Die Waldgeister Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A few weeks ago someone shared with you the story of Prince, an orange tabby cat ruthlessly experimented on by graduate students at the university that you are now parked in front of.

There, behind the modern facade of architectural banality lies a temple of destruction and sacrifice. This is where he and many other animals are the subjects of research forces controlled by the magic men and shamanic conjurers of the industrial economy. Here, the Bravo network and negrolatrous NGO Mafioso have created a fierce mujahedeen of bald faded diversity hire lesbians directed by the Carlyle group and Samsung. This is a place of transhuman design and big arrow worship.

Prince was a small part of that tidal wave of scientific progress exalted by nerdish devotees of the urban faith…they hold it’s institutions sacrosanct, especially now that they are guided by inclusive principles, their HR sinecures manned by women and people of color.

A technician had bolted a metal sensor plate directly into the Prince's skull and implanted cochlear devices into the sides of his head. They were bulky and could not sense brain waves through the fur and skin on top of his head so this required that the scalp underneath be removed. This left his skull exposed, and even with the usual regimen of antibiotics it had become swollen and an abscess was beginning to form around the edges of the metal sensor.

The student and another lab tech had attempted to constrain him by putting him into a leather harness affixed to the table. When it agitated him enough to shake his head, he was put into a small sleeping bag with only his head protruding. With his legs bound and in a bag, he had to be suspended on a wire to balance him. They had invested weeks into the sensor custom made for his head.

There he spent his days.

A gentle cat, his limbs folded into a strait jacket, hanging from a wire with the top of his head missing, his exposed skull sprayed with antiseptics and regularly injected with buprenorphine. Near him, anxious and depressed beagles that have never set foot on grass stare at the walls of their cages.

After weeks of this agony Prince was finally euthanized. Not because of his pain, but because the device’s data was compromised by the constant movement and the experiment was to begin over with new cats.

This has haunted you and you could think of nothing else as you went to bed last night. You fell asleep thinking his orange fur. What treats he liked, what was his life like before.

You leave the car and enter the building.

It reminds you of something…you remember that a team of dual citizen investment swindlers and central bankers created a company and name it after the black cube of Saturn. They literally call this company “BlackRock”. Their predecessors were whipped by Christ and forced out of the holy house and now they have created new temples of sacrifice and exchange. Ones that serve their true Gods: Sadism, and Big Arrow. Their early life cousins that control the Federal Reserve give them money they have stolen from the children of truckers to pay the debts of the companies they manage. It is Oceans 11, but instead of Pitt and Clooney, it stars 8 Jewish Wall Street usurers and you must pay back every penny of the heist with interest in the form of intergenerational debt slavery. They are a parody of low fi 4 hour Rothschild bit chute exposes...too unbelievable to be true, except it all is.

A well-meaning person finds out about this and is alarmed. They make a meme with No Limit Records tier graphics. Serious people who read The New York Times and Washington Post pabulum see lightning bolts illuminating a laughing Larry Fink and George Soros, the Cheshire smiles of Ralph Schlosstein and Robert Kapino and now they can sneer at it as nonsense. Their information is sourced only to respectable Helvetica font publications because they are sophisticated and intelligent people. They ignore this prole collared auteur and focus on serious news from companies owned by the men who golf with Steve Mnuchin.

Once inside, there is a great vibration you feel. This university is a labyrinthine nexus, a demonic Delphi that beckons an uneasy coalition of modern belligerents to assemble and divvy the spoils of modern power. Here unsavory coteries of African Post-Colonial and Gender studies Mau Maus are lavished by monies from buck breaking homosexual mega donors and Fortune 500 bagmen. Big Tech corporations and Big Sodomy NGOS align with Gustav Freytag arch types as they convene to design the new human psyche and centers of economy…A new order, and one imposed by the will of fractured human personalities reassembled by ZOG designers into a golem, one aimed now not solely at Prague, but at all life.

In a lecture room you a large flat screen broadcasting an administrator who is a snarling, manic woman with a cartoonish squared jaw, the kind belonging to a Paleolithic man who uses his mouth to crush Brazil nuts and softens deer leather with his molars. She is however, not an ancient specimen but rather the product of the latest developments of the modern system: a flesh puppet of Upjohn and lesbian communications professors…a deadened husk they have obtained from public schools turned cheder and now reanimated by academia and Disney Plus. A once sentient individual now offered as an empty vessel for Marcuse’s spiritual return by his cultists....her transmutation fueled by prescription drugs and smartphone dopamine hits slammed into her brain, bulging under a tied off choker collar.

She is an avatar for your age of title IX and micro plastics.

Her mother had abnormal, Rick Flair level in utero testosterone levels… and now she grows from the ashes of the second wave, completely unrestrained by her gelding handlers. She cannot submit to the arch types demanded by a docile civilization. She now demands evisceration of mortal men. She can offer her loin to nothing less than living God warlords and the only such man in this age is not a man at all but a corporate entity, an amalgamation of inhuman enterprises armed with the Warhammer of industrial data collection and Khazar media power. Yet foolishly she has been given command of the moral compass of your world and has steered you into a horizon of endless carnival fires.

