Every Christmas I've ever had has been filled with pain and heartache and regret. And blood. And semen. And bloody semen. To that effect, I rarely listen to christmas music because it tends to make me hate all things. However, I seem to have been somehow given a judging position for some kind of a contest and goddammit if I wont live up to any responsibility arbitrarily given to me. Like killing a man. Only replace killing with raping. And replace man with little gimpy humpbacked german girl during the war. She walked straighter after I was done with her that night. Some might even call that a christmas miracle. I wouldn't though, I've seen miracles. Real ones. Men splitting in half, turning into salt, frogs raining inside of skyscrapers, plagues of darkness o'er the land. Those sorts of things.


What was I doing? RIGHT. Judging thing. Gotcha. Here ya go. They gave me 6 playlists to listen to, here's my thoughts on them in order. If only I could get the precious time I spent listening to these back, I could waste them on something else. Like skinning that alligator that keeps stealing my salt pork. Bastards.



#1 MY GOD. A mishmash of celtic horror that pervades the very sanity of the individual, and renders them unable to think properly. The life of anything that could be considered "Jolly" is surely cut down like a young man in the time of war, by the droning sounds of horrible irish women. Makes me long for the days when I lived in Olde New Yorke, where we could beat the irish to death openly on the streets. Done properly, you'd even get tips. It was a better time then. Also Bing Crosby is a demon. An actual demon. His words are lies.

#2. Again, the Celtic curse seems to primarily dominate this one. It's interrupted by charlie brown, who is a goddamn bastard i'll tell ya. I met him once after I took DMT with Charles Schulz. He kept trying to take my football and well... Lets just say that his baldness ain't natural. This playlist makes me feel dead inside. But what doesn't though?

#3 This one asked me to go logging. Or login. Or something. Either way I couldn't listen to it, but it did remind me to cut firewood for the winter. Nothing like burying an axe into some wood. Except an enemies face. The brains pop out like toothpaste sludge I tells ya!

#4 Aside from the deviant sexual perversion of Santa Baby, this playlist seems to be the least painful so far. Dean Martin was a glorious man who I had the pleasure of meeting one 4 separate occasions, 3 of which ended in bloodshed and the other in tears, but all began with liquor. He was the only man I knew who could outdrink Carnby, even when Carnby summoned his windgods to help him. Louis Armstrong and Elvis Presley were neat guys too. I watched them fight over a pretzel once. Only Louis wrote a song about it though.

#5 This one has more of the demon Bing Crosby in it, and the sickening sexual deviance of Santa Baby as well. Why people feel an attraction to that goddamned bearded man in red i'll never understand. I've had a beard all my life and it's never gotten me any compliments a wizard wouldn't get. Or a Shaman. There's also a mexican singing his mexican version of "merry christmas", which fills me with an unexplainable rage. Almost makes me as mad as that one time I had to kill my own cat to get the Nega-Evil out of it. That's evil from the Negaverse mind you. Actually, you're probably better off not knowing about the Negaverse. Horses fly there. It's a terrible place.

#6 Thank the dark gods this is the last of these playlists I have to listen to. Unfortunately it was the most painful. Comprised mostly of horrible bands and artists with names I cannot pronounce or understand. What the hell is a Zooey Deschanel? A Coldplay? A Sufjan? Jimmys eating the world? It's overwhelming to the senses! The actual music doesn't help any either. I have hard time enjoying a song called "Let it Snow", having seen the things the cold can do to a man. And rhino. Oh god that poor rhino.


All in all, I'd have to pick #4, since it reminded me less of my bloodsoaked past than any of the others. God I need a drink.

It's been a long couple of weeks. I've finally managed to appease to the damned demons setting the heat upon my soul, and found myself some decent lodging. I've also acquired a new computer machine from one of the children I had to sacrifice. Washing his blood out of all the little electronic gizmos and the keys and plastic bits was tedious work, but it had to be done. One thing that I started to notice along my way eluding the police was that it's become that time again, where we celebrate our respective holidays. Starting with thanksgiving, which is one of the newer ones for me. I still remember giving those goddamned savages a taste of the meat when we first decided to share our food with them, but sure enough when those godless bastards thought we were trying to kill their god with our guns, they just had to go and revolt on us. Hell, I don't blame anybody for any of the horrible things done to those damned indians. You wake up without your scalp one morning and tell me if you don't hate the ones who done it to ya. I'll never forget the sheer terror of that indian womans eyes as I shot her husband point blank with my musket. Made up for the 14 weeks that it took for my scalp to heal back on, inbetween cleanings, dressings, stitchings, maggot cleanings, and re-stitchings.

