Tuesday, March 3, 2015

To Serve Man—short story by Damon Knight

Hello All:
Any fan of the Twilight Zone can certainly remember the episode, To Serve Man. It's based on a short story written by Damon Knight. If you’ve never seen this episode or read the story, then I will not discuss much of the plot. I don’t want to ruin any surprises for you.
It should be mentioned that the story involves a race of extra terrestrials that are referred to as the Kanamits. They visit Earth with a seemingly peaceful agenda. In the Twilight Zone episode, one of the Kanamits leaves behind a book after addressing the United Nations, and reassuring that they come in peace. The book is written in extra terrestrial text.
It soon becomes the job of Michael Chambers, a cryptographer for the US government, to decipher this book. The actual book used in the Twilight Zone episode can be seen in the photo.
I attempted some web research to see if any science fiction buffs ever tried analyzing the title of the book. After all, someone actually spent time creating the prop book with its mysterious symbols to be seen by viewers of the Twilight Zone show.  Isn't anyone curious of what the symbols are? But it looks like this has never been done. It looks like analyzing the symbols of the extra terrestrial book is a job for no one other than Tom Raimbault.
Upon analysis, it's soon realized that the symbols are mostly a modified mixture of Greek, Runic, and English alphabet symbols; along with some mathematics symbols. The second letter that resembles the shape of the state of Wisconsin remains a mystery. The others, however, were not too difficult to find. Check out the spreadsheet, below, for the symbol matches. If unable to read, you might need to click the image to enlarge.

***
Today’s featured writing is the short story written by Damon Knight.
To Serve Man—short story by Damon Knight
The Kanamit were not very pretty, it‟s true. They looked something like pigs and something like people, and that is not an attractive combination. Seeing them for the first time shocked you; that was their handicap. When a thing with the countenance of a fiend comes from the stars and offers a gift, you are disinclined to accept.
I don‟t know what we expected interstellar visitors to look like -- those who thought about it at all, that is. Angels, perhaps, or something too alien to be really awful. Maybe that‟s why we were all so horrified and repelled when they landed in their great ships and we saw what they really were like.
The Kanamit were short and very hairy -- thick, bristly brown-gray hair all over their abominably plump bodies. Their noses were snoutlike and their eyes small, and they had thick hands of three fingers each. They wore green leather harnesses and green shorts, but I think the shorts were a concession to our notions of public decency. The garments were quite modishly cut, with slash pockets and half-belts in the back. The Kanamit had a sense of humor, anyhow.
There were three of them at this session of the U.N., and, lord, I can‟t tell you how queer it looked to see them there in the middle of a solemn plenary session -- three fat piglike creatures in green harnesses and shorts, sitting at the long table below the podium, surrounded by the packed arcs of delegates from every nation. They sat correctly upright, politely watching each speaker. Their flat ears drooped over the earphones. Later on, I believe, they learned every human language, but at this time they knew only French and English.
They seemed perfectly at ease -- and that, along with their humor, was a thing that tended to make me like them. I was in the minority; I didn‟t think they were trying to put anything over.
The delegate from Argentina got up and said that his government was interested in the demonstration of a new cheap power source, which the Kanamit had made at the previous session, but that the Argentine government could not commit itself as to its future policy without a much more thorough examination.
It was what all the delegates were saying, but I had to pay particular attention to Señor Valdes, because he tended to sputter and his diction was bad. I got through the translation all right, with only one or two momentary hesitations, and then switched to the Polish-English line to hear how Grigori was doing with Janciewicz. Janciewicz was the cross Grigori had to bear, just as Valdes was mine.
Janciewicz repeated the previous remarks with a few ideological variations, and then the Secretary-General recognized the delegate from France, who introduced Dr. Denis Lévêque, the criminologist, and a great deal of complicated equipment was wheeled in.
Dr. Lévêque remarked that the question in many people‟s minds had been aptly expressed by the delegate from the U.S.S.R. at the preceding session, when he demanded, “What is the motive of the Kanamit? What is their purpose in offering us these unprecedented gifts, while asking nothing in return?”
The doctor then said, “At the request of several delegates and with the full consent of our guests, the Kanamit, my associates and I have made a series of tests upon the Kanamit with the equipment which you see before you. These tests will now be repeated.”
A murmur ran through the chamber. There was a fusillade of flashbulbs, and one of the TV cameras moved up to focus on the instrument board of the doctor‟s equipment. At the same time, the huge television screen behind the podium lighted up, and we saw the blank faces of two dials, each with its pointer resting at zero, and a strip of paper tape with a stylus point resting against it.
The doctor‟s assistants were fastening wires to the temples of one of the Kanamit, wrapping a canvas-covered rubber tube around his forearm, and taping something to the palm of his right hand.
In the screen, we saw the paper tape begin to move while the stylus traced a slow zigzag pattern along it. One of the needles began to jump rhythmically; the other flipped halfway over and stayed there, wavering slightly.
“These are the standard instruments for testing the truth of a statement,” said Dr. Lévêque. “Our first object, since the physiology of the Kanamit is unknown to us, was to determine whether or not they react to these tests as human beings do. We will now repeat one of the many experiements which were made in the endeavor to discover this.”
He pointed to the first dial. “This instrument registers the subject‟s heartbeat. This shows the electrical conductivity of the skin in the palm of his hand, a measure of perspiration, which increases under stress. And this --” pointing to the tape-and-stylus device -- “shows the pattern and intensity of the electrical waves emanating from his brain. It has been shown, with human subjects, that all these readings vary markedly depending upon whether the subject is speaking the truth.”
He picked up two large pieces of cardboard, one red and one black. The red one was a square about three feet on a side; the black was a rectangle three and a half feet long. He addressed himself to the Kanama.
“Which of these is longer than the other?” “The red,” said the Kanama. Both needles leaped wildly, and so did the line on the unrolling tape. “I shall repeat the question,” said the doctor. “Which of these is longer than the other?” “The black,” said the creature. This time the instruments continued in their normal rhythm. “How did you come to this planet?” asked the doctor. “Walked,” replied the Kanama.
Again the instruments responded, and there was a subdued ripple of laughter in the chamber.
“Once more,” said the doctor. “How did you come to this planet?” “In a spaceship,” said the Kanama, and the instruments did not jump. The doctor again faced the delegation. “Many such experiements were made,” he said, “and my colleagues and myself are satisfied that the mechanisms are effective. Now -- ” he turned to the Kanama -- “I shall ask our distinguished guest to reply to the question put at the last session by the delegate of the U.S.S.R. -- namely, what is the motive of the Kanamit people in offering these great gifts to the people of Earth?”
The Kanama rose. Speaking this time in English, he said, “On my planet there is a saying, „There are more riddles in a stone than in a philosopher‟s head.‟ The motives of intelligent beings, though they may at times appear obscure, are simple things compared to the complex workings of the natural universe. Therefore I hope that the people of Earth will understand, and believe, when I tell you that our mission upon your planet is simply this -- to bring you the peace and plenty which we ourselves enjoy, and which we have in the past brought to other races throughout the galaxy. When your world has no more hunger, no more war, no more needless suffering, that will be our reward.”
And the needles had not jumped once. The delegate from the Ukraine jumped to his feet, asking to be recognized, but the time was up and the Secretary-General closed the session.
