleasant day. At the time, I don't think anybody thought to question how he got there. Dreams are weird like that sometimes; things just are, you accept them, and you move on where the story leads you. This one apparently lead to an older man with curly salt-and-pepper hair, and the kind of vibe you'd expect from maybe a young grandpa, or an enigmatic recluse that owns a magic wardrobe or something.
"My boy!" he exclaimed, which really just kind of added to the whole young grandpa vibe. "My boy, fancy meeting you here!"
M did a pretty good job keeping himself together, it was some serious 'dignified protagonist inner-strength covering deep emotional distress' energy. It's the kind of impressive-yet-vulnerable look that people write fanfiction about. "What are you doing here?"
"I don't know," M. Senior seemed way too pleased about that. "But it's better than where I was, isn't it?"
Judging by M. Junior's face, no. Definitely not. As a matter of fact, it kind of seemed like it would be really, really unfortunate timing for any of M. Junior's friends to happen across the pair of them.
"Malcolm! Hey! Wanna hear this song I- uh..."
I just remembered his name. Sorry, Malcolm. In my defense, Jeff has a really memorable voice, so it kind of brings everything back a little more clearly.
Anyway, from the sound of it, whatever Jeff had been plucking out was really good, and definitely not Stairway to Heaven, which is always impressive in my book.
"Oh, you've been making friends, I see," and it's about this point where Grandpa M stops seeming so grandpa and starts seeming a little, like, crazy-eyes. "I'm Martin. Malcolm's dad."
Apparently his name's Martin, and man, I really need to get better about remembering names at the start of the story.
"Who might you be?" Which is one of those annoying rhetorical questions, because Martin didn't pause before diving straight into one of those rich-people burns, "I do appreciate your distinct lack of classism, son, befriending the homeless."
As a side note, having seen a lot of homeless people, Jeff didn't have nearly enough malt liquor or shopping carts for this to be a reasonable assumption to jump to.
"I, um. I'm Jeff." Which is way cooler than Martin deserved. The way it probably should have gone down is Jeff standing up, grabbing his dream-guitar by the neck, and playing T-Ball with Martin's head. As Jerry likes to say, though, 'hindsight's a 40.'
"Jeff's a musician. And he's not homeless; he works with me," Attractive G- Malcolm corrected, looking like he was seriously also considering the guitar t-ball idea.
"Ah," said Martin, "My mistake, what with all the sitting on the ground and the questionable personal hygiene. But I get another guess, right?" As far as I can tell, this guy must have never been to the south if he thinks that's what questionable hygiene looks like.
"Dr. Whitly," Malcolm cut in sternly, a note of warning in his tone.
"Not that there's anything wrong with begging, per se, but you have a job and you're not spending it on your wardrobe. Addict? Or do you have a sports car stashed somewhere? In which case I owe an unexpectedly ambitious young man an apology."
How a guy who's that big of an asshole could produce an offspring that attractive is completely beyond me. This is speaking from a completely unbiased place, by the way. I'm comfortable in my sexuality enough to confidently say it: that man is just plain-old good-looking.
"You owe him one anyway."
"I'm saving for a new guitar. For gigs, you know, like real gigs?" Jeff explained, scooping up the cash he earned presumably through sick guitar solos or acoustic covers of Sex and Candy in a fruitless but completely understandable attempt to bail the fuck out of that nope-fest. "It's okay, man. Dads ask questions. I get it."
"See, son? He gets it." Creeps McDadbod said, ambling up to invade Jeff's personal space way too closely. For a full second there I could've sworn he was going to go in for a kiss. "Pupils blown, flushed skin, I bet your heart is just racing."
Wishful thinking, I thought. Keep it in your pants.
Malcolm tried to cut in with a sharp, "Dr. Whitly-" only for Martin to pull out a knife the size of- well, the size of something bigger than you ever want pulled out on you, that's for sure. Malcolm tried to grab for it, but Martin knocked him away hard enough that the dude caught some serious air. Four out of five stars on Tony Hawk Pro-Skater 2.
"Don't pay any attention to my killjoy of a son," Martin said, presumably no pun intended because he's that brand of awful. "You need to know something about me. I like to take my time, but your racing heart makes that an... intriguing challenge."
