AW: Chippewa, Population: 202.

Retrospectives for 11/7!

Read em while they're hot



Same old, same old. Working under pressure to create something new when shit breaks down just like clockwork. Gonna need some… unique components soon. And I need to figure out what the hell my new doohickey does so I can modify it into something that pleases Vega before he completely unspools.

Nothing that can’t be handled in the long run. Unless things cascade again. Then I’ll be looking for a new holding. Again.


Life is good! Times are merry! With saddlebags full of gifts from the newly cold I come riding into town again! I’m on my way to find the new jury-rigging mechanical type dude up at Vega’s holding. If this goes the way I think it will it’ll mean work for the Jolly Raiders and some fixin’ up for the bikes!

On Jolly Raiders! On!

Retrospectives for 11/7!

What was I thinking? The maelstrom is the antithesis of all things ordered and good. Those who use weird are either already pathological, or end up corrupted by its influence. My life’s work has shown these things to be true, and yet I foolishly opened my mind. I am fighting the temptation to rationalize my actions as an experiment; a first-person opportunity for data gathering. However, I know better. One does not need to become a rapist to understand rape. In my moment of fear I succumbed to weakness. Unable to see other options I acted out of desperation. In that moment, I became no better than those twisted minds that would keep me caged. My only solace is the data I gained, and the knowledge that the maelstrom is every bit as chaotic and detrimental as I determined in my research.

With that said, I cannot properly process the data I did collect. Upon opening my mind to the psychic maelstrom, I seem to have had a hallucinatory experience. The heathen they call “Nipples” changed in my perception. I saw the illusion of metallic projections – not unlike battery terminals – protruding from his head. His demeanor had changed to something even more sinister. Rather than being an immoral, but simple brute, he appeared to be some kind of calculating and evil mastermind. He wore on his hand that damnable tool of brainers. I was unable to verify the reality of the situation, and can only assume that opening my mind elicited a hallucinatory response. Part of me (a very small part) almost wishes the brainer, Lively, were present. Despite the inevitable evils of being a brainer, he was an anomaly capable of some reasoned and rational judgment. If there were any weird user capable of interpreting the events I experienced, I believe it would be him.

Besides my ill-fated experience with the maelstrom, little of my situation has changed. I remain unaware of exactly how much time has passed, due to the confines of this basement. It has to be over a week that I have been isolated in this dark cage. I continue to be without food. Or, rather, I have finally been provided food that is untrustworthy and likely inedible. I refuse to risk consuming it. The end result is the same; extreme hunger pangs as my body metabolizes the last of my fat stores and begins to metabolize some muscle.

I dispatched my captor’s canine, but was injured in the process. I sustained significant puncture wounds from a bite. Having failed to successfully utilize the psychic maelstrom in defense, I was forced to dispatch my captor using brute force. After subduing him with my stun gun, I forcefully inserted an eating utensil through his left lacrimal bone into his frontal lobe. My hope was to destroy any of the prefrontal cortex, cerebral hemisphere, or cerebral arteries. I continued to repeat the procedure until I was certain that brain function had ceased. In summary, I killed both my captor and his guard dog. I feel as if the entire human race is better off with “Nipples” dead, but especially the women and children he kept, and this god-forsaken holding he plagued with his presence.

In conclusion, I remain captive against my will. I continue down the path of eventual starvation. In addition, I have dispatched one of the only two people I have witnessed to visit this basement. My odds of being found, or leaving here alive, have therefore decreased. I have no information on the fate of Trey or Rigger. I have no idea whether Vega’s illness has progressed or infected others in this holding. And finally, I will be dead shortly. Between the attack in the record stacks, the abuse at the hands of guards, Vega, and Nipples, and the wounds sustained killing both Nipples and his canine, I am in critical condition. It is my hope that I will succumb to blood loss rather than systemic infection. The former would be quicker and far less agonizing than the slow death of infection accompanied by fever, pain, and malaise.

…I wonder what’s become of Lively anyway…

Retrospectives for 11/7!

Drained by his day, Trey retired to his new sanctuary. He shoved his hand through the drapes. The “throne” of Christytown laid before him. Three chairs. Two steel folding chairs and one wooden clunker of a chair.

“So this is home,” Trey grumbled.

Free from the eyes of those incestuous McElroys, Trey vented as he normally did. Except this time, the target of his anger was not people but objects. Missing his old girl Matilda, he did good enough of a job with his fists, elbows and feet. After a good thirty seconds of giving the walls a shellacking, Trey slowed to a halt.

“Can’t move like I used to. Need an Angel, and all I got is a town full of skull crushing marrow drinkers.”

Trey angled up, and something behind the wall, exposed during his fury, caught his eye. Trey shoved the splintered boards to the side, and flicked his lighter on. The words on the poster hadn’t aged well, but he could make out the large text: COME RIDE THE SPINE SMASHER. The fragments of paper displayed a scene of an older age: families congregating to buy tickets for a large rollercoaster which pitched and danced along a crowded roadway. There was as many smiles there as pinpricks of pain Trey felt on his long walk from Jimmytown.

“The rollercoaster is long gone, but this whole place is still spinning.”

Besides The Fat Man, there hasn’t been much to get a focus in Christyville. The locals are bereft of common sense, and his frequent traveling companions have their fallen by the wayside or are under Vega’s thralls or worse.

Clicking his heels together, Trey began to murmur, “There ain’t no place like home.” After a few repetitions, Trey ceased his chant, his face locked in a mix of consternation and confusion. “Too bad, I can’t recall home should be.”

To Trey, home might not be a place. Home may be a moment in his travels where he feels at peace. Or, it may be when the lead is rolling and bodies are dropping, with the screams of dying foes willing the air. Either way, Trey knew this shit hole wasn’t it.

Retrospectives for 11/7!

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