I met Grigori as we were leaving the chamber. His face was red with excitement. “Who promoted that circus?” he demanded.
“The tests looked genuine to me,” I told him. “A circus!” he said vehemently. “A second-rate farce! If they were genuine, Peter, why was debate stifled?”
“There‟ll be time for debate tomorrow, surely.” “Tomorrow the doctor and his instruments will be back in Paris. Plenty of things can happen before tomorrow. In the name of sanity, man, how can anybody trust a thing that looks as if it ate a baby?”
I was a little annoyed. I said, “Are you sure you‟re not more worried about their politics than their appearance?”
He said, “Bah,” and went away. The next day reports began to come in from government laboratories all over the world where the Kanamit‟s power source was being tested. They were wildly enthusiastic. I don‟t understand such things myself, but it seemed that those little metal boxes would give more electrical power than an atomic pile, for next to nothing and nearly forever. And it was said that they were so cheap to manufacture that everybody in the world could have one of his own. In the early afternoon there were reports that seventeen countries had already begun to set up factories to turn them out.
The next day the Kanamit turned up with plans and specimens of a gadget that would increase the fertility of any arable land by 60 to 100 per cent. It speeded the formation of nitrates in the soil, or something. There was nothing in the newscasts any more but stories about the Kanamit. The day after that, they dropped their bombshell.
“You now have potentially unlimited power and increased food supply,” said one of them. He pointed with his three-fingered hand to an instrument that stood on the table before him. It was a box on a tripod, with a parabolic reflector on the front of it. “We offer you today a third gift which is at least as important as the first two.”
He beckoned to the TV men to roll their cameras into closeup position. Then he picked up a large sheet of cardboard covered with drawings and English lettering. We saw it on the large screen above the podium; it was clearly legible.
“We are informed that this broadcast is being relayed throughout your world,” said the Kanama. “I wish that everyone who has equipment for taking photographs from television screens would use it now.”
The Secretary-General leaned forward and asked a question sharply, but the Kanama ignored him.
“This device,” he said, “generates a field in which no explosive, of whatever nature, can detonate.”
There was uncomprehending silence. The Kanama said, “It cannot now be suppressed. If one nation has it, all must have it.” When nobody seemed to understand, he explained bluntly, “There will be no more war.”
That was the biggest news of the millennium, and it was perfectly true. It turned out that the explosions the Kanama was talking about even included gasoline and Diesel explosions. They had simply made it impossible for anybody to mount or equip a modern army.
We could have gone back to bows and arrows, of course, but that wouldn‟t have satisfied the military. Besides, there wouldn‟t be any reason to make war. Every nation would soon have everything.
Nobody ever gave another thought to those lie-detector experiments, or asked the Kanamit what their politics were. Grigori was put out; he had nothing to prove his suspicions.
I quit my job at the U.N. a few months later, because I foresaw that it was going to die under me anyhow. U.N. business was booming at the time, but after a year or so there was going to be nothing for it to do. Every nation on Earth was well on the way to being completely self- supporting; they weren‟t going to need much arbitration.
I accepted a position as translator with the Kanamit Embassy, and it was there I ran into Grigori again. I was glad to see him, but I couldn‟t imagine what he was doing there.
“I thought you were on the opposition,” I said. “Don‟t tell me you‟re convinced the Kanamit are all right.”
He looked rather shamefaced. “They‟re not what they look, anyhow,” he said.
It was as much of a concession as he could decently make, and I invited him down to the embassy lounge for a drink. It was an intimate kind of place, and he grew confidential over the second daiquiri.
“They fascinate me,” he said. “I hate them instinctively still -- that hasn‟t changed -- but I can evaluate it. You were right, obviously; they mean us nothing but good. But do you know - - ” he leaned across the table -- “the question of the Soviet delegate was never answered.”
I am afraid I snorted. “No, really,” he said. “They told us what they wanted to do -- „to bring to you the peace and plenty which we ourselves enjoy.‟ But they didn‟t say why.”
“Why do missionaries -- ” “Missionaries be damned!” he said angrily. “Missionaries have a religious motive. If these creatures have a religion, they haven‟t once mentioned it. What‟s more, they didn‟t send a missionary group; they sent a diplomatic delegation -- a group representing the will and policy of their whole people. Now just what have the Kanamit, as a people or a nation, got to gain from our welfare?”
I said, “Cultural -- ” “Cultural cabbage soup! No, it‟s something less obvious than that, something obscure that belongs to their psychology and not to ours. But trust me, Peter, there is no such thing as a completely disinterested altruism. In one way or another, they have something to gain.”
“And that‟s why you‟re here,” I said. “To try to find out what it is.” “Correct. I wanted to get on one of the ten-year exchange groups to their home planet, but I couldn‟t; the quota was filled a week after they made the announcement. This is the next best thing. I‟m studying their language, and you know that language reflects the basic assumptions of the people who use it. I‟ve got a fair command of the spoken lingo already. It‟s not hard, really, and there are hints in it. Some of the idioms are quite similar to English. I‟m sure I‟ll get the answer eventually.”
“More power,” I said, and we went back to work. I saw Grigori frequently from then on, and he kept me posted about his progress. He was highly excited about a month after that first meeting; he said he‟d got hold of a book of the Kanamit‟s and was trying to puzzle it out. They wrote in ideographs, worse than Chinese, but he was determined to fathom it if it took him years. He wanted my help.
Well, I was interested in spite of myself, for I knew it would be a long job. We spent some evenings together, working with material from Kanamit bulletin boards and so forth, and with the extremely limited English-Kanamit dictionary they issued to the staff. My conscience bothered me about the stolen book, but gradually I became absorbed by the problem. Languages are my field, after all. I couldn‟t help being fascinated.
We got the title worked out in a few weeks. It was How to Serve Man, evidently a handbook they were giving out to new Kanamit members of the embassy staff. They had new ones in, all the time now, a shipload about once a month; they were opening all kinds of research laboratories, clinics and so on. If there was anybody on Earth besides Grigori who still distrusted those people, he must have been somewhere in the middle of Tibet.
It was astonishing to see the changes that had been wrought in less than a year. There were no more standing armies, no more shortages, no unemployment. When you picked up a newspaper you didn‟t see H-Bomb or Satellite leaping out at you; the news was always good. It was a hard thing to get used to. The Kanamit were working on human biochemistry, and it was known around the embassy that they were nearly ready to announce methods of making our race taller and stronger and healthier -- practically a race of supermen -- and they had a potential cure for heart disease and cancer.
I didn‟t see Grigori for a fortnight after we finished working out the title of the book; I was on a long-overdue vacation in Canada. When I got back, I was shocked by the change in his appearance.
“What on Earth is wrong with you, Grigori?” I asked. “You look like the very devil.” “Come down to the lounge.” I went with him, and he gulped a stiff Scotch as if he needed it. “Come on, man, what‟s the matter?” I urged. “The Kanamit have put me on the passenger list for the next exchange ship,” he said. “You, too, otherwise I wouldn‟t be talking to you.”
“Well,” I said, “but -- ” “They‟re not altruists.” I tried to reason with him. I pointed out they‟d made Earth a paradise compared to what it was before. He only shook his head.
Then I said, “Well, what about those lie-detector tests?” “A farce,” he replied, without heat. “I said so at the time, you fool. They told the truth, though as far as it went.”
“And the book?” I demanded, annoyed. “What about that -- How to Serve Man? That wasn‟t put there for you to read. They mean it. How do you explain that?”
“I‟ve read the first paragraph of that book,” he said. “Why do you suppose I haven‟t slept for a week?”
I said, “Well?” and he smiled a curious, twisted smile. “It‟s a cookbook,” he said.