At this point I couldn't help but start to feel some uncomfortable sympathy. I've got a stalker of my own back home. A couple of decades younger, but just as fucked up in the head. He's the entire reason I lost a finger and a leg, but those are... more stories for some other time.
"What are you-" Jeff started, before freezing and doing what looked like some quick mental math. In a completely relatable but totally regrettable move, Jeff shoved. It didn't accomplish much other than pissing Martin off more. He grabbed Jeff by the throat and pushed him back against the wall, digging the knife more deeply into his sternum.
"A display out on the street isn't really my style, but we all have to adapt to survive." Jeff tried to push and paw, fighting to the last breath even as Martin taunted him, giggling out, "No deeper than that. We're not carving a Christmas turkey. Hit the wrong organ and you'll bleed out in under a minute. We don't want that."
I'd like to point out here that people eat Turkey on Thanksgiving. Having Turkey again on Christmas seems like overkill, but that's just my opinion.
Jeff, in one last badass act of defiance, jerked Martin's hand up to gnash his teeth into the meat of his palm. He thrashed and clawed and bit like a fucking Wolverine — the animal, not Hugh Jackman — but all it really managed to accomplish was to ruin Martin's good time. The scuffle didn't last long.
Martin drove the knife into Jeff's stomach clean up to the hilt.
"By the time the contents of your colon get around to poisoning you, I'll have had my fun. So don't worry, this wound won't kill you," he taunted, shoving the knife in deeper, "You'll only wish it did."
The dream started to fade, and the last thing I heard was Jeff humming the chorus to Rhiannon.
None of it happened. Not really. I've seen both Jeff and Malcolm around since that dream, hallucination, whatever it was. It wasn't as massive in scale as an apocalypse, it wasn't as haunting as the vampires and zombies that tore everyone apart at the Halloween party.
But I think in some ways, it was scarier - because it was personal. Because it felt real. Because it doesn't really matter what world you're from, the possibility of something like that happening exists in all of them.
It exists in this one.
-Jack
( Blog submission byabrightboy. If you have a story suggestion for Jack's blog, please swing over here! )
Username: GasStationJack
Warnings: drugs, violence, murder
A universe away, on the outskirts of a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, at the very end of civilization just before the world disappears into trees and the sound of looming banjos, there's a shitty little gas station. It's not particularly remarkable except for all the ways that it is; maybe the most impressive thing about it is the fact that it's still standing, but what makes it worth mentioning here is all the absolutely insane balls-out crazy things that happen there. I don't just mean methed up locals showing up to try and rob the place with a banana in their pocket they're pretending is a gun, although that... did happen.
More than once.
In the same day.
I'm talking more like world-ending, invasion of the body snatchers, literal ghost of Elvis crazy.
That gas station is where I work. Well, me and my friend Jerry. You guys may have met him, he's the— well, you'd know, trust me. And I guess I don't just work there, I kind of... own it now, but that's a long story for some other time.
The point is, I have a pretty good frame of reference for things you might call supernatural. When you see the kind of things I've seen, it can be really easy to question your sanity. Especially if you happen to have a sleep disorder that kind of casts some serious doubts on what's real and what's not at times. Back home, one of the ways my former-therapist suggested I keep tabs on it is by writing it all down in a journal. Instead of doing that, I started keeping a blog - it's basically the same thing, except strangers can read your personal business and judge you for it publicly.
Don't ask me why that sounded more appealing. I don't really know.
But that's what I went with, and for the last few years I've gotten in the habit of writing down the weird shit that happens around me. Having other people around to confirm that it happened, or even just read it and leave some input, has been really... weirdly helpful.
Since I showed up here, things haven't really been all that dissimilar. Strange happenings keep unfolding on a semi-monthly basis, with the only real difference being the general sanitation here is about a million times better than it was back at the gas station. That being the case, I figured after the most recent round of shit hitting the fan it might be as good a time as any to start blogging about it again. And who knows, maybe it might help some of you guys, too — not that I'm trying to claim any real positive influence on anyone's mental health or anything, just... for me, sometimes seeing things confirmed by other people is nice. If you saw something you weren't really sure happened, or you think you're alone out there dealing with it, please absolutely feel free to discuss it in the comments with me or each other.
So anyway, about those dreams, right?
