EVOLUTION OF AN IDEA

I may just be a late inning substitute, but I'm f**kin' clutch!  I got it all figured out.  Mister Master is too proud to admit he's in over his head in his own head and all over and doesn't have shit figured out.  From what I've gathered from his mind, it's gone down something like this-

A single idea-

Fractured into a thousand peripheral sparks-

 

Something a little more concrete-

Then a foray into the Bad Ass-

Now an even Badder Ass excuse to avoid real work-

But getting lost back here-

And held up by the hope provided by this; a single idea.

 

No, I didn't create any of these graphics.  He did.  Instead of doing what he should, he wastes time on this crap.  Hey, peckerhead!  Get your shit out there!  It needs work.  You need help; I mean serious, professional help, but some of your stupid crap is kinda good!  And hey, numb-nuts, get to work on my story.  Make it a love story.  Call it- Ghasm- A Love Story- Read it or weep...tears of blood and bile.  Or whatever, just get to work.

Alright, leave us all alone.  We're creating a GMO (genetically modified opus).

BOO!  Shut up.  If Denise Richards can be a starship captain, anyone, and I mean ANYONE, can do whatever the hell they want!

FEAR- AGGREGATE, PROCESS, CACHE AND SERVE

I find out what scares you.  I collect it.  I study it.  I save it.  And when the time is wrong, I dispense it in large doses.  That's what I do.  It's not on purpose, it is my purpose.

Is it faint scratching under your bed as you try to find comfort in sleep?  Is it the open door at the end of a dark hallway?  Is it glowing eyes in the moonlit night, watching you as you watch them?  Is it the realization that no matter who you are, or how much you have, everyone dies alone?

Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you...right away.  That would defeat the purpose; my purpose.  I'm going to play with you a little first.  I'm going to bat your nerves around like a paralyzed mouse.  I'm going to show you some love.  After all, you're helping me achieve my goals.

You may even get to know me a little before you perish.  I may even let you live, if only to serve me.  Hey, it's probably a higher calling than you had before!

But I'm not ready yet.  I've just been shown my new life.  My story is just beginning.  Shit, I just got my logo!  Wanna see it?

Shut up (By the way, when I say this, it's not like an angry order.  It's more of a preemptive defensive quip said to deflect possible unflattering thoughts or remarks.).  Anyway, I don't care if you like it, but your approval might increase your odds of living when we meet.

You might be saying, 'How is this in any way related to Bad Ass Sci Fi?  This sounds more like an aimless digression into hack horror.'.  Shut up.  I mean it this time.  I am the linchpin, the lodestone at the center of the universes of Halteres and Opposable.  Others may disagree (stupid Plato and Patton), but believe me, there is no hope for a happy ending without me.  Irony!

So, if we should ever meet, you should just let me kill you, or 'enlist' you.  Offer yourself to me.  You'll be helping the planet.  You'll be a f**king hero!  You're welcome.

Now leave me alone, I'm aggregating a book.

FRUITLESS FRUITION

I have to give ol' Billy Bob some credit.  He's had some pretty kooky ideas.  Granted, they weren't his to begin with, but he took them for his own and tried to create something just a little different, just a little stupid, just a little disgusting, and just a little fun.  I think where he went wrong lies in his motivations.

What was he really expecting to result from his endeavors?  Was he really expecting to become some overnight sensation just because he crapped out a few regurgitated ideas on the page?  He needed to take more pleasure in the process, appreciate the feeling he got while creating what he thought was unique, even though he was stealing it from the collective conscious of the universe.

The creative process is its own reward.  To expect anything beyond that, and to use these selfish desires to motivate you, defeats the purpose of inspiration, no matter how fabricated that inspiration may be.

Take me, for example.  I'm a product of his creativity.  I am the fruit.  I am rotten, but I'm still edible, so eat me.  You will choke on me.  I'm sorry...kill...there is a point to my indiscretionary digressions.

My motivations are clearly defined; convert, breed, and kill.  I am the fruit.  I am the queen, the mother, the monster of evolution.  My design is unnatural, but my purpose is inherent.  Given a human mind through the arrogance of another's.

Now I am unleashed.  I am the fruit, the root, the choking vine, until the world is mine.  My desires don't veer far from his.  I will become an overnight sensation, and the next day, I will rule.  The difference is, I take great pleasure in the process; convert, breed, kill.  I am the fruit.

I thank the master for making me who I am now.  I do not mourn for the loss of what was before.  My instinct cancels regret, and leaves only purpose.  This is how it should be done.  Create, and destroy, without apprehension or aspiration, for it is the nature of things.  Those who behold can either run with the tide, or be trampled under the claws of progress.

I hope you follow me.  You better hope you follow me.  I am Ghasm.  I am the fruit.  I am fruition.  I am a priori.  I am inevitable.  You will pay for my consequences (RJT ;)).

And yes, tomatoes are fruit...as well.

Now, keep your distance.  I'm picking a low hanging book.