Friday, February 27, 2015

Attack of the Willy Fish

Hello All:
Well, the data from my Twitter experiment speaks. Recall about a week ago when I mentioned that I would refrain tweeting articles from my blog to draw in thousands of hits throughout the week. I wondered if this affect the gained revenue from ads.
It certainly did! Not only did blog traffic significantly reduce, but revenue eventually became non-existent. And I can see that there are some high profile ads now showing up on my blog. Marketers surely do their research and can see that there is a high amount of traffic on this blog. It's time to do my expected job and keep promoting the Literary World of Tom Raimbault.
But don't worry about us going commercial. The stories and bizarre writings will continue; stories like today's featured writing that is about the Candiru--or "Willy Fish" as some like to call it.
The Candiru: a parasitic, freshwater catfish that averages 6 inches in length with a diameter small enough to enter a human urethra. What's even more unusual of this fish is the fact that it appears transparent and often undetectable
But don't be alarmed; these small monsters do not reside in North America, but in the Amazon River where many other hellacious creatures have survived for millions of years.
And for hundreds of years the Candiru (often nicknamed the Willy fish) was believed to have the ability to swim inside of a human, male's urethra while the victim was carelessly relieving himself in the Amazon River. Much to a man's horror, an excruciating pain was experienced, shortly after, as the Willy fish feasted on the inside tissues. And there must have been some truth to this legend because a remedy that combined two or more plants was used to kill and extract this parasite. I don't even want to know the method of delivering these extracts through the urethra and to the destructive Willy fish. I imagine the herbs to be spicy, like cayenne pepper, making the side effect equally painful as the feasting Willy fish.
This horrible legend was believed to be nothing more than simply an urban legend of the Amazon Jungle, designed to make people fearful of the creatures that may exist in the water. After all, what is so terribly wrong with bathing and swimming in the Amazon River where piranhas with slicing jaws, Anacondas of 20 feet, or reptiles with poisonous spikes reside? Are you fearful of that river? Some may laugh at you for believing that these creatures could harm you.
Have a great weekend! And you best stay away from the jungle; it isn't meant for the weak and fearful.
Attack of the Willy Fish
It wasn't until recent times when a documented case of a man, who had been relieving himself in the Amazon River, had a Willy fish removed from inside that thing which made him proud. I bet he was one of those bold, fearless individuals who had no qualms of bathing naked in the jungle. It would be, after all, convenient to keep the clothes dry when bathing out in nature.
Creatures below probably noticed the little fish that wiggled and danced around, an invitation to lunch for a hungry piranha or some ferocious, aquatic beast. And then the fish opened some noticeable orifice, inviting a nearby Willy fish to swim in, and do what was natural: feast like a parasite!
The man immediately felt an uncomfortable pain and reported to the hospital. 2 hours of urethral surgery were necessary to remove that little rascal. It was the first confirmed case of a human attack by a Willy fish; and it resulted in a warning to never relieve one's self while standing in the Amazon River.
But it's unclear if the human target needs to be standing in water. Can the Willy fish swim upstream like the salmon? Can the parasite spot its prey with an open, unsuspecting orifice and find a useful avenue in?
We are so fortunate not to live near or in the Amazon. I live safely in Illinois, and you probably live safely in Minnesota, New York, Canada or the United Kingdom—all places that are thousands of miles from the Amazon River. How in the world could a Willy fish find its way in our neighborhood?
You ask me why I paint the back wall of the urinal when making a stop to the restroom, never aiming directly into the water? Is it to prevent the sound of a trickle? No, I tell you; it's for very, good reason.
***
Driving the interstate highway in the late night hours, homeward bound with a sudden urge to relieve that maddening pressure on the bladder wall, Harold pulled into the convenient oasis to rid himself of that 24 ounce coffee.
The late night oasis is a place where one must be on heightened alert. Thieves, prostitutes, drug addicts and homosexuals, who see the stall as a cheap love shack, all wander the grounds, attempting to make eye contact with an innocent person. It’s best to avoid anyone in this environment and do your business quickly.
But it wasn't the people who were present that were about to do harm to Harold. Poor Harold was oblivious to the mean pranksters who, just 15 minutes prior, had paid a visit to the men's restroom with small, plastic bags that appeared to be filled with nothing more than water. If one happened to look closely at the bags, a transparent monster could have been seen.
They burst into the restroom in barely, controlled laughter. They wore latex gloves while removing the blue, rubber, urinal shields and potty cakes. So immature with no thoughts of consequence for their heartless deed, they dumped the contents of the plastic bags of water into the urinals. Then they left in roaring laughter while commenting how ugly and frightening the things were.
15 minutes later, Harold entered the restroom that was void of anyone. My fellow men, you have been in this situation before. You have held it for a lengthy period and then finally let it loose. Perhaps your arm cushioned the wall with your head rested against it, sighing in ecstasy, tears nearly rolling down your cheeks.
Harold did this for nearly a minute as every ounce of 24 drained into the urinal. Almost to the end of an empty bladder he happened to look down into the urinal and noticed something that appeared to travel up the stream of his urine. It was too fast to notice; and what immediately diverted his attention was a sudden pain that was felt at his urethra and soon inside his "little Harold".
He yelled out while grabbing himself, "Oooooooooooooo! My gosh! What the...?"
Harold bent over and squeezed himself to relieve the sudden, sharp pain that was felt. It was then that he felt a peculiar wiggle, leading to the speculation that perhaps something alive had found its way inside.
A flush of panic and near tears had replaced the ecstasy of relief from moments ago. Harold quickly zipped himself up and went over to the sink, then splashed cold water on his face. It was late at night and Harold was very tired. The thing he saw traveling upstream just had to be a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. The pain and wiggling had to be the result of an overwhelmed and overworked urinary tract.
Finally calm and able to get back on the road, Harold had no further fears of something inside him. But there was a strange sensation, a desire to squeeze out possible remaining urine.
The sensation was so powerful that Harold actually pulled over to the shoulder, made sure that no vehicles or late night police were nearby, then stepped out for a quick unzip.
He pushed and grunted while trying to relax, but nothing came out.
"Come on... Come on... I know you can do it." He gently shook "little Harold" and gave it a tickle. But a fearsome wiggle from inside was soon given in reply. It brought back the flush of panic.
No other option, Harold quickly zipped his pants back up and sat down in the driver’s seat. Maybe it was an extreme case of a urinary tract infection. Maybe he had strained some muscle or his prostate while holding back that 24 ounce coffee for so long. It was best to get home.
The final stretch home, Harold found himself to be very, much in tune with what was happening inside his pants. Provided he moved as little as possible, the peculiar wiggle would not be felt. But sure enough, while stepping out of the car, the wiggle returned as Harold walked into his house.
He was greeted by his wife, Lisa, who had stayed awake to see her husband's return. "Hi Honey; welcome home."
Her husband had a look of dreaded concern.
"What's wrong; everything okay?"
Harold touched himself near the crotch while speaking, "There's something wrong down here."
Expecting some kind of joke to imply late-night romance, Lisa was quick before hearing the rest, "I am too tired for that, tonight."
"No, it’s pain; like something in there. I stopped at the oasis and..." Suddenly, Harold's face contorted to unbearable horror, "Aaaaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhh!"
It startled Lisa, "What, what is it?"
"It hurts! It hurts! Oh my gosh; it hurts so bad!"
Concerned for her husband, she did the only thing that a sensible wife could do while trying to calm the man she loved. "Honey, relax! You're probably passing a kidney stone!"
But Harold knew better, especially after a series of violent wiggles and more unbearable pain. "Aaaaaaaaaagggggghhhhh! No, it's something else! There's something in there!"
Children soon scampered out of their bedrooms in concern for their father. They had never heard such outcries before. But they were equally startled at the sight of Father who had violently pulled off his pants to expose a new horror.Tears rolled down Harold's face as he looked up, "Blood: it's bleeding; something's tearing me up in there!"


