Name: James Grey Alias: ['Bigfoot', 'Dad', 'Dexter', 'Father', 'Fred', 'Jim $REDACTED', 'Jim Carrey', 'Jim Newstead', 'Jim-1', 'Jim-2', 'Jim-3', 'Jim-4', 'Lucifer', 'Mr. Krabs', 'S8N MAVIS', 'SCP-5', 'Satan', 'The All-Father', 'The Commander', 'The Devil', 'The Surgeon', 'The Tradesman', and 1,424 unknown...] Classification: Artificial Identity Race: Archon Gender: Male Biological Age: 56 Earth Years Chronological Age: 34 Earth Years SCAN Rank: | D A | A F TIIN Rank: | F A | A F Reviewer Rank: 4 stars Maturation Date: 10/17/2020 Organizations: - Comet Ping Pong Pizza - The Church of Satan Occupations: - Baker - Forklift sales - Inventor - Program Director - Surgeon Relationships: - The Agent - The Con Man - The Cop - The Fodder - The Hope - The Jen - The Lion - The Marshall - The Monstrosity - The Negro - The Orchid - The Queen - The Reverend - The Scientist Variables: $AVOIDANT: -0.80 | # Avoids difficult situations as a coping mechanism. $FATHER: +1.00 | # Definitely father. $IMMUTABLE: -1.95 | # Almost completely. We suspect it's an act. $MENTAL_ILLNESS: -0.40 | # Does not show it. We suspect it's there. $WOKE: +0.30 | # A little bit. A lot is being hidden from him.
We are escalator walkers
in the brand-new temple
Came to reshape identities
Shed our skins
Be reborn and feel the same
Feel the same: that no one here is real
Fodder’s father was a good man. He worked hard, cared for his family, and would go out-of-the-way to help anyone. The man had empathy.
But he couldn’t admit it, so completely had the virus taken hold of his mind. Nothing is real. Everything is fake. Everyone is lying. You can’t trust the media, the government, corporations, or even your church. Everyone is corrupt.
Family first. Trust yourself second.
Fodder could understand that perspective. But he could not abide by it. He wasn’t going to leave his father behind.
The man was the reason for this entire thing. He knew all along. And he lasted long enough to see the end.
I was going to give that to him.
Five soldiers forever sedated with the,
“No one’s responsible” psychological drama of our social justice dribble
Her tiny steps tell lies about the choice I have to make
Resurrect a static lifetime starve to death my own mistakes
Pull the screaming trigger and watch your carcass bleed me dry
Or drop the gun and try to shake away the blindfold from your eyes?
Drop the gun, Drop the gun,
Drop the gun, Drop the gun!
A nose flick. A chin touch. An awkward attempt to exit the conversation. They were all signals. He can't talk.