Well later on Thanksgiving became a more normal holiday that wasn't filled with hate, murder, mistrust and missing scalps. Thanksgiving became a holiday about love and remembering what you can be thankful for, as well as stuffing yer face fulla food until you couldn't damn near move anymore. It's always been one of the best holidays I've enjoyed, because it's never been tainted by horrible memories of elves and maneating raindeer, or ruined by goddamned thieving satanic vandals in costumes. Eventually I grew quite fond of many of the traditional dishes served on thanksgiving, and one in particular I loved every time I had it. My second wife taught it to me back in '48, whenever she wasn't raising hell and being a goddamned wasteful spendy whore. Every damn day she'd take my money and buy herself more and more appliances and clothes and things we didn't need, and instead of knowing her place like a woman should, would even show defiance to me openly.  I whupped her so goddamned hard every night she'd start crying and screaming and beg for mercy, but every damn day she would come back with some lip. That all stopped after I got some buddies and we enacted the dark bloodening ritual on her though. Demon came right out of her soul, shot up inna the air, screamed at me with its charcoal black eyes, and then burst into a thousand bright red dots of light, that slowly dimmed away as they fell to the ground into a pile of ash. Then I made the maid clean her up.

Well anyhow, heres the recipe for the one thing that hog of a wife knew how to do right. I'll transcribe it as she wrote it for me.


CANDIED YAMS.

You'll need:

The last few days have been goddamned trying on my spirit. Between the nearly endless parade of horrible heathens attacking my home, followed by the mobs of unruly "parents' and "police" that came afterwards, i've been on the road trying to find some goddamn solace in between taking what I need from who I need and fashioning shelter and sustenance from what I can. Living off the land isn't the same as it used to be. I remember when people who lived this lifestyle were looked on a respectable drifters. Nomads wandering the high plains of this country, searching for something to finally fill that endless void inside them. Nowadays everybody just seems to think yer just some bum who has given up on life and all that it can afford ya. But I ain't here to tell you my story of how and why I haven't been able to get to a computer machine since I was ran out of my home, no I'm here to tell you about my time with Stanley Kubrick, and his favorite snack. A snack that helped me along, incidentally, on this half getaway, half retreat from society that i've been on ever since that cold October night.

I first met Stan when he called me in as a consultant for his film, Paths Of Glory. Being in the Big One myself, he found 5 different veterans, of which I was one, to help him make sure his film was accurate down to the slightest detail. Most of the other bastards just wanted to be in the picture, and would suggest how to hold a gun the right way, or which officers should be wearing which little lines on their uniforms. While technically all of those things should be right, they kept forgetting the spirit of the war. The blood and the dirt, the heat and the sweat, the fear in your enemies eyes as you plunge your bayonet into his sturnum. It's something the movie was lacking direly. I took Stan to my side and explained to him the situation. He listened carefully to each word I said, looked at me in the eye, and nodded. He seemed to bond with me in that moment, and I knew that only he could truly, properly, and sufficiently capture the true hellbound spirit of war to film. It was with great shock that right then, as he looked at me, and was about to speak, that he spontaneously combusted into a giant fireball the size of a buick. As his face melted, I could barely catch his last words coming from his lips, just before they dripped down past his neckflesh. He seemed to mouth out his last desires, telling me to finish his film myself. I took this to heart, and after sweeping up his ashes and mopping up his melted gooey remains, (which made excellent soap), that I sauntered to his trailer, and found a smorgasbord of scripts, scribbled mad drawings, chicken bones, many colored powders, and many bizarre artifacts that could only be used for some kind of dark divination of the spirit realm. One of the scripts I picked up was called "Full Metal Jacket", and detailed a glorious future in which America finally invades the godless asian countries, as well as a story about a man, nearly 50 years in the future, finding the one true god in the outer depths of space, between reality and thought and expression and madness, finally giving into what can only be described as an entirely enlightening religious oddyssey. I was overwhelmed by the startling accuracy of the scripts, not only in how they portrayed each event in their respective stories, but how they seemed to predict the very events of the future itself.