Wednesday, February 25, 2015

The Black Leather-Gloved Hands Mystery--story four

Hello All:
Originally an experimental introduction of flash fiction suspense, the Black Leather-Gloved Hands Mystery series is taking off in a direction of its own! It might actually become a novella by the spring of this year! Yes, I actually have a planned plot, direction and purpose for these bizarre literary works about a stranger who wears black leather gloves.
Today we unveil story four in the series. Now let me warn you; the paragraphs, below, depict scenes of graphic violence and rape. Never before have I written scenes like this. And expect more in upcoming stories. It might lead you to think that the Black Leather-Gloved Hands Mystery series is nothing more than a collection of sick fantasies that allows the reader to live out their desires for rape and violence. But I reassure you; the mystery will unfold as plot continues. 
For now, let's check in with George and his wife, Krystal who are experiencing a bit of crisis from a stalker.
The Black Leather-Gloved Hands Mystery--story four
George does his best to maintain staying in shape. In high school he was the captain of the football team. Through college he worked out at the gym and was able to bench press 450 pounds. But by married life his dedication to fitness dropped, especially with the introduction of kids in the family. But that doesn't mean George's busy career and family life caused him to ignore fitness all together. He might have lost his six-pack from age-induced slowing metabolism. He’s experienced his share of rotator cuff injuries from lifting excessive weight. But to this day he still visits the local gym. He can bench 325 pounds; squat 400 pounds; curl 75 pounds. The man is a monster, standing over six feet tall, and built like a brick shit house. He needs the strength and fitness to maintain his cutting edge. And he especially needs to be in excellent shape with the recent crisis taking place with his wife.
Early Tuesday morning; George's athletic shoes stamped the weight of his 250 pound body on the asphalt of the street. Tuesday mornings were George's cardio days—jogging. At 52 years old he huffed and puffed with blood-pumped face; heart monitor wrist strap reading 176 BPM. Was George pushing his heart too much? Should he have slowed down and allowed his heart to work at a more moderate level? George's lungs were on fire and his chest felt as-if it were about to explode. But the man is a raging beast of an animal, driven by high amounts of adrenaline and testosterone. Slowing down and taking it easy isn't an option for someone like George. A man like George pushes himself beyond the limits.
Rather than give up, George fantasized of how he would finally pulverize the creep who tormented his wife. George would find him and beat him into a bloody, unrecognizable mess. Whoever took those shower photographs of Krystal and sent them to everyone at the office was going to wish it never happened.
As for George’s weak and frail wife, she was a basket case. The poor woman could barely be left alone without feeling that someone would sneak in the house and attack her. And where were the police? Didn't they have any leads? They received the harmful email yesterday morning. Hopefully they were doing their part in tracking that sicko.
***
About an hour-and-a-half later, George raced down the streets of his own subdivision.—45 MPH in 20 MPH zone! He could feel his heart still beating somewhat fast after the morning run. It made him breathe heavy while speaking on the phone to his friend who just so happened to be the police commissioner.
"Hi, Nick, it's George. Did you get any leads, yet?"
"No, nothing yet." answered his friend and police commissioner, Nick.
"What do you mean, nothing yet? I thought you said you could track the IP address."
"Well they did." answered Nick. "But whoever is behind this actually traveled to a highway oasis about an hour away, and used a public access computer."
"Well don’t they have anything on security camera?" asked George.
“Yes they do.” Nick explained, "But all we have is an individual wearing dark clothes and a hoodie with sunglasses. This person was sure to wear a disguise, and it worked. There's really no way to identify whoever it is."
"Well don't users of these public access computers need to provide some kind of identification?” asked George.
"Nope!" answered Nick. "I found that a little odd, but it's 100% free access with no ID required. They might want to look into changing that."
George sighed, "So what's the next step? What are you going to do catch this guy? Do you have a plan?"
But Nick didn't have the sort of answer one would want to hear in George's situation. "Well, for now the trail has gone cold. The best we can do is continue watching your house, and wait for this guy to make his next move. He'll trip up, eventually. But we need to have patience."
"Come-on!" argued George. "Is that all you can do? In the meantime I've got a wife at home who's scared. This guy has promised to rape her. How do you think she feels?"
"I understand." reassured Nick. "The police have done all they can do."
"Well make them do more!" ordered George. The angry tiger was beginning to surface. When George doesn't get his way, he unleashes the beast.
"Whoa, George! You need to take it easy. I already said that I understand your situation. But you have to keep in mind that this case isn't a top priority for the police. Outside of some voyeurism and some threats made over email, no serious crime has been committed."
"NO SERIOUS CRIME????" shouted George.
Nick interrupted, "George, I've got to get going. Catch you later." And with that, the phone call ended.
"WHAT THE FUCK?????" shouted George as he threw his phone on the passenger side floor. "NOT A FUCKING PRIORITY????"
Just then, the car in front of George slowed down to avoid hitting a car that was making a left turn into a strip mall. By now, of course, George was out of his subdivision and traveling the main roads.
George slammed on his brakes and laid on the horn. Then he pulled around into the right lane and glared at the driver who simply did as he was supposed to do; slow down to yield to a motorist who was turning left.
The driver honked in return and yelled something at George.
"OOOOOOOO!" That guy needs a good beat down!” But too bad, the driver turned onto another road. George was ready to engage in some serious road-rage style combat.
***
There wasn’t much to mention about George’s work day. For the most part it was uneventful. Nothing was mentioned by coworkers of the shower pictures. Perhaps no one saw them. And if one or two individuals did happen to see, surely they weren’t going to comment.
It wasn’t until later that evening that the nightmare continued for George and Krystal. Both husband and wife had just finished dinner, and now sat in the family room, watching TV. Tonight their son, Billy, would be calling home from college. He recently sent a rather concerning email to both Mother and Father, mentioning that he needed to discuss something important.
But why hadn't Billy called, yet?
"So what's he doing?" asked George with a note of annoyance.
"He might be at the library and studying or something." suggested Krystal. "Just give him some time."
"Time? He sends us an email telling us that he needs to discuss something important. Now he makes us wait? That's bullshit!" With that, George pulled his cell phone out of the pocket and selected his son, Billy, from the list of contacts. He could hear the callout tone ring, and ring, and ring; followed by the most-annoying greeting, "Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system."
"What the fuck?" exclaimed George while pressing the button to end the call. "Where the fuck is he?"
"George, settle down!" urged Krystal. "What if he's in some class?"
"At eight o'clock at night? I don't think so! He's just too chicken-shit to call us and tell us whatever it is he has to tell us. What, does he want to quit? Is he not happy with his classes or something?"
Krystal sighed. "Well, I'm going upstairs to take a shower. Just give him some time. He'll call."
Moments later Krystal nervously entered the master bathroom; the very bathroom where she was photographed while taking a shower on Saturday night. But unlike Saturday night, tonight she was sure to have the blinds closed and the curtains drawn to prevent someone from climbing the tree and watching.
Satisfied with her privacy, Krystal lifted up her blouse and undid her bra. This caused her small, perky breasts with pointy nipples to slightly jiggle. Next she dropped her denim, tight-assed jeans and kicked them over to the corner near the closet. Had the mysterious stalker been watching through the window, he would have been delighted to see her in nothing but silky, red-floral panties which were soon slid down Krystal's bare, pretty legs. Krystal was now 100% naked as she reached into the shower and turned on the water.
With the temperature finally adjusted as needed, Krystal entered the shower and closed the see-through glass shower doors. But she had no reason to worry. The blinds and curtains were drawn on the window so no one could see from outside.
Krystal washed her hair and was sure to apply conditioner. She used her soft, little sponge with scented, moisturizing soap to clean her silky, sexy, delicate skin. She shaved her pretty legs to ensure there were no rough stubbles.
In the meantime, George sat downstairs in the family room and continued to watch TV. It was then that the landline phone rang.
"Well this better be him!" he exclaimed upon standing up to answer it. He could see on the caller ID that it was son, Billy. George firmly gripped the receiver as if strangling someone while bringing it close enough to talk. "Well it's about time! Where the fuck were you?"
Back upstairs, Krystal turned off the water and reached for the towel that hung on the rack. Then she proceeded to dry her hair. For only an instant the towel covered her face while drying the top of her head. It was then that she felt a leather-gloved hand firmly grasp her throat.
Krystal jumped back and tried to scream, but couldn't get far—much less make a sound. You see, she was still in the shower and already close to the wall. As far as screaming went; it was impossible to exhale air, for the leather gloved hand locked Krystal's throat.
Poor Krystal struggled with all her might just to breathe! She tried to slap her assailant and get away, but he was too strong. Dressed in black stretch pants and a matching black shirt; he covered his face and head with a black ski mask. His firm grip remained around Krystal's throat. His strong arm held her pressed against the shower wall. And just as Krystal felt as though she would pass out due to strangulation, the leather-gloved hand slightly released and allowed Krystal to breathe.
"That's it..." the voice behind the black ski mask whispered. "I'll let you breathe a little… But don't dare make a sound.”
The beat of Krystal's racing heart could be seen through her naked chest as she struggled to breathe through a small allotment of windpipe passage.
"Did you get enough air?" asked the whispering voice behind the ski mask. "I think so... let's do some more..." The black leather glove tightened its grip around Krystal's throat so that, once again, breathing was impossible. Then the other black leather gloved hand harshly inserted its finger through Krystal’s pussy.
Far from being sexually aroused, and a bit too old to create enough lubrication; the invasive assault was painful. But the sick bastard behind black ski mask didn't care. With maniacal motion he harshly finger fucked Krystal's dry pussy.
She wanted to scream out in pain—not to mention terror—but it was impossible.
Then, after about twenty seconds of torture, the grip around Krystal's throat slightly released—just enough so she could catch her breath.
"That's right, bitch... get some air... get some air so we can continue..."
Back downstairs; George argued with his son, Billy, on the phone. "You better not!" he warned. "You're there to ride this out. I don't care if you don't like your classes or if things are too overwhelming for you. That's just life... What...? I don't think so...! You leave the campus and come home in a taxi, I'm going to punch you in the fucking mouth, you got that...? right in the fucking mouth—punch your teeth out."
Too bad George couldn't hear the terror that was happening upstairs. The mysterious stranger behind ski mask had another stranglehold around Krystal's throat and wouldn't let her breathe. It was another round of pussy torture as a leather-gloved finger maniacally fucked her.
Tears rolled down from Krystal's face. Her expression seemed to beg that he stop.
But the sick bastard behind ski mask didn't care. Instead he flashed his smiling teeth through the mouth opening of the ski mask. So delighted he whispered, "Oh, Krystal... You're so beautiful right now... Look at you, you can't breathe and you're about to pass out... And my leather finger is fucking your pussy... And those tears are so precious..." While continuing to maniacally finger fuck Krystal's pussy and choking her, the mysterious stranger leaned in kissed the tear off her pretty (and now pale) face.
It was then that Krystal fell weak from lack of oxygen and collapsed. But the stranger was sure to support her up, carry her out of the shower and lay her on the bathroom floor. He checked to ensure that Krystal's heart was still beating, and then confirmed that breathing had restored. Then, as unconscious Krystal lay on the bathroom floor, the mysterious stranger pulled down his black stretch pants to expose his excited, hard cock.
But Krystal was still too dry to be inserted by a big dick. No problem for the stranger. He reached for a bottle of hand lotion and pumped some on his hand to rub it on his dick. Then he jammed his hard cock inside of Krystal's pussy.
The shock of being harshly penetrated must have jolted Krystal to consciousness. She lay there in half a daze while being violently fucked on the floor like a rag doll. And just to keep things exciting, the sick bastard behind ski mask began slapping Krystal in the face with his black leather-gloved hands.
Before Krystal could scream, the mysterious stranger used one hand to resume choking her. "Don't make a sound, bitch..." he whispered. "You stay quiet until I'm done fucking you..." While pumping Krystal like a savage animal and gripping her throat so that she couldn't breathe, the stranger continued to beat and slap Krystal in the face. Then, finally, he blew his load of hot cum in her pussy; after which he jumped up and ran out of the bathroom.
Dazed and paralyzed from the agonizing ten minutes with the stranger, Krystal struggled and pushed herself off the ground. Naked, she staggered out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
Downstairs, George could be heard arguing with Billy. "So you stay there and you stick it out, understand?"
"George!" Krystal finally screamed. "George! She staggered down the stairs."
"I've got to go." informed George before hanging up the phone.
"What??? What's wrong???" He ran over to the staircase to see his badly beaten wife with strangle marks on her throat and a stranger’s cum dripping out of her pussy.
"I was raped! I was raped in the bathroom!"
George was so mad. He yelled out, "WHAT THE FUCK????" Then he punched his mighty fist through the foyer drywall.
To be continued...

