Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Horrors {Intro}

   The following are erotic horror, but I will slip a page out of my
personal writer's "Necronomicon" (c) H.  P.  Lovecraft, AKA "Abdul Al
Hazrad".

   I will strive here to keep the horrors Supernatural in the sense of
doing things not found in nature, but still plausible according to current
understanding of Biology.  With the caveat that there's more thet we don't
know about life, and the way it works, by orderS of magnitude.

   I will posit no spiritual energy, medium, nor force that is
unmeasurable, yet more powerful than hard physics.  Probably won't whip out
the quantum mechanical tools, try to keep it under the universal speed
limit, and Conserve Energy, not from an efficiency standpoint.

   Psychosymbolicly, I'm going for hopefully some original variations on a
few of the more popular arcetypes of erotic fiction.  As media, such
perversities as Tentical Rape, Necromance, and orgiatic rites are hitherto
neither rare, nor well done.  (I'm gonna have to give this one to Allannis
"Moose" Morissette.  There's no designated symbol for this type of credit,
I'm not even sure it was her joke.)

   Regardless, I plan on changing that, but here's some quick spoilers:

   No vampires, they suck.  No lycanthropes, scroll back up to the first
paragraph.  Also, one of my favorite tricks in stories like this is to
leave you with a more rational explenation.  I ain't gonna promise no
spelling errors, but consistant ones are intentional.

   This is all set in an alternate universe, so you can fall asleep faster
knowing they can't get you, and get on with the wet nitemares.  This also
affects minor things like language.  For instance, if you hike far enough
in the back woods of NE, you will eventually run into someone who says
"Shewn." This scales up through brand names, certain scientific terms,
measurments, and so forth.

   The Lovecraft is a psychological measurement, or open ended scale for
"Oh Shit" factor.  {Yes, I used to run tCoC!} 1infinity, 1Lv is about the
dose neccisarry for a baseline adult woman to cry.  10 is gibbering
unitelligably, and loss of social function to the point of trauma induced
Neurosis for a Mean adult psyche.  169Lv is right around dying instantly of
fright, I probably won't go any higher than that.

   When I finish them, I'll post an LV# relative to what the principal
Narrator/s encounter.  Now I hate to stress one influence over others, but
there's just one in the Genre' who ever made me literally scream alloud in
affrite from Reading.  I will try not to Shew my influences through
constant allusions, a nasty habit I picked up from someone.

   This is not his universe, the works of Howard Phillips Lovecraft are
fiction there as here.  Hopefully, all the allusions will be made by
characters who read, and remembered it.  I will re-iterate, explicitely
here, I Don't Do Fan-Fic.  I am a fan, but anyone I respect that much, his
characters, creations, and settings are about as close as I get to
Sacrosanct.  Each allusion is a tribute of reverence, nothing more, nor
less.

   That's why you will not run into Nyarlathotep, as a character, least of
which will mighty Cthulhu {F'tagn Cthulhu, F'tagn.} stop by Sydney for the
breakfast to end all breakfasts.

   Another reason for the language is this is a little deeper in my head
where I still think likeat.  The realm of the Qyzak Had'rach, and
abomination, Amanda Hunt, and Basiatus live here in their oldest forms. 
Basicly, I'm getting this off my subconcious to make room.

   I used to have Schitzotypal Personality Disorder, now it's not a
disorder, just my personality.  Back then, I was one of this world's real
horrors, a wretch crouched over it's precious, dreaming of becoming a
serial killer.  I never did.

   Back then, I was Rüby Anarchris+.  The symbol, which I will no longer
draw was an Omega, wrapped around an Alpha, wrapped around a Crucifix.  An
Anti-cristian, I plotted a systematic terror war to bring down the
christian Church (Differnetiating between the god, and Worship) From the
inside.  I never did.

   I did have a symbol for each of the 24 triangular faces, aligned with
the 3 elemental axis', and planes intersecting at right angles to each
other.  The 4 States of Matter (classical "elements", Greek.), types of
energy, (Thermal, Dynamic{EM}, Massive{G}, Neucleic{U.  S/w}, Kinetic(V),
and Pattern Axis, with Chaos/order on the infinetely opposite ends.}
Basicly hung upside down relative to everbody else's alignment.

   I made a scale model of a tesseract, with drinking straws, and poster
putty.  I had a framed document, declaring me a Heretic, signed by an
ordained preist, and my copy of the Corruptor's Pact, written in my blood.
I burned \/his\/.  Lost both when I was homeless.

   Since then, I learned to fictionalize all this in my head, and converted
my Self into a fundaMental Agnostic.  As long as I don't invest any faith
in them, the magical thoughts don't affect my life.  If I do, than Mjöldin
again rides the lightning storms across the sky.

   I may eventually get to the Fantasy, where Genevive lives, a long time
from now, on a planet not that far away.  If you want a sound track for
this, find Rabbit Junk - Ghetto Blasphemer II, From the Stars (r) J.  P. 
Anderson, and please give him some money for it.

   Now, here's a glance into the place in my head.  Down my leg, and the
shaft concealed within, past the gears, and springs which keep me rotating
above, and the bald man dutifully winding the crank, in fishnets, and a
blindfold.  To the right, a hall with endless doors, each unique, the first
with a Labrys growing out of a head covered in phrenology symbols.  Not
pausing my sysiphean crancking, I reach out, and point left.

   A little door, locked inside, and out, and stairs twisting widdershins
down the back of my neck.  To the bowel, (Http://Google/Image.search)
Background, M.C.  Escher, "Another World," seven impossible corners, with
"Ascending, and Descending" around the top, and a fountain in the middle
reflecting "3 Worlds."

   Population, H.  Bosch, about 36 hours into his first dose of pejote',
diptyq on the back of a Brugell pastoral.  R.  Mappelthorpe, bending the
Marquis de Sade over the fountain beating him with the whip/tail.  Finger
painted by A.  Warhol, stone sober, a few decades into an eternal Delerium
Tremen.  Me, goggles down, backing up a dump truck load of art supplies.

   "Punish artists, we'll do better work."

   In the back corner, a mousy man, archaic of dress, and manor, watching
and writing furiously.  Broken in, his own personal daemon around him,
grown more powerfull over the last century.  Looming over all, the
background, in shadow, only the barest menace of unnatural proportion,
terrible claws gripping the edge of the pedistal, protectively around It's
creator.

   Absently sucking out the sockets of H.  R.  Giger's skull with two
tenticals.  Eyes closed, sighing a terrible sound, slipping back off to
dream.  F'tagn Cthulhu, F'tagn...  {now your line is "AÏ AÏ, Cthulhu
F'tagn!" please try to say it Rite.}