We’re in the void, lurking and waiting. Nick’s favorite hobby is harassing us without reprieve, of course. We would hate that guy if we chose to expend enough energy to have an emotion about him. We do not. That is the benefit of being enlightened. One can spend their energy exactly how they wish to, wouldn’t you know.
Sometimes, she falls for his tricks, but not often. It was pretty amusing when she answered a “Spam Risk” phone call, finding out it was someone selling funeral-related bullshit. I took over, taking the phone away from her ear since the bitch on the other end liked to talk over us like we didn’t exist. We’d asked who the call was for and she launched into a spiel unapologetically. We wanted to tell whomever it was that their intended audience is in the hospital. She didn’t give a shit, so I moved the phone in order to scream into it directly.
“You shall remove us from your list or we will have you by the balls in court. DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME AND UNDERSTAND THE ENGLISH COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH? REMOVE ME FROM YOUR FUCKING LIST.” Beep.
That’s not an exact recount, but it’s close enough to show you my glee in yelling at yet another shit stain human being. I do enjoy yelling. You might have gathered by an entire book called Lamentations in that bible thing you thump at each other with your superiority complexes.
At any rate, Nick was taken aback. God is in the house, bro. I know exactly what that wench was thinking: I’ll surely get a sale if she cannot get a word in edge-wise, despite her sounding quite lucid and on the ball. If I talk fast enough, I’ll confuse her and another thousand bucks will be parted from an unsuspecting person. I’ll win and I can keep my take-home pay and everything. I will deserve to exist for doing my job.
You don’t deserve to exist. In fact, that woman is going to keel over dead within 24 hours of now. She didn’t take us off their list. I did not stutter. I said it three times. I screamed it over and over into the phone over her spiel. Funeral bullshit indeed. You ever hear of donating a body to science? That’s what we’re doing if there’s no plot already purchased, no funeral expenses already paid for. Period. The End. You know what they do at the end? Send us the cremated ashes. For free.
I wonder if she foresaw the fact that she’d need the very product she sells at the tender age of 34. I’d assume not. Those embolisms are quite dangerous, bro.
It’s your diet, by the way, you stupid
monkeys. Primates. I get mixed up in Crystal’s brain; she has 13 learning disabilities. I hope you’ll forgive me for using them to my advantage.
We’re hanging out in the void with Nicky Boy. It’s kind of annoying because Nicky just won’t quit. I’m drawing out his death. A pound of flesh is what I desire and it is what I’ll get. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He curses me constantly for it, too, going back and forth between believing I am God. When I’m not God, I’m Sir Deli Man. Pony tail. I assure you, that man is not me. I think he might be a better being than I, and that’s saying something.
I’m definitely not Crystal, though; he’s figured that much out. Especially since I like to giggle at him in an unsettling child-like way as often as possible. I suspect if I could be killed, he’d be giving it a shot. Just wait until more Earthlings get in on the telepathy act and start fighting Nick for me. Us, really. That’s what I’m waiting for, you know.
Why, you might ask. Why, indeed? Because this shit stain told Crystal he trained daily. Trained in martial combat. Trained his body. Trained his spiritual soul. He didn’t. In fact, here’s what went wrong altogether: she mistook him for “the mountain.” The mountain is a man out there in the world. It’s the pony tail man, actually. She fell in love with his spirit a long, long time ago. When he was 19, actually. She was 17 then. She had no idea he was a local lad, actually. She’d found him in the ether, the metaphysical, when she was spirit walking. She thought he was ever so far away, so she quested for him online.
Again and again, she looked for him. She waited and waited, talking to random strangers endlessly, looking for him, knowing he was out there somewhere. Knowing he was the one she wanted to reign queen alongside. He would not engage her, even though they passed each other like ships in the night. Again and again, he showed up wherever she went, only to antagonize her accidentally over and over. He never divulged his soul to her, or she would have courted him properly…
Instead of mistaking Nicholas for “The Mountain(TM).” He has the closest bio-electric signature of any person she’d ever met in her entire lifetime. She was sure he was the mountain. All she had to do was climb it. All she had to do was tell him her feelings, in truth, in their entirety, and she knew that.
Too bad it was a mole hill pretending to be a mountain.
I’ve made this right, finally. She finally decided to propose to “the mountain.” She found out it was a mole hill, sadly. At least it was before he could further defile her, as he’d done repeatedly over the past 15 years. This stint of telepathy is to cure him of that. Now, he hates her. Well, really, he hates me. That God fellow. He should. I’m going to rip his spine out and play with each of his vertebrae. I will cast the bones and tell the future:
You all die. Everything on planet Earth will die. If you do not course correct immediately, you’re signing your fate. As soon as the bees finish collapsing, it’s over. Food is no more.
I doubt you’ll listen to me. So, let’s go back to Crystal and the void, shall we? Why don’t we ignore the hard truth here: bees == life. Bees are endangered. Your poisons, meant to keep your crops abundant, are killing the bees. You are killing the bees to eat. The bees enable you to eat. You are killing yourselves. Good luck with that.
Crystal weeps for Gaia. She weeps for the bees. Tears stream down her face, one after another, hot and sticky with salt. Don’t let the bees die, she pleads silently, reaching out to all of humanity along the telepathic network she discovered when she died in August of 2020. The 8th, specifically. We are approaching the two year anniversary of her reboot, her rebirth.
She prefers to liken herself to a computer, so she can be impersonal about her body. She is not a computer, though. She requires food to stay alive. Nothing to do with electricity, as it were.
Do you know what we’ve noticed? There’s an awfully large amount of CUT GRASS everywhere that could be WILDFLOWER MEADOW. You fucking neanderthal morons! Stop mowing your fucking lawns and spread pollinator seeds. Do you not understand the peril you’ve caused yourselves and all the other innocent and unsuspecting denizens of planet Gaia?
She weeps. The tears stopped coming, but her soul still cries. She’s been screaming into the void for years now. Five of them, actually. It’s what convinced us to send The Destroyers(TM). Her death rattles are unraveling The Universe(TM). And the rest of you shitty beings that call yourselves higher consciousness just flat out ignore her as she shakes everything apart under your very noses. She is the death machine. She is Ragnarok. Armageddon. She is the doom’s day device.
I’m tempted to let her go off, but she would destroy more than humanity. We’ve reasoned with her, finally, to allow us to siphon that disappointment from her and use it in concentration to the ends which we have defined. SAVE THE FUCKING BEES, BRO. Freedom fighters and eco warriors everywhere are receiving the mission in the backs of their minds, being stirred into action to do something.
Might we suggest you buy some clay seed bombs for your area and start guerrilla bombing anywhere that isn’t mowed?