Thursday, May 28, 2015

A Review of.. FUck, I don't know any more, I think I'm having a stroke...

Review of Inquistion Revisted

Ahh, a beautiful Wednesday afternoon, sunshine, BBQ, cold beer, and happiness.

And then there' s this god forsaken mind numbing aneurysm inducing thing.


Written by Mr. Nickolaus "Sparkle Pony" Pacione, the following is supposedly a non-fiction account of a time in his life when everyone plotted against him, he went insane, and he showed the world just what a total badass ninja he was when he saved the president from laser guided parakeets? Of course he did, it's not like they could call on you to save the president. I'll be you don't even know how to defuse a parakeet and would have just shit yourself when Batman came leaping through the window. Oh, wait, that isn't this story, that's something I dreamed about when I blacked out after trying to read this fucking thing.

The following is written by God's Gift to the Literary World, if nothing else for the fact there are 5th graders writing Harry Potter and Twilight fan fiction who can look at this stuff and say "at least I'm not that bad."

First thing, this thing is freely available for review and critique at this fucking place where you can find the FULL whining text in all of its narcissistic glory in case I fucking missed something. This is my second time through it, since I read the first version of this puling pile of pigshit, and about all the new one has going for it is that he turned on the spellchecker and grammar checker and used it. However, as we all know the spell checker will give you sentences which are spelled correctly, but make no goddamn sense.

So, without further delay, I present to you, Inquisition Revisited, proof that even if you polish and wax a turd, it's still a turd:

(As always, original text in
with my work normal)

"Job, there is something about you that pisses me off!"
– Stephen King, Storm of the Century

So he starts it off with something he rips off from a much better writer. Wonderful, this promises to be wonderful.

It was a few days after the Columbine shooting took place when I started to lose my mind.

Of course it was. This is so typical of ol' Sparkle Pony (pictured above) that it's basically one of his signature shitstains. Instead of telling us a rough date, he likes to link a major disaster or tragedy to himself, no matter how tenous the connection. I can already tell you right there that there will be a tale of how other's bullied him and drove him insane.

I had no idea what was going on upstairs,

Because not even GOD knows what is going on in Pacione's miswired little brain. And let's stop right here. He'll claim, like he always does, that I'm picking on the mentally ill. Well, he's bipolar, not a Down's Syndrome patient trying to write. he doesn't get to hide behind his bipolar disorder when he accuses people of being 9-11 terrorists, traitor's to their countries, child molesters, being involved in necrophilia or incest or both, and such nice things like that.

So, let's get it up front. I'm not picking on him because he's bipolar, I'm picking on him for his atrocious writing style, his refusal to take any kind of criticism, his willingness to attack people for no other slight than to be better than him, and his general all around assholishness. But, back to the steaming pile of pig feces.

but I know that I wouldn't last another day living with the accusations of child abuse looming over my head.

That would be because you physically beat your infant son so badly that your then girlfriend called CPS, had your parental rights terminated by the state to the point of not being able to ever contact him again.

In other words, you couldn't live with the guilt that you're an enormous shitbag who beat an infant with special needs for crying, pooping, spitting up, or any other normal baby thing.
To this day I still have frightening nightmares about the accusations,

Instead of horrible nightmares about the horrific trauma you visited upon an infant that needed extra help.

those accusations drove me insane and that was the moment I wanted to reach for the bottle.

Good, you child abusing doucehbag.

People from The Christian Fellowship in Mason City, Iowa, having a pitchfork and torch party.

Not literary. (Snicker) OK, let me explain that a bit. Whenever he used to try to write literally, he would write literary, which is just funnier than shit. Anyway, love the way he makes himself out to be the victim right here.

I was the guest of honor –

The ONLY thing he'd be a guest of honor at.

one of those parties I clearly wanted nothing to do with.

Of course not, it had human contact. We all know that you prefer to huddle, bag-lady-like at the edge of the couch or the corner of the room and jot down notes and run away giggling when people approach you.

The kind of thing one doesn't even want to begin to imagine,

Or that you can't describe, Sparkle Pony.

but in many ways you see the puppets dancing. They basically go at "God's Command."

Here we have the self-styled MAN OF GAWD!! who believes he's divinely permitted to torture and destroy other writers and people he doesn't like, bitching about other Christians, which I guess is OK, because he's a MAN OF GAWD!
I remember those few weeks well.

Let's see if you describe them to us!

It felt like I actually was living out a plot of one of my own horror short stories.