Monday, February 23, 2015

The Black Leather Gloved Hands Mystery—story three

Hello All:
The nation is torn between yoga pants. Women, who can't wear them, hate them. They declare that yoga pants have been around long enough, and it's time for them to finally die. But women, who can wear them, continue to do so.
Why?
It’s because men love what they see when a woman wears them.—simple as that! Every man can agree how exciting a nice ass appears behind yoga pants, including me. Why just yesterday I was at the grocery store and standing in line at the deli. Much to my delight, a young woman wearing tight yoga pants with wild print stood nearby. And might I add that she possessed a really, nice ass!
When it was time to check out at the front of the store (purchase my items), I was delighted to find out that I was behind the yoga pants goddess. I could check out more than my groceries, if you know what I mean! I soon noticed that she had another young woman with her, probably her sister. And I couldn't help but notice that fixings for Mexican food—most likely tacos—were laid out on the conveyor belt. They were discussing some sort of party later that afternoon. At the moment I wished that I were invited. Women in tight yoga pants, serving tacos and maybe alcoholic beverages; what guy wouldn't want to be in such a place?
Their groceries were bagged and they paid. Next, I was rung up. I only had lunchmeat and bread for the kids' lunches for the week. In less than a minute I was on my way and heading out the door.
"Sir! Sir!" a voice called from behind.
I looked behind me. It was the bagger who ran up to me with a small, plastic bag. "You forgot this."
"What is it?" I asked.
"It's hot sauce." he answered.
"No, that's not mine." I argued. Then I remembered the wild yoga pants goddess with her sister. They were having some sort of taco party! "It belongs to the women who were in front of me. Hang on, I'll look for them." I promised.
I scoped out the lot, and within a few seconds I spotted my wild yoga pants goddess. I ran over to them. "Hey! Hey! You forgot something. You forgot your hot sauce!"
I was truly honored just to have a brief conversation with her!
So never underestimate the power of yoga pants. They leave a lasting impression, and assure that people will remember what items you had on the on the conveyor belt at the grocery story. If you forget your hot sauce, a nice guy like me will track you down to remind you.
***
Today's featured writing is new installment to our Black Leather Gloved Hands Mystery series. In case this is your first time checking in, be sure to catch up with this series before reading the new story.
The Black Leather Gloved Hands Mystery—story three
Recall from the last story in our Black Leather Gloved Hands Mystery series that forty-eight year old housewife, Krystal, was left alone for the weekend as her husband, George, traveled out of town on business. This was poor timing as Krystal had  received a disturbing package at the door on Thursday morning, just before the weekend was to begin. The package contained nothing more than a pair of panties with a knife sticking through the crotch. Ketchup was drizzled over the panties to suggest blood.
Krystal begged George not to go. Both their kids were away at college which meant she would be all alone. But he managed to calm her fears and reassure his wife that the police would keep an eye on the house. George, after all, was friends with the police commissioner.
But the police must not have been watching close enough! On Saturday night as she took a shower, an individual in dark clothes with a ski mask climbed a nearby tree that was close to the window and watched Krystal in her most private moments in the bathroom. A pair of black leather gloved hands held a smart phone that recorded everything—every moment in the shower behind glass doors!
***
George returned home at around 11:30pm, Sunday night. The taxi dropped him off at the front curb, and he soon walked through the front door with his luggage.
Eagerly anticipating her husband’s arrival, Krystal came out to the upstairs balcony and greeted George at the foyer below. "Hi!"
"Hi! Did you miss me?" he asked.
"Of course I did! Leave your luggage down there and come to bed. I'll take care of your laundry and stuff in the morning."
"Okay..." agreed George. "But let me make a quick snack before going to bed. I'm starving!"
While his wife lay in bed, George made a quick turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich with mayonnaise and tomato. He devoured it, and then washed it all down with a glass of milk. Then he went to bed.
Keep in mind that both George and Krystal stayed in contact while he was gone on business. Of course the brief discussion of any frightening happenings might have been brought up a couple of times. But Krystal reassured George that all was well. She was safe and sound with nothing to worry about in his absence.
But what was this? The following morning, Monday, as George entered the bathroom to take his shower, he was startled to see large print letters from—perhaps—a magazine that were cut out and taped to the outside bathroom window. Various colors, fonts and mismatched sizes; they formed the disturbing message, "I saw everything and liked it! Thank you!"
"Krystal!" shouted George to his wife who remained laying in bed.
"What?" she answered.
"Come here!"
Nervously Krystal entered the bathroom. "What? What's wrong?"
"Look!" George pointed at the message taped to the outside bathroom window.
"Oh my gosh!" exclaimed Krystal. She raised her hand to her agape mouth; soon to begin hyperventilating. "Oh no! I can't believe it! Someone was out there?"
"Apparently!" answered George. "And you didn't sense anyone outside?"
"No!” answered Krystal. She staggered out of the bedroom and over to the bed where she sat at the edge. Struck with a wave of anxiety, she buried her head in her hands. "This is getting carried away.” she cried out. “I still can't believe that happened. Someone actually climbed up the tree and watched me in the shower when I was alone? Who is doing this?"
"I don't know..." answered George. He continued to stare at the message on the window with mouth hanging open from breathing heavy. How dare someone do such a thing? Whoever was behind all of this had no idea what sort of man George is.
More and more rage consumed George. He was so strong; so pumped with adrenaline and testosterone. Did people not see that he was raging bull with an ability to cause severe damage? Unable to control himself, George finally shouted out, "WHAT THE FUCK?????" The he punched his fist through the bathroom wall.
Out of fear and uncontrollable anxiety, weak and frail Krystal started to sob.
***
George is a real man driven by aggression and living life on the edge. Being the case, he isn't one of those guys who drive the roads and highways, carefully. The same holds true with parking lots. On Monday morning, he sailed through the parking lot at work at 30 MPH, and over to the privileged underground parking garage. George is a man of high status and deserves private underground parking.
"Come-on, asshole, move!" he shouted at the car in front of him. Unlike George, the driver in front of him drove the posted speed limit of 10 MPH. "Come-on! I don't have all day!"
It was necessary to be escorted by the slow car—an old man—through the garage until reaching his spot.
Five minutes later, George stormed into the office with laptop bag strapped to his shoulder and Starbuck's coffee in hand. But before he could get any further, George was stopped in the hallway by his boss, Dominick.
"George, can I see you in my office for a second?"
"Sure, is everything okay?" he asked while trailing behind his boss.
Dominick sighed, "No, not really. I guess I just to get to the bottom of something." He sat down behind his executive desk and slid the mouse to wake the screen up.
"And what's that?" asked George.
"Well... step over here."
George did as ordered and walked behind his boss' desk to observe the computer monitor.
Dominick took a deep breath. "Alright, this isn't easy; but an email was sent from an outside source to everyone in this office. And it contains some sensitive images of a woman in the shower. Whoever sent it says that the woman is your wife." By now, the email was open and Dominick carefully scrolled through the images. Sure enough, they showcased high-resolution photos of naked Krystal in the shower. Her small breasts, perky ass and glistening skin could be seen in full color. There were even tantalizing images of soap suds that ran down her back and ass.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" shouted George.
"Shh... take it easy." ordered Dominick.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, TAKE IT EASY? HOW WOULD YOU FEEL?"
Dominick stood up and placed his hand on George's muscular shoulder while reassuring him, "I understand your outrage. Try to understand that we had IT remove all the emails from everyone's mailbox. But I need to ask you; is everything okay at home. What's going on?"
With blood-pumped face, George did his best to calmly explain, "We had an incident last Thursday. Someone mailed my wife a pair of panties with a knife pushed through the crotch. The panties were smothered in ketchup."
"Ewwww! That's frightening! I'm sorry to hear that."
George continued, "I had the police watch the house while I was gone. But it looks like someone climbed the tree near our bathroom window and took these photos.
Dominick shook his head in disbelief. "Again, I am very sorry to hear about this. If there's anything we can do to help..."
"Well yeah you can help me!" snapped George. "You can help me by sending this email to the police."
"Absolutely!" reassured Dominick. "And they might be interested in the information that the sender provided. Read what this person wrote.
George returned to his boss' computer and scrolled up to the top of the email which read, "I'm sure all of you will be interested in seeing these pictures. They are naked images of George's beautiful wife in the shower. Isn't she gorgeous? Doesn't she have nice tits and ass? George is so lucky to have the privilege of fucking her. And it's going to be my privilege to fuck her when George isn't looking. You see, I've been stalking George's wife for some time and soon plan on attacking her when she's alone. I'm going to fuck George's wife and make sure it's all on video for you to enjoy."
As George read the final sentences, his body trembled and heart rate accelerated. "What the fuck?" he exclaimed.
"Okay, take it easy." urged Dominick. "I know this isn't easy, but once the police get hold of this they will have evidence. They can track IP addresses and stuff. They'll probably have this guy by the end of the day." But then Dominick reminded George, "Now IT did a pretty thorough job in removing this from everyone's mailboxes, but there's no guarantee that a couple of people wouldn't have seen it."
And right Dominick was! At that very moment; the office rookie, Steve, was in one of the bathroom stalls with the printed email. And he was sure to have used the color printer with high resolution settings. He wanted to see every fine detail of Krystal's naked body.
Steve, if you recall, was the young rookie who George stole a deal from. Many people say that George did it simply as a means to piss and mark territory. He did it to feed his ego and prove that he could make life miserable for a young guy.
Well now Steve had pictures of George's naked wife! With excitement he rubbed and stroked his erect cock while fantasizing that he fucked precious Krystal. And it wouldn't be long before he blew a load of cum all over her sweet ass!

To be continued...

