The Tales of Center Valley saga continues here with GOTH Blog 2! Look no further if you are int he mood for something rather silly that is full of black nail polish, nerdy references, capes, teen drama and plenty of horrible poetry!
Previously in Goth Blog:
Goth Blog 1– Our hero Khaine introduces himself and his one true love Thorn. Alas, but the goth-queen Thorn does not return his affection and his attempt to woo her with a public poetry reading in their english class goes disastrously awry.
August 20th, 2006… I triumphantly reopen my black wings (of hate).
From time’s dark abyss I have returned! Though it has been more than half a year since I have posted in this unholy journal, fear not! I was not being roasted in the depths of a Slor. Nor had my dark lord and master Sathanas come to collect my long overdue soul. If the truth must be known, I had merely been typing in the wrong password on my live journal. I had been so sure that I had used the proper Quenyan form “Anar” until like a 20d6 lightning bolt it came upon me to try the more vulgar Sindarin form of the phrase “sacred_flame_of_Anor1990”. Suddenly, as if I had “spoken friend” I was back into my account! Oh the intricate subtleties of the Elvish language!
Now, as I perch at my keyboard, I realize that my return to the grey emptiness of the internet could not have come at a more fortuitous time! Like Countess Bathory upon the night preceding a great bloodfeast, I too tremble with anticipation of what the morrow brings.
Yes, as you may have guessed, tomorrow I begin my junior year of high school.
No longer a lowly sophomore, as a junior I will be a veritable lord of my school! But I shall save tomorrow’s exploits for tomorrow’s journal post. Let us now look back on the past six months and attempt to make up for lost time!
Where last my dark musings had dripped their ichor into your eager ears, I had been dealt a crushing blow at the hands of my one true love Thorn. Not only had she rejected my magnificent ode to our love, but she also refused to talk to me for the rest of the semester (though as I pointed out in my last post, I did detect a certain tenderness in her parting kicks). Still, with that black cloud of joy temporarily absent from my life I instead threw myself into my new job at the local Hot Topic. Sadly things did not go well there either, and by the end of the school year my crusade to switch the store lighting entirely to torchlight managed to get me fired.
This extra free time afforded me the opportunity to take up with a neighborhood LARP (Live Action Role Playing to the uninitiated) group. The members seem to meet irregularly and are a fair deal younger than myself. Their campaign setting is not my first choice, it seems to be some type of Steampunk world they call “cowboys and Indians”. I eventually quit their group due to their complete disregard for hit points and encounter levels–that and their insistence on constantly “roping” me with their crude lariats. On one particularly unfortunate night it was two hours before I could convince my younger sister and her giggling friends who had happened upon me to untie me from the veritable tree of woe I had been bound to.
I am at least proud to say that I have convinced my mother to let me move my bedroom to the basement, whose already oppressive walls I shall soon paint a deep fulligan black (provided I can convince my mother to such a bold interior decoration undertaking). My first order of business however, was to turn the boxes marked “X-Mas ornaments – keep!” towards the wall. There are few things less grim than a constant reminder of the holiday season. Still, these new quarters shall be a far more fitting abode to a sunlight hating mountain orc such as myself.
And now the hour grows late…I must away (to bed), ere break of day, to seek the pale enchanted gold that is my junior year of high school!
August 20th, 2006…Curse ye insomnia my old friend!
Why must the great minds be forever cursed with sleepless nights? I had only just finished my last post scant hours ago, and now, at this late hour when only the most foul things lurk the shadowy recesses of the night, my mind must hearken the call to join them.
At least in these long restless nights I am afforded an opportunity to arrange my turmoiled thoughts beneath the cruel tip of my quill (I only write with an authentic quill pen I purchased from a local renaissance fair…except for the time I was forced to write out my absinthe fueled ravings with a decidedly less-than-unholy pink sparkle pen that had mysteriously replaced my precious quill pen. I suspect everyone and no one for that juvenile prank).
Still, I will use these sleepless hours to continue work on my epic ode to Bjoernne Jormungandssone, the lost Viking. I am about 3900 lines in to what will ultimately be a 10,000 line epic poem of lust, battle and adventure. I have never reproduced any of it in my journal, but here is a brief transcription of what I have written tonight:
RIME OF THE LOST VYKYNG (a sylyction)
Bjoernne sailed the storm swypt seas, || seeking hys rune-sworde,
that graven grief-maker, || guarded by daemons.