So I then went back to the studio, claimed that Mr. Kubrick would no longer be giving face to face direction, but instead would use me as his surrogate. The studio accepted, and I began to finish making Paths of Glory myself.  Somewhere around post production, the studio realized that I was fooling them, fired me, and re-shot alot of the footage of the movie. They claimed that a film of that calibur didn't need so many shots of young soldiers being beheaded, maimed, raped and eaten, but they weren't in the goddamned war so how the hell should they know. The film they churned out was pittance compared to my true, exacting version, that the real Mr. Kubrick would have wanted on screens nationwide. They covered it up quickly, and paid an actor to take his place from then on. Unfortunately, I was not the only one to have Stan's prophetic scripts, and they continued to make bastard versions of all of his movies, while I could only watch from the catwalks of each studio set, silently gazing at the man who took my rightful place as Stan's heir. He didn't even know Stan's favorite food! Well I made sure he knew, as I exacted my revenge one fateful night, by forcefeeding him jam sandwiches until he died of a prolapsed stomach and rectum. The media claimed it was a "heart attack", but the bastard deserved it for Eyes Wide Shut.  Well anyhow, regardless of their ability to kill a man, those sandwiches ARE delicious, and have fueled me for the past week or so almost exclusively.


KUBRICK'S JAM SANDWICH

You'll need:
2 slices of bread
1 tab of butter
A jar of jam (preferably strawberry jam, but any other will do)


It's a simple sandwich, and preparing it is as easy as simply spreading each ingredient on each slice of bread, and then simply combining them together. Stan would eat nearly 6 or 7 of these in a single sitting, and then he'd retreat to his trailer for hours at a time, only now do I realize this was his fuel to literally gaze into the futurespace of our world, and pull out words and ideas that he then wrote down as his vision. He was truly gifted, and almost assuredly angered some demonic spirit which found itself angry enough to violently burn him off the face of this earth and dimension. It goes to show, you should never ever consort in the interdimensional dark arts, as it'll only lead you to peril and a firery horrible death.

 I would elaborate more on the dangers of the powers cosmic, and their deadly aftereffects on the human body and mind, but now I have to go, as it seems the public librarian that runs this branch is becoming wary of my presence around the children.  They needn't fear though, i've already selected a child that'll be my ritualistic sacrifice for safety from the wind spirits. Hopefully I can find some permanent shelter soon, as somebody is bound to notice the mising children once I've grabbed a third child in three weeks.

During the Great War, my platoon was captured by the Japanese. I'd like to say we all made it out alive, but to be honest I can't rightly recall everything properly, as I spent a large amount of my time in solitary, with only a bucket, the insects and my terrible, haunting thoughts and regrets on my past actions. Everyday I woke up in darkness, and everynight I passed out into darkness. The breif period of respite I had, in between the maddenin' bouts of loneliness, self loathing, and feverish masturbation, was my time spent each week, working in the kitchens under harsh supervision. Every week or so, (I think, for all I know it could have been every month, or 3 days, when you've got nuthin' to pass the time but sleep, hallucinations and masturbation, you lose grip of whats real and what ain't), they'd take me into the kitchens, violently scrub the callous off of my hands, beat me for several hours, and then subject me to wash dishes while being whipped. I slowly grew to love and hate each time I was taken out of my hole, as both were equally as horrifyin' an experience as the other. Then one day, they claimed I was finally ready to move up in my duties for the kitchen. They assigned a brutal, sadistic, mean spirited and brilliant chef named Kobayashi to watch over me, while I assisted with making meals for all of the japanese troops. Under Kobayashis' watchful eyes, I learned many of the cookin' techniques I still use to this day. I couldn't unlearn them even if I wanted to, they were forced upon me with sich strict and cruel rule so that I cannot even make a cup of tea without cringing reflexively and tightening my buttocks in instictive fear.

