Pandemonium: Chapter Four: Refuse/Resist!

by Mark Anthony Pritchard (aka Rorshach)



Everything has changed.

'Get up.’ I screamed, as the creatures lurched into the room, dog-like paws grasping the window sill, lifting their large bodies through the battered frame, and revealing the hirsute forms behind the terrible eyes that had awoken me to their presence.

The creatures were different in form to the troglodyte monsters of my first night, but just as terrible. Seven feet (at least) in height, emanating a wet dog scent that I dimly recall from a brutalised memory of my life before this, standing on two crooked legs, the creatures formed a wall of assault, and prepared to attack.

Waking at my cry of warning, the sleeping people reacted as they did on the first night, and began to scramble for cover, heading towards the main door in the room. The beasts, angry at my warning cry, let them flee, and immediately set their sights upon me, striding awkwardly on two crooked canine legs towards my supine location on the damp mattress, their intent was murder, and I was to be their prey.

But, just as my bloody and violent demise seemed imminent, something most peculiar began to manifest itself, a sense of defiance that came from a place that I still cannot locate.

Whereas before, when confusion and fear took hold of me, and I ran with the others, this time, I refused to fly into the night, and instead made the immediate decision to stand my ground, and fight back against the intruders.

Why I chose such a seemingly suicidal course of action, I do not know, but my mind was made up. I would fight, and I would fight to the death. I would not run, and I would not cower in fear. I was going to take them down, one bloody beast at a time.

As amazing as it might sound, this is what happened next.

The first beast threw itself at me with the force of Armageddon unleashed, aiming for my throat, but in doing so took it’s eyes away from the pencil that I still held in my right hand, which I used to devastating effect. Side stepping it’s awkward, blood-crazed lunge, I deftly pivoted my bodyweight backwards, then violently forwards, thrusting the pencil through it’s left eyeball, a strike that elicited a howl of rage from the surprised beast, that rocked the room to it’s very foundations.

With the beast writhing on the floor, incredulous in pain that it had never suspected would be forthcoming, it’s comrades, equally shocked, howled to the ceiling in a gnashing wail of rage that spoke of utter surprise.

This was not supposed to happen.

Why was one of the victims fighting back?

Surveying the room, as my fellow refugees continued to flood through the door, and the motionless beasts slobbered and growled in stilted incomprehension, the one thing on my mind was, find a weapon, and use it, now.

There it was, on the floor, exactly what was required, a plank of wood, four feet long, and a discarded old T-shirt.

With a surge of aggression thundering through my body, a jolt of electric life that thrilled me more than I could ever possibly describe, I took the plank of wood, wrapped the shirt around it, and lit the cloth with the candle at my bedside. With fiery implement in hand, and with the beasts dithering with indecision, I set to the pack, determined to press home my early advantage.

The first beast, howling on the floor at the treatment I had dealt out, was my initial focus of attack. The thing was wounded, not deceased, and death had to be dealt out, as a warning to them all. Mess with me, and I will leave you dead on the floor, a bloody corpse of permanent extinction. That was the message, and I was the perfect vehicle of delivery.

Kicking the fallen form of the wounded beast square in the groin, a strike that elicited a squeal of complete surrender, causing it to squirm over onto it’s belly, I thrust the flaming torch directly onto it’s hairy back, and stepped back to enjoy the result.

The monster burst immediately into flames, creating a bonfire effect that illuminated the entire room in bright light, a fiery spectacle accompanied by deafening screams of the dying beast, a death cry rattle warning it’s brethren of what was to come if they continued their attack.

As the creature burned, a rage enveloped me, a ferocious frenzy that is beyond explanation, a blood-lust of violence for the pure sake of violence, and a desire to smash and burn until nothing was left.

Screaming my battle cry, a genetic memory from another time, another life, another existence, the beasts, seeing the madman roar before their fallen comrade, completely unafraid, began to back away. My immediate instinct was to charge, and so I did, straight at them, six awful beasts versus one ferociously determined man.

It was no contest.

Discarding all concern for their fallen soldier, the creatures panicked into a hasty and ill-disciplined retreat, and began to fall back out of the very window where they had made their initial incursion.