I could probably spend six months writing an entire novel on everything that happened, but I'm gonna just narrow it down to one story for right now and see how it goes.
This is the story all about how my life got flip-turned upside down-
Just kidding, that's Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
This is a story about how sometimes things that are normal can be way scarier and way worse than things that are magic, or cosmic, or otherworldly. This is a story about how sometimes the real evil is just... people.
I should preface this by saying I saw a lot of people's dreams, and I also hallucinated a lot, and I'm not... completely sure which one was which at any given time.
Anyway, I don't know if you guys know who I'm talking about, but there's this really pretty human specimen here that I haven't actually met personally. Crazy blue eyes, seems nice, name starts with an M, I think? Marvin? Matthew? I don't know. Seriously though, you can't miss the eyes, it's like if Smeagol were an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Congratulations on those, sir. But back on topic — for whatever reason, I think I walked through more of his dreams than almost anybody else's — except for dying repeatedly that one time with the sorcerer doctor, but I'm not sure if that one counts.
It wasn't an eldritch being haunting his nightmares. It wasn't Freddie Krueger, it wasn't some abomination from the abyss, it wasn't sharks with lasers on their foreheads (Jerry). His nightmare was a man.
Hot Gollum woke up for the first time in the middle of the street on a deceptively sunny, pleasant day. At the time, I don't think anybody thought to question how he got there. Dreams are weird like that sometimes; things just are, you accept them, and you move on where the story leads you. This one apparently lead to an older man with curly salt-and-pepper hair, and the kind of vibe you'd expect from maybe a young grandpa, or an enigmatic recluse that owns a magic wardrobe or something.
"My boy!" he exclaimed, which really just kind of added to the whole young grandpa vibe. "My boy, fancy meeting you here!"
M did a pretty good job keeping himself together, it was some serious 'dignified protagonist inner-strength covering deep emotional distress' energy. It's the kind of impressive-yet-vulnerable look that people write fanfiction about. "What are you doing here?"
"I don't know," M. Senior seemed way too pleased about that. "But it's better than where I was, isn't it?"
Judging by M. Junior's face, no. Definitely not. As a matter of fact, it kind of seemed like it would be really, really unfortunate timing for any of M. Junior's friends to happen across the pair of them.
"Malcolm! Hey! Wanna hear this song I- uh..."
I just remembered his name. Sorry, Malcolm. In my defense, Jeff has a really memorable voice, so it kind of brings everything back a little more clearly.
Anyway, from the sound of it, whatever Jeff had been plucking out was really good, and definitely not Stairway to Heaven, which is always impressive in my book.
"Oh, you've been making friends, I see," and it's about this point where Grandpa M stops seeming so grandpa and starts seeming a little, like, crazy-eyes. "I'm Martin. Malcolm's dad."
Apparently his name's Martin, and man, I really need to get better about remembering names at the start of the story.
"Who might you be?" Which is one of those annoying rhetorical questions, because Martin didn't pause before diving straight into one of those rich-people burns, "I do appreciate your distinct lack of classism, son, befriending the homeless."
As a side note, having seen a lot of homeless people, Jeff didn't have nearly enough malt liquor or shopping carts for this to be a reasonable assumption to jump to.
"I, um. I'm Jeff." Which is way cooler than Martin deserved. The way it probably should have gone down is Jeff standing up, grabbing his dream-guitar by the neck, and playing T-Ball with Martin's head. As Jerry likes to say, though, 'hindsight's a 40.'
"Jeff's a musician. And he's not homeless; he works with me," Attractive G- Malcolm corrected, looking like he was seriously also considering the guitar t-ball idea.
"Ah," said Martin, "My mistake, what with all the sitting on the ground and the questionable personal hygiene. But I get another guess, right?" As far as I can tell, this guy must have never been to the south if he thinks that's what questionable hygiene looks like.
"Dr. Whitly," Malcolm cut in sternly, a note of warning in his tone.
"Not that there's anything wrong with begging, per se, but you have a job and you're not spending it on your wardrobe. Addict? Or do you have a sports car stashed somewhere? In which case I owe an unexpectedly ambitious young man an apology."
How a guy who's that big of an asshole could produce an offspring that attractive is completely beyond me. This is speaking from a completely unbiased place, by the way. I'm comfortable in my sexuality enough to confidently say it: that man is just plain-old good-looking.