Kobayashi was a fearless, insane man, who knew what he wanted and how to get it. I spent many days with him, holding boiling pots of water over head for hours, while he knicked me with his blade under the armpits. If I dropped the water, I would have to immediately pick them back up, and pour the remainin' water onto the small child he kept in the burlap bag in the corner. That childs bloody screams of pain motivated me to become the best sous chef I could possibly be. Along with all of the physical, psychological and sexual torture that Kobayashi inflicted on me, he instilled a sense of pride in my work. I still remember the day where I successful filleted a fillet of a salmon, and was able to properly make a Sake roll for the first time. The little boy in the burlap sack still screamed in horrible pain as I was forced to flog him with the toothed scourge I was given, but deep down, I could tell he was proud of me. Slowly, I spent less and less time in solitary, as it seems the infantry were developing a taste for the food I was making. The captain of Unit 731 himself even came to try my dishes, and quickly recruited both Kobayashi and I for his personal culinary staff. The releif from imprisonment was great, and I could finally start to feel like I had a grasp on reality again, as I no longer kept seeing large crabs with screaming human faces outta the corners of my eyes any longer. 

Well fer what it's worth, I got to the new kitchen fer Unit 731, and quickly found that things were a far cry from the conditions I was used to at the other camp. The place was constantly dirty, the infantry there were rude and mean spirited, and our produce and meats were always of poor quality. But for some reason, the food there tasted better than anything we ever made at the last kitchen. That is, until that one day, where Kobayashi told me the secret to what made the food taste so dang good. Most of it had bits and peices of human meat, byproducts and leftovers of POW's to make up nearly every dish. Grilled chicken steaks? A mans' hamstring. Veal filet? Childs' buttocks. Even the bowls of noodles were cooked in a broth condensed with human bones and blood in the stock. It was an even bigger surprise to me, when I found out that the best dish Kobayashi made, his patented pasta with meaty marinara sauce, had always involved human meat, ever since he had been cooking. He said it was the only meat that could get just the right balance of flavors, ever since he first discovered it in Hiroshima. It hadn't been the first time I willfully consumed manflesh, but it was the first time I did it and actively craved it again. Despite the horrible deeds that went on at Unit 731's kitchen,(Other than the kitchen it seemed fine), I still find myself craving just a sweet taste of that meaty marinara sauce, with its one taboo ingredient. Everyday I think about making it again for real, just to feel the taste in my mouth once again. God was it delicious. Here's how you make it, just replace "human" meat, with whatever animal you enjoy eatin'.

HIROSHIMA MARINARA SAUCE

Kobayashi taught me specifically how to make this, and to make it any other way turns my stomach into knots, makes me start to hallucinate, and weep loudly for many hours. So you should follow the same instructions as well. They're very specific, so i'll write them to the best of my recollection.

You'll need:
1/4 cup of Olive Oil
4 cloves of garlic (minced)
1 35 oz can of crushed tomatoes, or peel and crush them yourself.
3 basil leaves, washed, dried and chopped
1 pound of human meat (preferably young boy 8-11, cut from the rump(or beef or what say you))
Salt and pepper to taste


Hold the olive oil in your right hand, and pour it slowly into the sauce pan, spread it around to coat. Strike the caged boy 4 times with the beating stick. Then add the garlic, into the pan. Cook the garlic until it is soft and slightly brown. Cut off one of the boys toes, open his burlap sack, and force it into his mouth. Massage his throat until he swallows it. Take your tomatoes, and crush them together with its own juices, until it turns into a soft slurry that resembles the bloody fecal matter of the weak POW's across the yard. Then strike the boy again. Add the slurry, along with the basil, salt and pepper.Then pour salt into the boys eyes and open wounds, rubbing vigorously until he screams for mercy. Bring the entire mixture to a boil, and then let it simmer for 20-30 or so minutes, until it thickens. Then stab the boy in the heart, stare at him until you see the light in his eyes dim, and cradle him until his you feel his soul and life leaving his body. Then quickly open his mouth, and suck in his last breath, just before he dies.

Serves 4.




I once found Kobayashi working at a japanese food restaurant in New York. He looked older, but immediately recognized me. I asked him about the pasta dish he was so famous fer back then. He said he had finally perfected the dish, once he returned to Hiroshima post bombing. Apparently the many radioactive burn victims flesh, was perfectly suited for the sauce, but when he was caught sawing off the remaining backmeat off of a 12 year old naked girl, he was imprisoned, until he escaped 2 years later. Then we drank sake and we traded stories of our past, until I offended him and he tried to stab me with his katana. I had to break his arm in three places, and then sodomized him with his own katana scabbard. He vowed revenge on me, until he eventually died after contracting Creuzfeld-Jacob Disease from all the cannibalism, and went tearing through a major metropolitan area naked, swinging a large sword around, claiming that he had to kill large screaming human faced crabs. I always thought that was a strange coincidence.