She speaks to you a certain way that you hear everywhere. This is a very particular cadence heard now in modern life. Words are annunciated in an aggressively condescending way with the arrogance of a person who lives alone and hangs “You are A-MAZ-ING” decor signs above their home computer monitor. They speak to nations the way they would speak to a dog or retarded child.

The listener is tortured with pieties, banal bromides and the common wisdom of the PC office scape peppered with vicious demands for obedience. The true purpose of course, is not communication but humiliation.

 This is pure torment for those of even modest intellect. But the drones of the ZOGplex revel in its taunt. It is because it cannot be responded to, it cannot be challenged. It’s only call for is your submission, which is what they desire most.

You now enter the foyer that leads to the labs.

There are three security guards waiting at a metal detector. You see one plod toward you. It is a gelatinous lesbian with doughy arms and folds of chest flab flattened with a body wrap. She has Brian Bosworth hair but the type of soft neck that can never be truly hardened by weather or experience like a man's would. This upsets her. She has lumpy legs that taper and widen again, the hair rubbed off by polyester stretch pants. Ingrown reddish dots from friction on tube socks because she should be using diabetic specialty socks. She is 32. Her cankle and calf form a single rectangular plane wide enough for big bright generic tattoos, which she has.

She is driven by the psyche of the petty bureaucrat...the cop…she has a desire to take others and torture them into laboring for her ego...to see all joy extinguished so they she will be obeyed in all trivial circumstances...in this way her sublimated lust for power is met. These cases were sundry. The deformed and misshapen aligning themselves with organizations that promised them the satisfaction of destroying their physical and spiritual betters....to lord over their enemies in ways that that would normally be impossible given their corporeal and constitutional weakness.

And now she stands in front of you. You see the sign for an HR seminar and tell them you are attending but forgot your badge. She admonishes you for this and her lip curls as she snarks at you for being unprepared and forgetful.

She sees you have been outside much. Your skin has been sun kissed and it highlights the angularity of exposed musculature. She feels an apoplexy. She wants to handle you with rough hands but she knows this will only make her feel weaker and more deformed than if she were to simply sneer at you, which she does.

The hallway intersects at a T. You look straight ahead toward the corridor marked “restricted access” and you see two people walking toward you from your left. You take out your phone and pretend to call someone until they walk past you.

You see a young woman who walks ahead of her boyfriend. She is one of millions who do this. This boyfriend appears to laugh a bit, he has a short, manicured beard and rounded features. He is talking about something frivolous and self-deprecating, not noticing her scowl, her indifference to him. She is a full two steps ahead of him. Perhaps he senses something but seems unaware of the depths of her hatred and its implacable biological nature.

In better times, she would be selected for by proven men, and stare admirably at them, she would feel a safety in being allowed to live out her biological imperative this way. But today she is desired as office fodder and daylight concubine by transnational busywork magnates, the big village Chiefs of your era. She is now a neurotic and passive aggressive legal equal and her boyfriend must smile for team building photos and run 5ks for inner city youth programs that they must live far away from and she resents him for this weakness.

He is anti-racist and they spend their free time watching streaming shows together that they find agreeable to their shared progressive outlook but in reality, just below this surficial group signal, this is deeply repulsive to her. The true center of her desires is not the Astroturfs of Frankfurt School media conglomerates but rather her Stone Age hypothalamus, and so now her ovaries must become the eyes of Red Sonia, they must ruthlessly cull the environment of weakness and civility.

They now revert to the ancient script and only shed their eggs for tall, ruthlessly distant men who wear wolf heads and drink solstice Belladonna beer from the skulls of farm fags. These deep impulses conspire with her Pfizer mediated limbic system to expunge this boyfriend from earth. She wells with passive rage and contempt at his toothy grin.

He is not a victor, not a man tested by the crucibles of battle fires.

Because he doesn’t lift, he cannot circumvent her defenses with the posture and body of the conqueror. Because he is not someone with the disposition or with the physical ability to whip a brooding foreign man to death with a chain, his wit and smart repartee is not viewed as an expression of intelligence but is seen as jester like and pandering...his modern existence a betrayal of primal physical dominance and therefore a great affront to her. But she is a lizard brain with a malleable personality now based around episodes of New Girl and Bustle. Lacking self awareness she attacks him passively and subconsciously.

This unassuming slender woman in art hoe glasses who drinks vegan friendly almond milk, has yard signs extolling kindness and spends hours liking Dodo kitten videos also now demands in utero vivisections of the children sired by women’s “partners”. When a woman calls a man her partner she will murder his children because she does not desire equality or partnership but to become the property of a superior. She desires only a form of erotic slavery….to be indentured to a nation of strapping, bloodthirsty Chris Hemsworths. Men with sun kissed locks and chiseled bronze torsos that tie them to camp stakes and tell their war stories.

After they pass you hurry down the corridor and turn into a small open area near the lab. There is an administrator ahead of you in front of that door but to your right is a placard on an aluminum A-frame stand advertising the HR training seminar in progress. You walk into that room and have a seat in the back until the guard moves. No one seems to look up at you as they are having trouble loading a power point presentation.