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

The Knife

Hello All:
I've reached a point in my little writing career in which it is realized that more money is being made through this blog than in mainstream catalog book sales! It's led me to think, "Well screw it! Since very, few people like to purchase books from unknown, self-published authors; then just make everything on the mainstream catalogs for free! I'll get hundreds of downloads per month and I'll become more well known. In the meantime, I can concentrate on generating money with the blog."
So how does one generate money on a blog?--you might ask? Well, assuming that the blogger uses Google blogs (that's me), it's as easy as signing up for Google Ad Sense. If you look around your screen, you will see various ads--some of them pictures; some of them actual videos. I receive advertising fees if people click these ads. (Please do not click any of the ads unless you are truly interested in the products and services! We need to be ethical!) And the way you get people to click the ads is by playing the numbers game of drawing in traffic.
How does one draw in traffic? There are a number of ways this can be done. Historically, this blog has simply been available on the search engines. If someone wants information on--say--how to use a spirit box, one of the articles on this blog will appear in a Google search. I call this "natural traffic". People are discovering the blog on their own.
A new marketing technique that I have used to draw in over a thousand hits per day is Twitter. If you follow me on Twitter, then you probably notice in recent weeks that I've been tweeting the hell out of my blog. This, I assume, is responsible for the small amount of revenue that I receive throughout the weeks.
But what's this? On this particular week it's been a bit busy for me. It leaves no time for writing or promoting the blog. This means I haven't made a tweet in a couple of days. Blog traffic has crashed, and is now back to what I call that "natural level"--people discovering the blog on their own. But I'm surprised to discover that advertising fees are still coming in!
So is Twitter a waste when it comes to money? Have I discovered that it's actually the "natural traffic flow" that brings in money? This theory is difficult to believe, but I'm going to have to test it. I'm going to have to allow a couple of weeks to go by without tweeting my blog. If I earn just as much money, then I'll know.
The new question would be: how do we increase revenue with "natural traffic flow".
***
Today's featured writing is a short story I had written when I was only 9 years old. For that matter, the entire direction and purpose of the story should be merely entertainment, something unusual to add to your collection. Revised over 30 years later, the actual story is weirder than it attempts to be frightening. Because of this, I take the reader behind the scenes and describe how that 9-year-old boy found inspiration for his work. Sit back and enjoy a tale of terror that could only come from the mind of a young boy.


The Knife
Such a gruesome tale that would project the reader into a blood bath of terror: to produce the ultimate horror story was a 9-year-old boy's ultimate dream. I sat upstairs in the living room one Sunday afternoon, and dreamed of being a writer, an author who would shock the world with his terrifying story.
I descended the staircase into the basement, and entered a dim room that my parents called "the study". It was a simple room of nothing more than an old, wooden desk with a chair and a small bookshelf that contained my father's business books. Sitting on the desk was an old, tackle box which contained antique art supplies such as paint, small brushes and chalk. The very existence of the art supplies was my reason for coming down into the study. The cover of my book needed to be created first, as it would help me to dream of the story. With feverish intensity I used the antique paint and brushes to produce a large knife with blood dripping from the blade. And the background was smudged with additional red paint to give it a gruesome appearance.
But the preliminaries to writing weren't over yet, not for this young author! In the closet of the study was an old, leather belt. Red paint was soon smeared on the strap. Then the walls of the study were repeatedly whipped. Red blood had streaked on the drywall with every crack of the leather strap. And when the red looked to be thin, more paint was added to the belt. It was actually an aerobic workout as that 9-year-old boy played out the tragic beating of an unfortunate soul, whose blood splattered on every wall. By the time I had completed this dance of gore, the room resembled a slaughter house! There, now the book could be written!
***
Once upon a time, a series of murders had terrified a small town. Bodies with multiple puncture wounds that were violently administered by a sharp object were discovered in various places of the woods. In an effort to protect citizens from any further killings, police urgently warned residents to keep out of the local forest preserves. A killer could have been at large, and the best way to prevent further murders was to avoid the woods all together.
But for such a beautiful, sunny morning; a nameless woman was tempted to throw caution to the wind and enjoy a casual stroll in the forest. She parked her car at the entrance; a gentle breeze picked up which rustled the leaves of trees into a dance of warning with the reflection of sunlight. But the warning was ignored as she entered the arborous world of solitude and isolation.
Onward she traveled, deeper and deeper into the thick, green realm of danger. But outside of her own footsteps, not a sound could be heard. There were no birds, no furry creatures and no appearances of deer. It was as if the forest, itself, was terrified of the blood thirsty presence which was in search of a new victim. Perhaps this is why the nameless woman's senses were keenly tuned to the surroundings where an unusual sight had been noticed.
It was a flash of light, sort of a metallic reflection of sun that caught her eye. Some 50 feet to the right of the walking path, a glowing object bobbed in midair. And as the nameless woman followed the trail with eyes on the mysterious sight, her direction turned so that the new angle had revealed that a large knife floated in midair.
Startled, she walked quicker; but the knife began to float towards her. The unexplained phenomenon only produced an instinctive terror with a need to run. Faster and faster, she looked behind her; but the pointed edge trailed closely. What would it do if the running stopped? Most likely, she assumed, the knife would penetrate her flesh. Perhaps this was how the brutal murders had taken place in the woods. And it was soon realized that the force behind the blade was merely playing with the nameless woman. Occasionally it increased in speed so that it would slice at her arm, her back, her neck; all the while creating a sense of laughter and delight.
But the nameless woman refused to be another casualty at the hands of the devious knife! And as luck would have it, she spotted a cabin distanced by a mere 100 yards. Could she make it?
The knife remained just inches from her back as the nameless woman's lungs were seconds from exploding! But how could she stop to open the door? In a desperate attempt to distance herself, she went past the cabin and turned left so that she circumnavigated the perimeter of the building and back to the door. Apparently this stalled the floating knife, but there wasn't a second to spare! The door was opened and slammed shut. The sound of the knife poked and rattled in the wood.
Violently breathing, sweat pouring down her face and shaking in terror, the nameless woman found safer ground in the cabin. But how could she escape? Leaving the building would only invite another chase by the knife. And the woods were void of any life. Sensible residents of the small town stayed out of the forest as they heeded warnings of police.
Just then, there was the sound of shattering glass! The knife had projected itself through the window and towards the frightened woman. She ran into the bedroom but felt a sharp sting in her spine, then her kidneys, then the back of her neck. The knife repeatedly stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her! It was a bloody mess!
***
Of course completing the first chapter of a book required a celebration. This was done by applying more paint to the old, leather strap and whipping the walls until they were bloody red. Then I ran upstairs in excitement to proudly show my mother the new book. But she was not happy, threatening to cancel cable TV, because only ideas like my story could come from watching paid programming.
A few weeks later, my parents discovered the gruesome scene in the basement; and I was asked if I put red paint on the belt and whipped the walls with them. I denied this, of course; but couldn't think of anything to suggest. Maybe our dog did it. She was always conspiring ways to frame me so that I would be wrongfully punished. I almost suggested that perhaps someone was murdered in the study, but I didn't think they would believe me.

Friday, February 13, 2015

The Echovox System 3.0: so complex, is a technical paper even be possible?

Hello All:
I downloaded the Echovox spirit box app over the Christmas holiday after receiving one of those Google Play gift cards. I was amazed, needless to say, with its functionality. Utilizing the phenomenon of echo; the app blends four channels (previous version before the system 3.0 upgrade) of random (what I would describe as) AM radio voices, and then feeds it back into the device's mic to be processed as an echo.
The echo phenomenon puts a new spin on paranormal communication. An entire technical paper can be written on the phenomenon of sound and its effect on the psyche. In fact, I've already begun doing this.
But then I received an update to the Echovox spirit box. I now have the Echovox System 3.0. It's a mind blowing tool that not only utilizes the feedback echo option, but it also gives the user the option to explore reverb effects and various equalizer functions.
And so I've added more detail to my technical paper and review of the revolutionary Echovox. One of the arguments I intend to make is that this app is truly a tool that opens portals to the spirit world; that world that hides behind the veil.
But I'm afraid this won't be so easy. You see, last night I was exploring the reverb settings and taking notes to add to my upcoming paper. I had two channels slowly sweeping with the audio/echo processed in such a way that voices sounded as-if to be carrying long distance through--perhaps--a cave. As I listened, I was pulled into a distant reality. It was the voice of a man and woman who discussed something, nearly to the point of arguing.
The first intelligible word that I heard from the woman was, "Pregnant..."
"Pregnant?" asked the male voice.
"Yes, pregnant..."
In the background there were noises that sounded like silverware and dishes being slammed around. I realized that the two might have been in a kitchen and discussing a pregnancy.
The male voice argued something. But it was unintelligible. He clearly was not happy
The female voice argued back, "Well this is what happens!"
There was more slamming of dishes, pots and pans. It was then that I pulled out of the trance and shut the box off. Apparently someone was just hit with the reality of a pregnancy. Was it a husband and wife who felt they were not prepared for a new baby? Was it a pair of lovers who realized the consequences of making love? Or was it a mother and father who discussed their teenage daughter’s pregnancy? I’m afraid I’ll never know.
But the experience made me realize for the first time just how powerful the Echovox System 3.0 really is. And how in the world can I write a technical paper and that teaches people how to generate (what I would call) "long distance realities" in which one can eavesdrop on conversations?
I'm toying with the idea of featuring the Echovox System 3.0 in an upcoming Mapleview novel. One of the characters should rely on this instrument to generate his or her desired realities. Maybe then I could educate people on the unlimited potential of this app.
***
In case you are unfamiliar with these spirit box apps, I'm going to make today's featured writing a technical paper that I wrote on the Echovox's predecessor; the SpiritVoice 2.0.