Shrieking, crying, punching and beating each other, they were a routed army in full desperate flight, it was each beast for itself. Comradeship vanished, and the desperate need to run and hide was now, finally, being experienced by the predators themselves.

Watching their retreat was not an option, and I chased after them, determined to wreak my violence upon them once again, which I did, catching one of the beasts as he fell onto the ground. With it’s large muscular arms raised in terrified surrender, I refused all notions of mercy and thrust my flame encased receptacle straight through it’s mouth, staking it into the muddy ground, as I roared my final victory song at it’s fast retreating, escaping troop.

Now, an hour later, with the adrenaline of battle slowly subsiding, I sit comfortably in the centre of the same room, two dead predators cooking on a bonfire outside, a meaty feast for my hungry human companions, and everything has changed.

The people, individuals no more, they want to talk to me now.

They have wanted for me to talk to me for a while, but first, they must wait, as I write, and record, the great victory of today.

In a few short sentences my pencil shall go down. The pencil is a weapon, and the lesson here is to use it well. There is blood on my hand, on the page, and my rage is simmering down. It is time to address my tribe, and this is what I shall tell them.

When attacked, you do not retreat, and scurry away as individuals to be picked off by the advancing tribe. Do so, and you lose, and losing is no longer an option, not here, not now that I am fully awake. The time for retreating is over, now is the time to attack.

I look now upon this bloody stump of pencil, extracted from the eye of a dead monster, and finish the final line of my journal, before the speech is made.

It’s time to talk to my men, to feast on beasts, find lieutenants, and plan for the next stage of our joint operation. For together we REFUSE to lose, and together we violently, aggressively, triumphantly RESIST.

Pandemonium

Part 1- Whisper in the Darkness 

by Mark Anthony Pritchard (aka Rorshach)



I woke with orders screamed into my ears, ‘Get out, get out, get out,’ and before I knew what to do, where I was, or who I was, I obeyed.

Terror makes you do that, follow orders, blindly, unthinkingly, as the genetic instinct to preserve body, heaven let us not speak of the soul, kicks in, and we the animal, care only, for the moment, and the potential for pain, or worse, to come.

Cold and naked, I scrambled for my clothes, found them on the dark floor, put them on, haphazardly, my jeans loose without a belt, and my T-shirt inside out, shoeless, adrenaline crazed I cared for nothing but escape.

I saw a light, and that was my destination, helped along by the screamed cries that beckoned me to follow, already distant as they rushed ahead to save themselves, but from what?

I was shortly about to find out.

A drumbeat of terror enveloped the room in further alarm, as screams of the unfortunate cried for mercy, their location the floor below my own, and I ran, finding myself heading towards an open window, a fire-escape, with steel steps leading to the rain-soaked pavements on the ground below.

Searching for that initial voice of warning, hoping for recognition, a friend, anybody, I found nothing but scurrying human forms, wet hair, panic, the people half-naked, like myself, falling over themselves in a desperate bid to escape.

A lady in front of me, aged and weak, crumpled to the floor, and, to my eternal shame, I did nothing to help, but stepped over her prone form, throwing myself down the rusty steps, and the haven of potential safety below.

Hitting the wet pavement bare feet bleeding and sore, guilt kicked-in, and I paused, for a second, and turned back, thinking of the fallen lady, only to witness a vision of the horror that we were escaping from, and as self-preservation returned, I turned again, and shamefully, ran.

I did not get very far.

Inexplicably, my legs began to fail me, and the paralysis of fear was fast shutting me down. Freezing up, I searched for a place to hide, quickly, and found one, fifty yards from the building, behind a dumpster spewing a stench of rotting meat, a vantage point where I will shiver in fear, and watch as events unfold.

From behind my rank hiding place I see the squat dark shadows of our pursuers emerge from the building, and feel a sense of almighty relief when instead of descending the metal steps to pursue us further on the ground below, they remain, stationary, on top.

From the high vantage point of the fire escape stairs, their yellow eyes briefly scan the darkness below, piercing white beams from soul-less orbs lighting up the murky streets below, but they miss me, their scan being merely perfunctory, and they turn their attention to their captured, elderly prey.

Shivering in the wet gloom, the cold rain splattering painfully through my barely dressed form, confused by remnants of sleep that have morphed into a world of horror that is all too real, my attention is immediately fixated upon the nature of the creatures themselves.

