Let’s take a brief break from the philosophy and politics of policing the POX for some horror fiction. Not that BLM isn’t fiction and POX aren’t a horror.
Here is one of the very few good stories from Pseudopod. Right now I’m binging through literally Hitler four years of Pseudopod and almost all of it it total shit.
The stories by women about women are the worst. There are a heavy percentage of the stories in which the first 10 minutes is nothing buy a female character talking about her feelings. I don’t know what happens after that because if I’m not hooked in 10 minutes I skip to the next episode.
I also automatically skip any episode written or narrated by anyone who “identifies” as anything. Normal people don’t “identify.” Normal people simply are.
And I should warn you, Alasdair Stuart (the host of Pesudopod) is (you’re gonna be shocked) a BLM European white people hating leftist idiot. He is also a self-hating European white “man” who can’t contain his glee at being cucked out of existence. Either laugh at his intro and outro or skip over it.
Anyhow, while most of Pseudopod is total shit this story stands out as being good. Not great, not a 10, but a 7.5. Enjoy
So the guy we found under the stairs starts screaming and when Roger shakes him it doesn’t help, and when Roger slaps him it doesn’t help, and when Roger beats the shit out of him he *still* doesn’t quiet down, so we leave him there on the floor. Maybe he’s Seen, maybe he hasn’t, it comes down to the same — don’t wanna be truckin’ with someone who can’t keep their mind from spilling out of their mouth.
It’s getting to be around three-thirty, near enough to twilight that this’ll be our last street-cross for the night. It’s been an unproductive five hours; the part of the city we’re in’s got mostly just office buildings and parking garages — not much food to be found. Still, Allen found a few bags of chips left behind by a raided vending machine, so that’s something. As we get ready to head outside, we split up the chips equally between us, so that if only one of us makes it, their fair share will be with them, and not with a gibbering lunatic or a fleshless corpse. Just before Roger opens the door, Allen puts on his facemask. I leave my eyes uncovered, figuring the darkness’ll be enough. Maybe this makes me less crazy than him.
The blackness outside is mercifully total; clouds have smothered whatever light the moon might be able to provide. We head out, turn East, and get into formation: me on the left; Allen on the right; Roger in the middle; about a metre between each of us. We start walking. Between each step we freeze for about five seconds, listening. It rarely helps, listening, but each of us can remember at least one time when it’s saved someone, so we keep doing it. Mostly what we hear is the low night breeze and, every few minutes or so, screams or laughter off in the distance. When it’s laughter, it goes on for quite awhile before stopping.
When it’s screams, it cuts off pretty quick.
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