Have a great weekend! For mind-blowing experiences with the paranormal, do download the Echovox System 3.0.

Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box--review, operation, settings and app notes
From the labs of Big Beard Audio—specializing in research and development of paranormal software—comes an impressive evolution in ghostly communication. Released with more features and advancement than its predecessor, the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box promises an authentic means to communicate with ghosts and spirits existing in the other realm. And it certainly does deliver!
Before examining the quality and operation of this app, it's certainly worth commenting on the artwork and design. Compared to the earlier model, SpiritVox, the Spirit Voice SW Ghost Box captures the psychological effect of aged wood. The background mimics the color, design and texture of antique wood that might be found on old furniture in your great grandmother's attic. Surrounding this background is ornate, yet, old and corroded metal trim with artistic engravings that would have been common in olden times. And take a look at the power button! It's an antique, fogged mirror which might symbolize a portal that can be opened. Although the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box is intended for ghostly communication, one look at it might suggest that the app, itself, is haunted! And it is! After a few sessions of using it, this app takes on a life of its own. I've jokingly mentioned to my wife and kids that I've come to see the people in the Ghost Box as my friends!
Electronic communication with ghosts and discarnate entities has been conceptualized and employed since the days of Thomas Edison. In fact, Edison once remarked something to the extent that since ghosts could induce subtle changes here in the physical realm, it might be more accurate (than Ouija boards) to communicate with spirits through electric devices. As for the modern-day spirit box, credit for this invention rightfully go to Frank Sumption, who—in 2002—developed the "Frank's Box" which combines white noise with an AM radio frequency to be swept back and forth at a high rate through the AM radio dial. Through combined syllables and sounds heard while sweeping the radio at this high rate, messages from the ghostly world can theoretically be heard. Today there's been an explosion of these devices made available for consumers.
The popular belief of the "Frank's Box" style of ghost communicators is that they contain specialized internal circuitry that enables the voices of ghosts to transverse across the spiritual realm into the physical world. But a scientific examination of these ghost communicators reveals that they are nothing more than a simple AM/FM radio with an indefinite sweep mode to scan the commercial radio band. Many people who purchase these devices under the belief that they contain specialized internal circuitry to receive ghostly voices are often disappointed, and soon believe the "Frank's Box" to be a hoax. What's more, psychology experts are citing the "Frank's Box" to operate on nothing more than pareidolia and cognitive biasing.
But don't be so quick to write-off the "Frank's Box" method of ghostly communication to be inefficient. For you see, pareidolia and cognitive biasing are the main ingredients for the ancient art of divination. Now, in modern times, an ingenious method has been developed to utilize the ancient art of divination through electronic means. Consider it magick meets technology. And it's nothing short of revolutionary.
At this very moment there are many entities, angels, messengers and spirit guides who attempt to communicate with us. Subconsciously we already know what these entities are trying to tell us. Their messages are simply waiting to finally escape the subconscious and into the conscious mind. When listening to the high-paced sweeping of the "Frank's Box" style of spirit communicators; the random syllables, words and noises received triggers the conscious mind to finally understand what the spirit world is trying to tell us. This is made possible through the psychological phenomenon of pareidolia and cognitive biasing.
In the age of Android smart phones and tablets in which there is feasibly an app for everything, should there not be an app that serves as a spirit box? This is what the folks working in the labs of Big Beard Audio have been developing. They have an entire line of paranormal software products to be used as tools for interfacing with the spirit realm. I downloaded and briefly test drove a few apps before deciding on the best spirit box
app to use. In my search, it appeared as though Big Beard Audio originally released the SpiritVox 2.0 which offered a simple dual channel mixer of white noise and randomly generated AM radio voices. As seen in the screenshot, a slide-controller blends in the right amount of white noise with voices. The app even allows the user to record and later play back a session. It's an excellent app and many people have claimed much success with it.
The Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box takes it a step further by including a third channel of auto-generated words which are externally triggered by EMF fluctuations in the air. These naturally occurring EMF fluctuations which are theorized to be controlled by ghosts are detected by your Android's internal compass. Many users of spirit boxes believe that ghosts have the ability to manipulate EMF, and can do it in such a way to trigger meaningful words within a device for communication. If you have, however, a tablet, the internal compass is not available. The third channel of voices is simply random like the AM radio voices.
The presence of this second channel of voices introduces a new phenomenon that some paranormal investigators are beginning to realize. When two independent channels of information randomly generate, the outputs are mysteriously in agreement or in harmony with one another. Consider it a "stereo" effect which allows deeper emphasis and meaning to ghostly messages.
There is a complaint with the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box. The words generated by EMF fluctuations are created by the Android's voice which sounds a lot like artificial voicemail. It can be annoying, and many people wish to disable this channel and focus entirely on the AM radio voices. The original version did not include this disabling feature. But there has been a released upgrade which allows users to turn off the Android voice channel in the settings menu which is accessed through the menu key. But if you have a Google Android, you will need to be patient as these devices do not have a menu key. Google replaced the menu key with what is called the "Action Bar"—a soft key embedded in the screen of the app. Although the settings feature was made available for users of Google devices, the screen is currently (June 2013) not displaying it. This is soon to change.
I am thoroughly impressed with the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box, and give it a five-star rating of satisfaction. It should also be mentioned that the developer of the entire line of Big Beard Audio paranormal software is very reachable. He is dedicated to creating authentic apps and wishes for them to truly work for you. If you are having trouble with your app or understanding its operation, there is no reason to return it and post a nasty review. Take time to contact the developer directly for questions and suggestions.
Check out the website for information on the app: http://spiritvox.bigbeardaudio.com/
Email the developer with any questions: spiritvox@bigbeardaudio.com
You can also contact the developer (like I did) on Twitter: @spiritvoxap

Understanding and Operating your Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost

