/lit/ - Literature

The ultimate goal of the modern world and its ringleaders is to create the global citizen, who ensures the continuation of the power and systems and pleasures of the financial-managerial rulers, through his inability to challenge it.
The global citizen is a who is a slave, yet does not realize it. Should he realize it, he isn't life affirming enough to feel he deserves better. Should he escape this mindset, he cannot pinpoint the source of this servitude or its methods. Should he uncover this truth, he is mislead to a variety of non-solutions for which to impotently engage in. Should he realize this is merely theatre, he cannot fathom a true solution himself. Should he, against the odds of his drug-addled and dopamine fried brain, discover a solution to the world, he is too afraid to even begin enacting it due to any amount of physical pain being unimaginable. Should he rise above this fear, he will struggle to find a single person willing to speak to him, let alone agree with him. Should he manage to find lucid compatriots within the behavioral sink, they would lack the physical constitution to carry out their plans. Should they shed their weak and misshapen bodies, they cannot access the tools or the funds required. Finally, this atomized individual cursed with clarity of thought, may realize they haven't a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction to change his world, and chooses to escape, only, there will be nowhere for him to go. His life, if he could said to be living, had ended from the moment of birth.
Mankind and his endless stories and achievements, are retroactively mocked for having ever tried, in this pathetic endgame of existence. The human being reduced to a pleasure seeking slug, cultureless, rootless, ugly, mindless, only intelligent enough to push buttons needed to maintain the malicious machine.
It is well that such an abhorrence could not fully begin, let alone last, before the demons have their hubris corrected by the laws of nature.

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Good morning, sirs! What are you reading?

>“Look at me, Stan.”
> He grabs my chin with fat, greasy fingers, angles it towards him.
> “Who’s my tight little unit?”
> His face looms like a fat, bearded moon. Devoid of expression.
> “Fuck you,” I say.
> Expressionless, he fortifies his grip upon my chin, and with the other hand deals three quick, heavy strikes with open hand. My head swims and my face alights with pain.
> “Who’s my tight—”
> He seems to dislike something in my expression and hammers home another three strikes. Hy head held in place in his grip, it cannot give with the blows; each lands solidly. My head is hot iron between an anvil and pneumatic hammer. Eyes watering, I feel hot fluid drip from my ear. My arm wanders weakly up to his face, to grab hold, to gouge an eye, to do anything. Bucksneed swats the hand away, which falls loose and wooden to the side. His expression never changes. Another hard slap; a backhand follows.
> “You cannot do this to me.”
> “Do what?” he asks. A closed fist impacts my mouth. The taste of blood. “This?”
> He rears back another blow. His face is slowly twisting. A gleeful rictus in whose dark and beady eyes I see myself cower.
> “Wait!” I say. “Wait!”
> Punches fall.
> “What are you, Mr. Howl?”
> “I’m your tight little unit, doctor. Please. Please, doctor. Don’t strike me again. That’s me. I’m your tight little unit. Please.”
> Bucksneed pauses. His expression slackens, blanks, cracks a wide and genuine grin exposing yellowy and chipped buck-teeth. I am coughing and spitting blood.
> “That’s right, little guy. That’s alright now,” he says, stroking my hair, cooing now. “That’s alright, you’re a tight little unit, aren’t you?”
> I want to agree. I want to. I truly want to be Bucksneed’s tight little unit, if only it will stop the beating. I cannot speak above a low gurgle. Bucksneed presses a fat finger to my lips, cooing again.
> “That’s alright,” he says. “Quiet, now. Take your medicine.”
> I struggle.
> “Take your medicine,” he says. His tone is sharp and iron. He pries open my mouth with one hand, and with the other forces foul-smelling tonic down my throat. Black and bottomless sleep threatens immediately. I don’t know what will happen when I fall asleep. I do not want to fall asleep. I am afraid. I don’t know if this sleep is one from which I will awake
Hello frens. Any input would be appreciated. Does it get bogged down during the violence? How weird is the gay/dominant overtone throughout? I want it to be weird.

I hate communism