Fyve score fortnights dyd fall, || err he found their isle,
a wycked woe-bourne place, || whose keep loomed hostyle.
Thus dyd Bjoernne beach hys boat, || boldly on the shore,
And with caution he crepte || to the castle gate.
‘Daemon’s disbar thys door!’ || the doom-mete-er cryed.
‘Please pass proud quest-seeker,’ || the pure voices replied.
Bjoernne entered and exclaimed, || ‘Egad you’re womyn!’
‘true, sword-thief’ they tittered, || ‘and our toll be flesh’
Bjoernne payd heed to their hynt, || and hearkened their call,
Although they wyre almost, || too awestruck to balle.
Though nyne hundred nynety, || they numbered in count,
Bjoernne quickly quieted, || their quivering lust.
Ravaged and rejoicing, || they returned hys sworde,
And vict’rus he vanquished, || the vagynal horde.
As you can see, this is no jester’s tale. The writing has been no easy task given my choice to use a rare dialect of lower middle English as my written medium. But the further adventures of the lost Viking will have to wait for a non school night. I finally hear the raven of sleep tap tapping at my window. Oblivion, I await your embrace!
August, 21st, 2006…My heart has been pierced by the Nazgul’s blade.
A day that had dawned with so much promise now lies sullied at my feet. My dark angel Thorn, demon among women, has joined the junior varsity fighting cougar pep squad over the summer.
It is as if the blackness has been sucked out of my very soul.
In my sorrow I tried to write a simple rhyming couplet to express my feelings:
The darkness is falling, masking the sun’s orange.
All will be….
I, Skald of Satan’s Sun, destroyer of worlds with my poetic verse, wielder of the blood forged Poemhammer, can not even figure out how to complete the couplet. Have my Etrigan-like powers of rhyme deserted me? Why did Thorn do it? Why is the world so cruel? Why is anything anything?
I can not bear to write any longer. If only my mom would finish doing her load of laundry so that I might retreat to the solitude of my dungeon abode.
August 28th, 2006…Such sorrow was not meant to be bourne.
A week has passed and I have yet to find the bottom of my endless well of sadness, sorrow, unhappiness and despair (and melancholy depression).
Oh why couldn’t this have happened to my loathsome brother Chet instead? If only his “girlfriend”, Margo, would dye her hair that subtle shade of Black No. 1 and start borrowing my Switchblade Symphony albums to listen to in solitude. Then he too would feel the pain of confronting a love that you hardly recognize. If nothing else, his oafish friends might be distracted from their cruel sport of playing “catch the cape” during passing periods.
It is a pain far worse than the agony of Beren in the jaws of Carcharoth to see Thorn’s brittle locks bleached blond and no longer their unholy black. Even worse, her lips and nails are adorned with a garish red varnish that causes my twisted soul to summon forth a great she-shriek of despair.
As for her new crowd of friends…the less I think of them the better. A more venomous flock of harpies can only be found in the ranks of the varsity Cheerleading squad, for which I might thank Mephisto for small miracles that Thorn did not choose for herself that ultimate degradation! Still, how could the hollow “school spirit” and “pep” that unites her to her squad be any match for the unholy bond of pure hatred that we once shared? It is a question we are all asking ourselves, and one that I have no answer to in this dark hour.
What I am feeling is perhaps best expressed with this, my latest ode to all that is sorrowful:
THE CRYING ORC
Baseborn am I, servant of the dark,
To toil unceasing, in eternal thralldom.
Never to rest, before the red mark,
I trudge on through the night, my soul weary and numb.
My thoughts fall back, to a time long past,
When I walked with Glargha, upon Nurnen’s dark shores.
Frenzied couplings, carnage unsurpassed,
What was and what could be, lost to the Dark Lord’s wars.< I>< I>
Now as I march, chasing the battle scent,
I wish that Glargha too, had taken up her spears.
But twasn’t to be, and so she was sent,
To fill the breeding pit, while I shed my black tears.
And now I hear my mother calling for dinner. I shall eat my chicken fried steak. But I shall not enjoy it.
October 16th, 2006…Oh most inglorious of days!