Discarnates
Before examining the process of ghost box communication and the various modes of operation for the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box, we should discuss the types of spirits which can be encountered. Going forward, any time you receive a seemingly intelligent message through a spirit box, it should immediately be considered to originate from what is called a discarnate. A discarnate is an entity without a physical body. Discarnates, however, take up a wide spectrum. And as you will see, the term discarnate can be misleading because discarnate messages can even originate from physical people. For the sake of simplicity, however, let us first introduce the spectrum into three major classes of discarnates:
·         Self (the actual user of the spirit box)
·         Physical being (an actual person who is remotely transmitting through telepathic means to your device)
·         Non-physical (ghosts, spirits, inter-dimensional beings, etc.)
Break-Down of Discarnate Classes
Self: When a new user initially experiences a spirit box, a large percentage of discarnate messages are actually reflections of the id, ego and super ego. It isn't uncommon to receive urgent messages that remind you to maintain your morality. Some messages remind you or clarify you of certain situations or circumstances in your life that you may already be aware of. In moments of super-consciousness, items may be brought to your attention that hadn't been considered before. With enough practice, it is very possible to use the spirit box as a tool to trigger super consciousness and directly communicate with your id, ego and super-ego as a means to gauge people, events and circumstances beyond what the physical senses allow.
Phantasms: A phantasm is the final product brought on by fantasizing about a person or condition to the point that this person or condition can be sensed or even seen. Most often phantasms are created by mourners who think and dream so much of the dearly departed that the imagined ghost of the deceased is perceived to be there. Phantasms can also be created by falling terribly in love with another person to the point that you so strongly desire for this person to be near. “Phanstasming” is a product of our imagination, so voices of a phantasm through a spirit box is technically a discarnate originating from the self. Whether or not "phantasming" can realistically attract the spirit or consciousness of a desired person is debatable. But it is theorized that this technique assists in opening a portal to communicate with a deceased relative, or even a living stranger that one has fallen in love with.
Physical beings: If two or more people set out to engage in long-distanced telepathic communication, then it is certainly possible to receive messages from a physical person through the discarnate realm. There are all sorts of techniques that people use to achieve telepathy that go beyond the scope of this discussion. But a spirit box can assist in opening this portal. It might even be possible to use the spirit box as an early warning detection against unwanted person(s) who intrude upon your thoughts by psychic means. Pay attention to unusual messages or combinations of letters or numbers that could suggest attempted telepathic hijacking. It is also possible to scan the "discarnate airwaves" of a room full of people for any thoughts or subconscious motives of those nearby. But keep in mind that this could be considered a psychic intrusion and might be unethical.
Non-physical beings: Non-physical beings encompass a large variety of entities such as ghosts and poltergeists; angels, saints and spirit guides; evil demons and malicious spirits; or even higher-dimension beings that do not exist in the physical realm. When attempting communication with non-physical beings, much of it is based on intention and the "open/closed rule". Let's say you wish to venture into the forest where you feel you can communicate with a helpful spirit guide. You must first protect yourself by—perhaps—saying a prayer of protection or casting a protective circle in which demonic or malicious spirits are not allowed. Within this circle or simply your intention, you make it known that only your helpful spirit guide is welcome. From that point you receive the discarnate messages from your spirit guide.
Communicating with suspected ghosts or poltergeists takes on a similar approach. Again, be sure to first protect yourself with a prayer or even cast a circle. Your intention of communicating with the ghost opens the actual portal. And chances are, a ghost is very eager to give you a message and will easily communicate through the spirit box.
Just a brief comment on communicating with evil spirits or demons: in all the helpful and benevolent spirits who eagerly communicate with us, why would one choose to associate with harmful entities who do nothing more than hate, and think of ways of hurting people? Imagine your neighborhood, and all the friendly people who you encounter throughout the day. It’s certainly a good thing to interact and make friends with these people. But at the end of the block is that creepy serial killer/sexual offender who possesses an air of hate and negativity. Would you really take your children to this house and pay a visit? Use some common sense. Spirit boxes are very dangerous for the simple reason that demons and evil spirits try to access the physical realm through them. If you choose to interact with demonic spirits, then that’s your prerogative. But it’s best to keep your sessions closed from these types of spirits.
If you wish to communicate with higher-dimension beings, you must first verify that they wish to communicate with you. Really think about it. Who are you? What do you want? Why do you wish to contact beings in the higher dimension, and what do you have to offer them? Let's say you wish to communicate with Edgar Cayce’s Arcturian race that lives on the Arcturus star system. Create your protective enclosure to ensure that no harmful or malicious spirits can invade your session. Then simply trigger the necessary altered state of consciousness with the intention of connecting with the Arcturians. If connection is a success, you will then receive discarnate messages through the spirit box.
General Safety and Operation of a Spirit Box
In the past decade since spirit boxes have been put to use, a general safety and procedure has been formed to be strictly followed. This should also include the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box.
1. Before beginning a session, be sure to say a prayer and do some sort of protective ritual. Why allow harmful spirits to access your opened portal and hurt you?
2. Once activated with desired settings, allow the spirit box to scan the voices for about a minute or so as you get accustomed to the sounds. Eventually the random words will have a certain intelligence or meaning.
3. Either think or ask out loud your question only once, and then wait for the answer. Do not repeatedly ask for an answer or constantly ask for a nearby spirit to manifest itself through the spirit box. This will be similar to asking someone a question and then talking when he or she is trying to answer.
4. Here's a strange rule: Never believe the discarnate messages that originate from your spirit box. Always be skeptical and assume that maybe you have misinterpreted what was heard. If a message sounds reasonable, do some research to verify before concluding it to be true. Be a scientist and confirm the validity of what a spirit box tells you. It isn't unusual to later on realize that a message may have seemed to inform of one thing, but really meant another.
5. Always close your session by informing discarnate spirits that your ghost box is being turned off which means that the portal is being closed. Because of this, any spirits that were communicated with cannot linger around. Not only is this done for safety, but this is also a psychological technique that allows you to fully return from the spiritual/magickal realm and back to physical reality.
Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box Settings and Modes of Operation
The Raimbault Setting
A Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box setting has been created for this document and is being called the Raimbault setting. The Raimbault Setting is perfect for acquainting oneself with the use of spirit boxes. With the controls set as shown in the picture, both AM radio voices and Android-EMF-induced voices can be heard with just the right amount of blended white noise. Sweep rate is set with the "Playback Rate" controller. At this speed, there is a considerable amount of delay between generated words.
What is the significance of white noise, and why must it be blended? For purposes of discussion, let's talk about the television. When a television receives no broadcast signal, it still receives random signals of an ultra-low power in infinite directions of the visible and non-visible spectrums. Your local cable company most-likely measures power in terms of decibels per millivolt (dBm). 7dBm typically enters the home (sometimes more if additional TVs are used). When split throughout the home, the measured signal at each TV is 3dBm. White noise, however, is measured at -60dBm. Yes, white noise actually dips below the zero level which means a station tuned to nothing but white noise is susceptible to signal bleed-over from other stations, interference from nearby electrical devices, natural phenomenon such as weather, and cosmic occurrences such as solar flares or even bursts of energy from distant pulsars, quasars and supernovae.
White noise is likened to the element of Air. It's vast and empty, yet it is the opened gateway to the universe, carrying light and energy from the farthest reaches of the cosmos. It can even serve as a medium for telepathic communication between people, ghosts or even extra terrestrials residing on other planets who have their "ears on the spectrum", listening to those who listen for them.
Pure EMF Reception Setting
The Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box features the android voice channel which is triggered through EMF fluctuations in the air. These EMF fluctuations are detected by the device's internal compass (provided your device offers this). In the Pure EMF Reception Setting, all sliders are positioned to the right. This turns off white noise and AM radio voice generations. The playback rate could be experimented with if desired, but as illustrated in the picture, there is a considerable amount of delay between EMF-triggered words. If you've ever seen reality TV paranormal investigator shows, then you might notice the use of silent spirit boxes that sometimes relay a word that is assumedly from a nearby ghost. The Pure EMF Reception setting duplicates this silent mode, and is ideal for haunted environments in which a ghost can trigger a word via EMF fluctuations.
A very interesting setting being called the Mega-Blast Setting induces a near hypnotic trance to the user. As shown in the image, white noise is turned off and both channels of voices are set to audible. The sweep rate (controlled by Playback Rate) is at maximum level. The end result is an
Mega-Blast Setting
overwhelming amount of words and syllables that are sent through the box. After about a minute of this audible sensory overload, the user mentally selects words and phrases that actually form ideas and sentences. Does this open a portal to communicate with entities in the discarnate realm? It's a very interesting and mind-blowing setting that some might find to be very useful. It's advised not to use this setting while driving or operating heavy machinery, due to the mild trance that can be induced.
Silent Modes of Operation:
If you've yet to download the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box, then you might not be aware of the Android voice words that actually appear at the bottom of the screen. Yes, while the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box is running, a visual display of the audible Android words can be seen. It's assumed that the developer of this app wished to provide clarification if a user might be unable to clearly hear a word. But this feature also makes it convenient to operate the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box in silent mode. To do this, simply lower the volume of your device to mute, and then pay attention to the words on the screen.
Silent Mode 1
The settings for Silent Mode 1 are ideal for situations in which a user wishes to discreetly consult the spirit box without people, nearby, noticing. Suppose you are at a company meeting, and the manager says something that sounds a bit suspicious and encrypted. Everyone knows that managers are notorious for covering the truth when addressing employees. What does your manager know? What important information is your manager hiding that he or she chooses to withhold from employees at the meeting? Simply pull out your device and open the spirit box app. Be sure the settings are duplicated as seen in the image, and that your volume is turned to mute. Then activate the start button.
Similar to Mega-Blast mode, an overwhelming amount of words will be splashed at the bottom of the screen. As this occurs, you will mentally pick and choose words that form ideas and sentences. Within less than a minute, you will have a fairly accurate idea as to what is being unfairly shrouded from your knowledge. And the best part, people nearby will think that you are merely checking a text message or looking up some information.
Silent Mode 2
Silent Mode 2 is an interesting experiment that might actually prove to be an effective mode of operation for you. Because the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box is an app that can be run in the background, it is possible to turn the sweep rate down to ultra slow (make sure volume is muted), close the screen of your device and then put it back in your pocket to check throughout the day. This mode was tested throughout the day by occasionally checking the screen for words that might serve as clues or indicators of encountered people and events. Surprisingly, it was found that the words in those moments did have connection!
Conclusion
We are only at the threshold of understanding and utilizing paranormal technology in our daily lives. Understand that the ideas, theories, settings of operation, and uses discussed in this document are only a fraction of the possibilities available with the Spirit Voice 2.0 SW Ghost Box. And there are so many rules and additional guidelines that need to be formed with the use of these paranormal devices. Take for example a seemingly reasonable revelation provided by a discarnate: although the message is undeniably accurate, it must also be decided who it pertains to. Is the discarnate reflecting your personal perception, or is it revealing the perception of another person? As you can see, it will be a long time before people can be considered masters of spirit boxes.
A final word: do exercise caution when using a spirit box. Let it be known that spirit boxes are very dangerous, and can cause significant spiritual and psychological harm if safety is not observed. Spirit boxes are also addictive, and might even be misleading if the user imposes his or her own perceptions or desires onto discarnate messages.
Spirit boxes are to be used in moderation for the simple reason that it's possible to overuse a helpful paranormal channel. What are the warning signs that you have lost control? Well, if you have to ask this question, then you probably are using it too much. If you are irritable or becoming frustrated with a session and its lack of consistency, then you know you’ve been tuned in for too long. End the session! Put the spirit box away for a couple days or even a couple of weeks. When you resume your sessions, be more sensible.


Spirit boxes are helpful and even fun and entertaining. They help us tap into the subconscious mind and communicate with the discarnate realm. But be smart with your spirit box. Respect the spirit world and see it as a beautiful and mysterious place. But remain cautious that you could easily get hurt.