There is a simian aspect to their forms, standing as they do, on two legs, their bulky torsos leaning forward, with unnaturally long arms that almost touch the ground, muscular appendixes that seem designed for pursuit on all-fours, at tremendous speeds that are beyond human capacity.

In colour they were black, unclothed, as the beasts that they are, and as the rain fell on their broad shoulders and backs, the moonlight revealed a fur-like texture, almost a coat, but patch-bare, like a moulting animal suffering from a terminal disease.

Two of them were on the floor, securing their elderly prey, one at her neck, the other at her feet, holding not to kill, but to control. They appeared to be waiting, and I could heard strange grunted conversation emanating from the four creatures that circled around their grounded companions, discussing something perhaps, but in a form of language that was unrecognisable from anything that I have ever heard before.

As the horrifying pursuit lulled into a temporary lull, a flash of lightning crashed through the dark night sky, and for one horrifying moment I saw the facial features of one of the creatures clearly, the horror enough to drive a sane man into unrecoverable madness.

How to describe such figures of inhuman cruelty? How to convey the monstrous aspects of the form that I was witness to? How to describe what surely cannot be described?

Heaven preserve my sanity as I try to reconstruct, in mere words alone, the grotesque horror that was revealed to me by that strike from the heavens.

The face, that appeared black as night in the shadows, was as pale as death in the light of electric revelation. Hairless on top, bulbous of frontal lobe, the eyes were set cruelly deep, black orbs with pins of fiery damnation burning with a hell-fire intensity of nihilism realised. The mouth was too big for the face, stretching from stubbed ear to stubbed ear, a wicked joker grin of malicious intent, lined with jagged fangs, teeth designed to rip and tear. The nose was that of a tracker, large, drooping downwards, designed to sniff, hunt down, and capture the scent of it’s prey. But as demonic as the face indeed was, there was something all-too recognisably human about it as well. Perched atop the body of a simian monster, with eyes and mouth of intense cruelty, it was the smirk on the face that scared me the most, as it was a scarred reminder that the most sinister and evil creature in existence, is, often-times, as history shows, humanity itself.

Swallowing down the urgent need to vomit, I steadied my nerves, and struggled to regain my composure in the wet filth of waste, the stench becoming a background inconvenience as the horror before me continued to unfold.

My initial theory, that the monsters, for monsters they most certainly were, had paused for the arrival of a higher authority, was confirmed in an instant. Another figure, with a body like the rest, only larger, emerged from the shadows of the building, barked what had to be orders at the standing members of the group, and approached the grounded figure of the elderly lady, still held securely in place by two of the creatures.

Releasing their grip on the lady, the two creatures nodded in supplication to their commander, and returned to the building, leaving just two forms at the top of the fire-exit, the largest monster of them all, and an elderly human who I could now hear was gently sobbing in fear.

Seeing just the two of them there, something akin to my old courage began to manifest, and I felt anger rising within me, and the urge to rush back up the metal steps, and engage the creature in hand to hand, mortal combat.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ whispered a voice from behind me, anticipating my desire to intervene, and I turned to see the face of a child, a young girl of no more than ten-years of age, blonde of hair, and inexplicably fierce of attitude and demeanour.

Her lack of fear instantly confused me, and I was about to question her when a terrible scream erupted from atop the fire escape. Turning back, expecting to see the bloody demise of a human being that I had stepped over just minutes before, I instead was witness to a bizarrely supernatural spectacle that was too unreal to be real.

Electricity concentrated in a circular form around the elderly lady, and she floated high in the air, twenty yards above the kneeling figure of the monstrous creature, on it’s knees now, it’s long arms raised high in what appeared to a religiously inspired supplication to a power greater than itself.

In a language of guttural moans, screams and impishly malign evil incantations, the creature offered up the suspended human sacrifice, with a voice that rose and rose and rose, until finally, an answer for what must have been cries for recognition, arrived.

Invisible evil screeched through the black, rain drenched night sky, creating a white noise din of terror that knocked me back from the safety of my observation post. The impact upon the suspended lady was as a hammer on a fly, terminating the electric charge that surrounded her, as all trace of the lady herself disappeared into the ether of the night.