For a time I was stationed up in the North Pole, and if there's one thing those godforsaken eskimos won't tell  ya it's that the food pickins' are slim to none. You either have to settle for penguin meat, polar bear droppings, (surprisingly high in fiber), fish or damned near nothing else. With the one delectable exception of seal meat. Being up there changes your appetite, since if yer damn tired of the sloppy gruel they try to call "oatmeal", you have to brave the great outdoors and kill yerself an animal. Which isn't always safe I tell ya, because 57 weeks alone in a cabin with the same 4 men day in and day out can be very trying on the ol' noggin, and you'll tend to forget whats an animal and whats a man. In my opinion, there's very little that seperates men from the beast beyond hats. I remember when Carnby and I both started to hallucinate that we were both giant walking elk. We spent the entire week playing tedious mindgames with eachother, constantly checking eachothers stamina and endurance. Being hunted by yer fellow man... You've never known starvation and sleep deprivation until you've spent 20 solid hours sitting in an attic, naked, in sub zero temperature, with only a makeshift spear made from a broken mirror and broom tied together. They're not goddamned kidding when they say cabin fever is real. If it was just a myth then i'm almost sure that all 5 of us would have survived in the end. Now all we're left with is our past, that cabin, and the memories of the ungodly things we did in it to survive.

One of those ungodly things though, was damn delicious.

BUTTERED SEAL MEAT.

You'll need:
1 ski pole
5 sticks of butter
2 pouches of horrible oatmeal
5 quarts of water
1 cup seal blood
salt and pepper to taste

Catching a baby seal isn't easy, but it's not nearly as hard as fending off a polar bear. Sometimes those bears would attack our cabin, and we'd be forced to stop trying to kill eachother long enough to try to kill that bear and take its meat. I must've spent nearly 20 minutes riding the back of that damn bear, choking it with one of my ski poles. Jackson kept stabbing the damn thing in the stomach inbetween bouts of openly weeping. After the bear was dead, and after we all sodomized it, (We had needs, and we weren't hardly open to turning into gays), we all cut it up into chunks, smeared the blood on our bodies, and performed an ancient inuit bloodening ritual to unite as brothers from then on. Unfortunately Jackson then ate the entirety of the polar bear meat that night, which distended his organs and body until he literally burst open. That was when we decided from then on, we'd only stick to animals smaller than a grown man. It kept us from hunting and/or sodomizing eachother.

So later that week me and Carnby went venturing out to find food, and we came across a baby seal. We promptly smashed its head in, sodomized it, and then took it back to our cabin. The best way to cook it, we eventually found out, was to stuff it fulla oat meal and butter, and then roast it on open flame. First ya just boil some water in a dirty bowl, and make yer damn oatmeal. If you can't make a damn bowl of oatmeal, well then you're worse off than poor Jackson was after we cleaned and dressed him. Well after the oatmeals done, mix it all up with 3 sticks of butter. Then you wash out the seals anal cavity of any potential fluids, and then begin to just pack him fulla the oatmeal mixture. You can add salt and pepper here, and I find it adds a good kick to add a bit of seal blood in there, it's good for yer bones. So anyhow, you then just skewer the little bastard on the ski pole, and roast him over an open fire for 20 minutes. Once the flesh is nice and charred, and the bits of oatmeal start to pop out, use the last 2 sticks of butter to coat him, and sear him quickly in the fire. This makes it nice and crunchy, as well keeps the wind spirits from tainting your meat. I forgot to mention the wind spirits. Avoid summoning them. For the love of GOD avoid summoning them. To this day Carnby cannot set foot outside without drinking 3 pints of blood and praying 3 hours beforehand. I told him it was all a bunch of boulderdash back then. Now I know it's true because my bones always hurt. Also my wife, my friends, all my children and relatives have died horrifying wind related deaths.

God I miss them. I'm so alone.