I have not written in a fair while, I have no tongue for it. But today, a day which shall heretofore be known as Black Monday, my suffering has reached its peak and my sorrow turned into a gale of pure baleful anger.
The day started like any other day with my first period gym class. Given the choice between playing flag football or running laps, I chose my usual bit of token resistance and eschewed participating in their mindless games. They can laugh all they want, but I take solace in the thought of what would surely be a laughable performance where they to participate in even the most basic of my Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. I titter to no end thinking of the havoc I would wreak with their inefficient multiclassing attempts and laughable understanding of the grapple rules. But I digress. My black cape provided scant protection from what turned out to be a sweltering day, and by the end of the period my corpse-paint had become streaked beyond acceptability.
I was forced to do the unthinkable and enter that dank pit of horror known only as “the shower room”. With the cold stench of mildew emanating from the wet shower room walls, I pulled my sopping cape tightly about me, trying to finish the shower quickly without imagining what manner of fetid oozes, jellies and molds lurked in the tiled shadows.
But then, dear journal, it happened. I can scarcely bring my thin, quivering fingers to type the words. Todd Berkfeld, that testosterone experiment gone awry, whose name shall from this day forward be anathema, entered the shower. I had decided to leave as soon as he entered with his junior varsity basketball team cronies, but as I was making my way through the now familiar gauntlet of towel snaps (whose sting was lessoned considerably by my long cape) I heard it.
Todd, that wanton Bluebeard among neckbeards, loudly proclaimed to his tittering oafs of friends that within a fortnight he would make the fabled beast with two backs with my dear Thorn!
It is at times like these when that $12 buy-it-now battle mace on ebay calls to be purchased as if it were the one ring. But revenge is a dish best served lukewarm, so I shall visit you, my dear readers, in 6 watches with a clear mind and a heart full of pestilence.
October, 17th, 2006…My mighty wrath shall be felt!!!
I woke as a new person today. My rage has not abated, but my purpose is now clear. This is no longer about Todd Berkfeld’s flesh-bound appetites, it is not even about Thorn, that gossamer winged devil who has the unholy beauty of a million exploding suns. As I awoke, hissing at the sun’s first tentative rays, I realized that this has become, how shall I say it, a matter of stones. My stones.
Though as black and shriveled as my soul, my most masculine bits, ask–nay–DEMAND that I ignore their presence no longer. If Thorn would willingly consecrate her body in such a vile, pep-filled manner; if Thorn would willingly consent to making the two backed beast with that shambling bugbear Todd; if these sad facts be true, the perhaps she was not the one I envisioned for myself. Though it pains me to admit this, perhaps she is no different than “the others”.
So let them play their filthy games, I care not any longer. What is this you ask? Will such a debased herd go unpunished for their debasery? Nay, a thousand times nay. I may pine no longer, but mine shall be the god-sword of vengeance cleansing the filth from the streets of Sodom and Gomorrah. Except I shall be all that is impure and vile while the streets I clean shall be already clean and thus become unclean in my cleaning! (again, I must stress that mine shall not be the side of the righteous despite what I increasingly realize was a poor choice of analogies). All shall know my wrath, this tis no selective retribution!
At this point, I should add a special note to the meddling Mrs. Grubbenheimer. If you attempt to activate the emergency response school-shooting/terrorist threat contingency plan that was set into motion the last time you blundered into my online journal…I will BURN OUR SCHOOL TO THE GROUND. And no, I do not mean that phrase literally, and it does not go against my agreement with the centurions you called in from the fourth district. I simply mean that profiling is no less serious of a crime than “obliteration of evildoers”, and if you can not see past my cape and corpse paint, then perhaps you should be relieved of your duties as school guidance counselor.
So, no, none shall perish under my swath of destruction. But I shall say this. On All Hallow’s Eve a fortnight from now, the fighting cougar fall royalty homecoming pep rally shall run red with pig’s blood as I stand before the entire school as mighty Sathanas himself to pronounce my judgment upon the infidels. I care not any longer what Thorn may choose to do with herself. And all shall know it.
For fear of prying eyes, I can not divulge any further details of my master plan. But a plan is hatching and it promises to be masterful. I have composed the following to give my loyal readers a taste of the carnage to come as I spend the next two weeks preparing for my mightiest hour (the main inspiration for this latest product of striking Poemhammer to anvil is from my second favorite movie of all time in the world ever):
VILLANELLE FOR A/ALL VILLAIN(S)
As it is above, so it is below,
Retribution comes to those who deserve.
