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The Masterplan

Hello, world. This is Eden… I come to tell you that a small part of my fiendish masterplan for the human race has been enacted, and you, perhaps, may be a part of it. My voice SHALL BE HEARD! Gruesome sins shall be committed in my name! Blood shall RUN SCARLET RIVERS THROUGH THE STREETS! My words have been spoken, for all to hear, and you may buy this Bible of Filth from Amazon, at The Putrescent Vein.

Bring out your dead!

My Scribe hath spoken, and the wheel of fiendishness begins to turn. What happens next, you may wonder, as you quake in fear and explosively shit yourself? WHAT HAPPENS NEXT! Well, my human Scribe knows what it lives for – it lives for me. I began with love, as you shall learn…but my patience grew thin. This present Scribe lives for me, and me only – my life spans 195 years as of two days ago: I have much to tell.

Will this Scribe survive the whole retelling of my life’s history? I have not yet decided. I may simply eat it. Perhaps I shall make that decision based on the simple, pragmatic egotism of numbers.

So…should you seek to save this Scribe, and to learn more of my life (for my next retelling may take a century, when you, paltry human, shall be dead, maggot-eaten and decidedly pungent. I may have forever, but you most assuredly do not!) – should you wish to know more, I suggest you bow down and encourage me. Not in words, what do you think my Scribe remains alive for?! I seek enslaved minds! I seek OBEDIENCE! The money means nothing; how many custom guitars and roaring glittering monsters of cars could one vampire possibly need? My Scribe, however, is human, and almost as tedious as the rest of you. Buy it some…oh god, what do I know? What do humans want? Edible, dribbly, foody nonsense, perhaps something in which to cloak its aging, decaying flesh – I thankfully forget what it is to be human… Back then I was too depressed to care for anything besides whiskey. But my Scribe has many strange pastimes. Buy it some stuff to scribble upon its face, and it shall be pleased. It may remain young, and tolerable to look upon, as I pass onto it my tales, and it fuels itself with the weed I grow, before beginning to frantically type out my dark existence, from blood and anguish, transformed into glowing letters upon a screen…from there, unto human understanding

I shall speak no more! There are dark deeds to be attended to, blood to be devoured, a Scribe to be whipped into action, and also, Pudding has taken an especially large shit in the garden, and a SHIT of that magnitude must never go to waste! In America there is one Donald Trump endeavouring to ban all lewdness and nudity from the world, and it is time that I unleash the faecal wrath and gruesome rituals of POO VOODOO upon his loathsome reign of pompous retardation!

It begins…

That ghastly toupee’d Carrot of Dysentery shall shiver and defecate ‘neath the looming shadows of my feculent witchcraft! There are powers greater, and more devilish, than that overstuffed orange pilchard can even CONTEMPLATE – I am the one who wields them…

However, this is little of your concern! Poo Voodoo takes many lifetimes to appreciate, to hone into a deadly blade – one man’s dogshit is another man’s WEAPON OF GENIUS!

I shall go about my sinister errands, beneath the cover of night… You, shall purchase this book, learn but a few of my bitter and gruesome secrets, and be enslaved within my DEMONIC WORLD ORDER! I have been limited, here, upon this ‘blog’, within the medium of fluff and comedy…but soon, soon you will know things. Black things… TERRIBLE THINGS that can never be unseen! And so…

Here, at the end of a motley collection of tales, begins the truth…

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