"You owe him one anyway."
"I'm saving for a new guitar. For gigs, you know, like real gigs?" Jeff explained, scooping up the cash he earned presumably through sick guitar solos or acoustic covers of Sex and Candy in a fruitless but completely understandable attempt to bail the fuck out of that nope-fest. "It's okay, man. Dads ask questions. I get it."
"See, son? He gets it." Creeps McDadbod said, ambling up to invade Jeff's personal space way too closely. For a full second there I could've sworn he was going to go in for a kiss. "Pupils blown, flushed skin, I bet your heart is just racing."
Wishful thinking, I thought. Keep it in your pants.
Malcolm tried to cut in with a sharp, "Dr. Whitly-" only for Martin to pull out a knife the size of- well, the size of something bigger than you ever want pulled out on you, that's for sure. Malcolm tried to grab for it, but Martin knocked him away hard enough that the dude caught some serious air. Four out of five stars on Tony Hawk Pro-Skater 2.
"Don't pay any attention to my killjoy of a son," Martin said, presumably no pun intended because he's that brand of awful. "You need to know something about me. I like to take my time, but your racing heart makes that an... intriguing challenge."
At this point I couldn't help but start to feel some uncomfortable sympathy. I've got a stalker of my own back home. A couple of decades younger, but just as fucked up in the head. He's the entire reason I lost a finger and a leg, but those are... more stories for some other time.
"What are you-" Jeff started, before freezing and doing what looked like some quick mental math. In a completely relatable but totally regrettable move, Jeff shoved. It didn't accomplish much other than pissing Martin off more. He grabbed Jeff by the throat and pushed him back against the wall, digging the knife more deeply into his sternum.
"A display out on the street isn't really my style, but we all have to adapt to survive." Jeff tried to push and paw, fighting to the last breath even as Martin taunted him, giggling out, "No deeper than that. We're not carving a Christmas turkey. Hit the wrong organ and you'll bleed out in under a minute. We don't want that."
I'd like to point out here that people eat Turkey on Thanksgiving. Having Turkey again on Christmas seems like overkill, but that's just my opinion.
Jeff, in one last badass act of defiance, jerked Martin's hand up to gnash his teeth into the meat of his palm. He thrashed and clawed and bit like a fucking Wolverine — the animal, not Hugh Jackman — but all it really managed to accomplish was to ruin Martin's good time. The scuffle didn't last long.
Martin drove the knife into Jeff's stomach clean up to the hilt.
"By the time the contents of your colon get around to poisoning you, I'll have had my fun. So don't worry, this wound won't kill you," he taunted, shoving the knife in deeper, "You'll only wish it did."
The dream started to fade, and the last thing I heard was Jeff humming the chorus to Rhiannon.
None of it happened. Not really. I've seen both Jeff and Malcolm around since that dream, hallucination, whatever it was. It wasn't as massive in scale as an apocalypse, it wasn't as haunting as the vampires and zombies that tore everyone apart at the Halloween party.
But I think in some ways, it was scarier - because it was personal. Because it felt real. Because it doesn't really matter what world you're from, the possibility of something like that happening exists in all of them.
It exists in this one.
-Jack
( Blog submission by
abrightboy. If you have a story suggestion for Jack's blog, please swing over here! )
no subject
drop and go limp
Anesthesia doesn't even work, they had to give me twilight anesthesia when they chopped off my leg
no subject
have you tried like
hypnosis or something
now i just want to hit you and see what happens
no subject
I'd really rather you didn't. I can tell you what would happen:
I'd drop like a bitch and lay there blinking for a long time.
no subject
have you tried drugs
not stuff to make you see colors like the stuff that make you zone out like hell
stop me if youve tried all this and i sound like a mom telling you to drink tea for a broken bone
no subject
Seriously though, I've tried everything.
Literally everything.
Like, magical supernatural herbal holistic medical hallucinogenic everything.
no subject
you met a guy named caduceus yet? he's on my team and he has some good magic for weird shit.
maybe other worlds have the answer you're looking for
at the very least he makes really good tea.
no subject
Anyway, he hasn't actually tried, but I doubt it would do anything. A few people here from other worlds have tried, no dice.
no subject
[you know, it's... helpful.]