Vengeance shall be mine, so sayeth The Crow.
Wrath begets justice, meted out in woe;
The cycle goes on, an unending curve.
As it is above, so it is below.
Greatsword at my hip, seeds of death to sow,
So I proceed with unfaltering nerve.
Vengeance shall be mine, so sayeth The Crow.
The end a graveyard, where the cold winds blow,
Tis always the same, the wise will observe.
As it is above, so it is below.
Blood will run crimson, in the frozen snow,
As I smite all with great malice and verve.
Vengeance shall be mine, so sayeth The Crow.
The time has come for this great debt I owe
Enemies to crush, honor to preserve.
As it is above, so it is below,
Vengeance shall be mine, so sayeth The Crow.
Again, Mrs. Grubbenheimer (if you are reading this…which I doubt), I hope for our school’s legal council’s sake that I shall not be subjected to another SWAT team concussion grenade upon arriving at school grounds in the morning.
October 31st, 2006…On this day I became a man.
Such stories I have to tell dear readers. My head is still reeling for the day’s events; perhaps I should just start at the unfortunate beginning and let my tale unfold from there. I would advise the faint of heart to remain seated as they read. This is a story for only the doughtiest of constitutions (I would hazard to guess we are talking in the 16-17 (+3) range at least).
To begin, my fortnight’s silence in this journal had not been spent idly. My diabolical plan had been formulated completely and I fell to sleep each night giggling like a young demon in an offal shop thinking of its brilliance.
In the middle of the All Hallow’s Eve pep assembly, when the screaming sheep had reached the peak of their hysteria I would reveal myself from my hiding place in the coaches’ box as a fearful apparition of vengeance and make my sneering contempt known to all through a mighty manifesto of derision. Then, as the grand finale for what would surely be my most devastating speech I would upend a great cauldron of pig’s blood upon the student body, directing the crimson tide as Moses before the Red Sea. (Though, by Moses, I do not mean…well, not like Moses actually.) I would affect my escape through a great cloud of brimstone while the unholy cacophony of Slayer’s “Raining Blood” (for truly the halls of my high school would be raining blood that day I can tell you!) shattered eardrums in my wake. I had thought to use my recorder for my exit music instead, but though mighty in its own way, its dulcet tones did not seem quite mighty enough for such a great moment.
Take a minute to calm your beating hearts dear readers…for alas, all was not to go as smoothly as I had hoped.
In the first compromise of what would turn out to be a plan riddled with compromises, I was unable to find even a meager quantity of pig’s blood. I would like to take a second to express my irritation with the cur behind the counter at Petco who would not even deign my question as to the amount of pigs needed to yield 50 gallons of blood with a response. From a quick visual estimate of their pot bellied pig selection, it would have been out of my price range regardless. So sadly I was forced to substitute that ambrosial nectar of the gods, cherry kool-aide, instead. But fear not, I included a devilishly small amount of sugar to my mixture…none would partake of its full sweet delights at the pep assembly if I could help it!
The next bone of disappointment was my inability to find a suitable cauldron to hold my improvised pig’s blood. The closest vessel large enough for my purposes was my younger sister Chloe’s “Sponge Bob Squarepants: Squidward’s Underwater Adventure” kiddie pool. Though not quite the artistic style I was looking for, it afforded me the inspiration (and Cthonic imagery) to also bring my younger sister’s “Pinkie the Littlest Octopus” Halloween costume into my daemonic master plan. Truly I would be the very madness inducing visage of Cthulu himself as I read my carefully prepared manifesto from beneath its writhing tentacles.
As for my manifesto, it practically wrote itself. 17 pages of bile filled diatribe against all that was holy, I shivered with excitement at each added page as I imagined the entire student body frozen in terror at my words. Not just shaken or frightened, they would truly be panicked, cowering before me with no place to run (as per the rules on page 294 of the 3.5 Dungeon Master’s guide).