Stillness hit the cold air, as some unspeakable deed had been completed. The monster at the top of the steps paused, roared a deep sigh of self-satisfaction, and re-entered the building.

Paralysed by fear, my body fast shutting down in frozen disbelief, I felt a small hand on my shoulder, and turned to see the face, once again, of a fearless young girl.

‘Come on mister,’ she snapped, a chord of irritation in her tone, ‘Sort yourself out mate, it’s time to go.’

Pandemonium is an ongoing series. Part Two will be released next week. If you enjoyed the story, please share on social media. Thank you.

THE DEATH OF BATMAN

I read, and review comic books, and if there’s one term that succinctly sums up what going on with the entire mainstream comic book industry today, it is the term ‘Global-Homo.’


Here me out. Don’t get triggered. I have something to say. You can call me a bigot later, and I will get to Batman, but I need to define my term first. ‘Global-Homo’ is a term used to categorise, broadly speaking, the mainstream progressive entertainment and news propaganda complex.

It is not about hating on homosexuality. It’s about triggering the mainstream institutionalised, establishment left, and calling them out for what they are actually doing.

So, what are they doing on Global-Homo? Lots of things, and they’re all degenerate, and none of it is good for you, your family, and most importantly, your children.

One of the major projects of Global-Homo is to subvert traditional male/female gender roles. This is being done under the guise of equality, but is actually about lowering the birth rates of people of European ancestry. The propaganda of Global-Homo pushes the cucking of white males, turning them into beta-male losers, and advocates for the career advancement of non-breeding white females. The men will have their computer games and porn, and the women will have their precious careers. Homosexuality alone cannot lower the birth-rate enough because homosexuality itself is not quite as common as Global-Homo likes to make out, so it’s the cucking of males and empowerment of masculine femininity that’s the key here.

Convince the men to play second fiddle to their women, and convince the women that they don’t need men at all, that a career can replace the joys of motherhood and traditional family life. This is Global-Homo, and it’s a genetic attack on the future of white, western civilisation. If there are no children, no families, no husbands and wives, there is no future.

Why are they doing this, and what is the end-goal here?

It’s about control. White men are a problem, because an increasingly large number of them are stubbornly rejecting Global-Homo programming. It appears that the supposed patriarchal oppressors (aka working class, blue collar white men) just won’t go along with the propaganda, and that’s a real problem to the hidden masters of the world. So, how do you sort out the stubborn individuals that refuse to accept open-border (not for Israel, obviously) multicultural, race-mixed utopianism?

Simply put, if they can’t be convinced to go along with the programme, then you just have to get rid of them, which leads me to the death of Batman.

Batman is a problem because Bruce Wayne wins with smarts, determination, training and toughness. He wins because he works harder, thinks harder, fights harder. That kind of guy, yeah he’s rich, but he’s just a guy with no super-powers, might encourage the little white boys to strive, to be better, to be a hero and to do things for themselves. Independence, self-determination and an ethos of hard graft, pain and toil has to be nipped at the bud. Global-Homo is about the communist adherence to universalism over meritocracy, about mediocrity over excellence, so the hard-working, tough guy Batman is a huge problem. Bruce Wayne, like Wolverine, a character who Marvel is currently (reluctantly) resuscitating from the dead, is simply put, too independently masculine to be allowed on the comic book plantation today.

But how do you destroy a character like Batman? The fans wouldn’t like it, and no, they wouldn’t. That’s why Marvel has been forced to bring Wolverine back, they demanded it. Apparently his replacement, a teenage girl called Laura, just wasn’t cutting it. DC, perhaps learning from Marvel’s policy of replacing the straight white men with Mary-Sue female characters, has been a lot smarter than their rivals. You don’t kill off the independent masculine striver. You just kill off his character instead. Add soy, as Ethan Van Sciver would say, and the masculine man becomes somewhat less masculine than he used to be.

Buy any DC Batman book today, and you’ll see what I’m talking about. You’ll see a man who looks like Batman, but is anything but.

Bruce ‘Batman’ Wayne, as written today, is a limp, weak, angst ridden, pathetic, progressive, soy boy, lost-boy, beta-male cuck who wants nothing more than to fade into the shadows, and hand over the reigns of control.

Read a Batman story, any of them, and you will see, that no matter who the writer is, from Tom King, to Scott Snyder, to James Tynion IV, to Bryan Hill, or even Sean Murphy, that Batman is the least important character in every single book.

Global-Homo Batman has become a passenger in his own life story, and he will consistently stand-down, and allow the heroic victim groups on Global-Homo, to do the work that he used to do.

Bruce Wayne has become a stand-in for the progressive writers’ view of themselves. Their role, as they see it, is to act as facilitators of a new, non-white, non-masculine future. They write Batman as a shell of what he used to be, because he is the past, obviously, well, he’s a straight white man, isn’t he? Why write about the past? Why write about old white guys? Write about the future, a future that looks just the city that we live in. It’s great. It’s progressive. Don’t forget to double lock the front door, and don’t walk alone late at night.

Batman is dead, and DC killed him, deliberately, because he is white, because he is male, because he’s the past.

How can we change this? How can we breathe new life into Bruce Wayne, and make Batman great again?

I’ve got some bad news for you. We cannot change this. Batman is on the Global-Homo plantation, and he is going to stay there for the rest of his undead-life. DC has hired many different writers to portray him, and in the vast majority of the books he’s a cucked beta male loser, the past, yesterday’s news, anachronistic, a facilitator for the diverse replacements that will progressively, and rightfully take his place.

Just look at the last issue of Tom King’s Batman #49. It barely featured Bruce Wayne at all. The book, which is duplicating the emasculation of the male character as seen in his Mister Miracle title, relegated Batman to a defeated, castrated, whimpering voice underneath a pile of bricks as Catwoman (his wife to be) did all of the fighting for him.

What woman would marry a man so pathetic that she has to engage in physical combat to protect him from his enemies? Protection is the masculine role, and is the reason that men have approximately 40% more muscle-mass than the fairer sex. And remember, this is Batman we are talking about, a man who is supposed to be a hero for young boys, a man that a boy would want to be, when he’s all grown up.

Tom King’s Batman is not Batman. He is a pathetic, laughable, beta-male loser.

Don’t think that this will change when King finally leaves the book, because it won’t. He will be replaced by another Trump hating progressive, and the agenda will remain the same. Cucking the males is the norm in mainstream comics. This is the message that the progressive comic book writers want to send to young boys, and girls living in America, and what remains of Europe today, and they are proud of it. Go on twitter, and you’ll see them boasting about it every single day.

Batman is no longer Batman.

Batman is dead.

Luke Skywalker is dead.

Han Solo is dead.

I could add more names to the list, but you get the picture.

Our childhood heroes have been murdered by Global-Homo, and they are not coming back, but that doesn’t mean that the fight is over.

The fight is never over.

Global-Homo owns the heroes of our past, and they have cucked, and murdered them with glee. That is a fact, and we need to move on from it.

Each and every one of us has a spark of creativity within us, and we need to start creating new narratives, and original heroes of our own. I have done just that, and I have two new heroes to offer you, right here and right now.

My novel, ‘Invasion of the Red Light Spiders,’ is available on Amazon right now, in paperback and Kindle, and features independent, courageous, autonomous, heroic strivers who are fighting against the same (((nameless))) enemies that we all face today.

Batman is dead, but there are new heroes waiting to be discovered. I offer you my new heroes, and look forward to reading your own creations.

You can stay in the past, hoping for useless change, but the future really is undecided, and you can make it what you want it to be. All you need to do is leave the old heroes behind, reach out, grab the future, in tough, hardened, callused masculine hands, and make it better than the dead progressive dust that lingers, acrid and stale in the deserted hallways of today.


Links to my novel:

'INVASION OF THE RED LIGHT SPIDERS'


UK (Kindle):
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07D9MPNXN/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1527272592&sr=1-1&keywords=Invasion+of+the+Red+Light+Spiders

U.K. (Paperback):
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1982995467/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1527272627&sr=1-1&keywords=Invasion+of+the+Red+Light+Spiders

US (Kindle):
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D9MPNXN/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1527272506&sr=1-1&keywords=Invasion+of+the+red+light+spiders

US (Paperback):
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1982995467/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1527272550&sr=1-1&keywords=Invasion+of+the+Red+Light+Spiders