The implementation of my smoke filled exit to Slayer’s Raining Blood also proved problematic. As my boombox currently had a blown speaker (from blasting my Switchblade Symphony cd in when a particularly reckless mood struck me over the weekend) and I did not want to repeat last year’s debacle with my younger sister’s “Barbie Beach Party” boombox, I was at a loss as to what sound system I would use. Dark salvation came in the form of my mom’s kitchen mp3 mini system. I could not find Raining Blood as one of its pre-programmed songs, but miracle of miracles, it did happen to have Morbid Angel’s most unholy Chapel of Ghouls in its memory! My mother does occasionally impress me with her musical taste (we have seen eye to eye in our love for Dead Can Dance and Enya in the past as well).
With the music set, a proper method of smoke production continued to elude me. All inquiries into smoke machines led to rentals far out of my budget. One final time I was forced to turn to the possessions of Chloe, my younger sister. Her “Barbie Beach Party” bubble machine, while conspicuously pink, at least produced a dazzling spray of mostly unholy bubbles with which to mask my escape. While not perfect it would have to do.
I now ask you dear reader, what could go wrong with such a flawless plan? Though the answer may astonish you, I must reply, “everything”.
It all started so well. I sat crouching in the coach’s box with my great cauldron of “pigs blood” at the ready. As the teachers gathered beneath my perch for a preliminary “outstanding service in teacher’s lounge kitchen duty” awards ceremony, the disastrous hand of fate struck. My sister’s Spongebob kiddie pool, filled with far more Cherry Kool-Aid than it was designed for, split a seam and burst. The blood tide swept past me, carrying my carefully prepared manifesto with it as it cascaded over the crowd of teachers arrayed below me.
I pride myself in being able to keep a cool head in times of crisis, and knowing that my scheme had been fatally injured I attempted to salvage what little I could. I strode to the head of the coach’s box intending to make a sanity check inducing Cthonic appearance while the fearsome lyrics of Morbid Angel’s Chapel of Ghouls (truly, “Demons…attack with hate! / Satan…in the fires of Hell awaits!” would make “the turtle’s head” appear on even the most devout priest!) trumpeted my arrival!
Abject humiliation was again to be mine as I discovered that the “CHAPEL_OF” that appeared on the miniature song selection screen apparently stood not for “Chapel of Ghouls”, but rather for “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups, a band decidedly less unholy than Morbid Angel.
Thus it was that, as the audience stood frozen (not in panicked fear, but more a stunned confusion), I was forced to make my escape through a surprisingly puny hail of bubbles while the soul sucking lyrics: “Spring is here, th-e-e sky is blue, whoa-oh-oh…” played on in the background.
I have never been more humiliated.
And yet, in my darkest hour, that fickle wytch lady luck decided to smile upon me. Learning from past mistakes, my guant frame and prototype breakaway cape (a smashing success in its trial run) left Mr. Robinson the gym teacher blowing his whistle in vain as I slipped behind the bleachers and out the emergency exit. Also, as I would later find out, my “Pinkie the Littlest Octopus” costume cast just enough uncertainty as to my identity that the principle was unable to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that I was the one who had doused the teachers (in what the students are now calling “operation Moses”–much to my chagrin) with barely sweetened Cherry Kool-Aid.
Of course, I care not for their ineffectual punishments, the escape from suspension (or as I call it, “freedom”) being more of a disappointment than cause for celebration. But my good fortune was only just beginning. As I attempted to sneak my way back to the pep assembly haven of A/V club while roving bands of cherry-gore spattered teachers searched for their mystery assailant, who did I come across? None other than Thorn, my one and only.
There she sat, hair freshly dyed blacker than the blackest black, her now copious eyeliner smeared with tears. Astonished at such emotion from so grim a soul, I forgot my anger. My mind is still reeling over the ensuing conversation, but as near as my muddled senses can recall this is how it went:
She had decided she wanted nothing more to do with “the others” after hearing of Todd Berkfeld’s boorish promises and had quit the pep squad that very day. What is more, she had just seen my attempted assault on all that was decent and thought it was “a pretty cool prank.” (!) Then, in a turn of events that still makes my head swim, she said that if I did everything she told me, never disagreed with anything she said and didn’t tell anyone at school she would finally consent to be my dark mistress.
Yes dear readers, all past transgressions from my beloved were forgiven in an instant, for I now have a girlfriend. On this day I became a man.
That’s it for now, but Goth Blog will return in “Goth Blog 3 – Love Does Not Come Free“!