Aw shit. In other words nothing exciting is going to happen, and this is going to be a bunch of boring bullshit where nothing happens, you repeat the same shit over and over, and reference better writers and works.

Those nightmares seemed so real to me, and they are scars in the back of my mind

Awww... poor Sparkle Pony.

because in the nightmares I can still see the youth pastor from that church holding the blood dripped screwdriver that tore the flesh from the back of my head.

Actually, it was a ballpoint pen. (Snicker)
"Destroy the outsider," he would bellow into the darkness.

Of course it was darkness.
"Down with the outsider and his thought patterns," the rest chanted back.

What "rest"? The rest of the darkness? The rest of the preacher?

I felt the lungs of hell touching my body and it wasn't a burning heat but a freezing cold.

Holy shit, he actually used it right. Now we know he reads my reviews, and whether he likes it or not, he is a better writer for it. Or, this was an accident.
The nightmares continued well into the times I spent at a friends residence.

Probably nightmares where he had to have a fucking job and act like a real human.

The fact that 11 years had managed to be left behind with them, but still I could see those fucked up nightmares as vivid as I write them to this day.

"I have the outsider's manuscripts – to me they're nothing but blank pages and they shall be burned as such," he continues.

They should have been burned as a crime against literacy in the execution of a cease and desist order against Pacione taken out by the Written Word.
During the haunting duration of the nightmare what I saw in his hand was a small disk with everything I've written on it from the age of nineteen to twenty-one.

AHAHAHAHAHHAA! Two years of writing, and it fit on a fucking 3.5 floppy. A fucking 1.5 MEGABYTE floppy. Two years of writing, using a word processor, and it's all on a 3.5 floppy? AHAHAHAHAAA!

Pacione, you suck.

He first set fire to the manuscripts, and then tossed the floppy disk on the ground and allowed someone to run over then until they got destroyed.

I picture one of the congregation running back and forth in a skin tight bodysuit, covered in glitter, with track shoes, dancing on the fire and dancing YMCA!

Living there during the years of 1998-1999, I had a lot of macabre nightmares about being the outsider there.

That's what happens when you act like an asshole, treat everyone like shit, and leech off of other people. Oh, and are a greasy, snaggle toothed, open-grave breathed, disgusting hunchback. One or the other, I don't know.

I was the outsider and didn't exactly fit into their small town mold.

Because you were a disgusting man-gina?
Over there they would watch the high school football game,


when I was back in Glendale Heights – I would go to Elmhurst and do an open mic.

You know people only clapped because it was finally over. Or booed at him. Or went home saying "Holy fuck, what was with Quasimodo?"

I think about those days often when I go to the nightclubs for signings,

And get run off when the cops got called to get that foul smelling greasy hunchback out of the club.

the nightmares about the fucker called a youth pastor setting fire to my papers.

Fat loser has a nightmare. THE HORRORS!

It's every writers worst nightmares

My worst nightmare is waking up without my penis.

along with the one who says, "write a book just for me and only me. I'm your number one fan, and I will the only one to see it."

Stolen from Stephen King.

Actually, my second worst nightmare is my scrotum becoming filled with angry bees.

Living there, I don't think Stephen King would be able to make some of the shit up that goes on over there.

Bet he could. Why? Because he has a functional brain. I can too: "Small town is perfectly normal except for the squalid hunchback who leeches off of other people." Oooooh, spooky!

This kind of horror that I faced through April and May,

What? Book signings, nightmares, and people going to football games? HOW DID YOU EVER SURVIVE!

Oh, wait, the horror of everyone knowing he was child abusing piece of shit.

was driving me to the point of madness. I knew that if I went to the First Assembly of God Church in Mason City, Iowa, about the issue they wouldn't be much help to me.

Because they didn't give out medication? Because they aren't miracle workers? Because you're a twisted and loathesome manchild?
"Your testimony should fill all these pages instead of what you've written – in my eyes, your fiction is nothing but blank pages," is what still rings in the back of my head about the legalistic fuck.

I think you mean "moralistic fuck" but like everyone else in your life, including being a normal human being, you fucked that up too. And frankly, the literary world would be a better place if you'd just written blank paper.

I could picture someone like him wanting human thoughtless puppets where he could pull their strings – dance, puppet, dance.

Hey, look at that scary door.
I really think he never sat down in front of a computer and created something that belonged to him.

I don't know, I bet he created a couple fists full of knuckle children cranking one off to porn.

I still hear those words to this day and get angry.

Obsessing over shit never said with imaginary enemies. Total Pacione.

I wanted to write a story with the fucker in it and kill him off in a way so horrible, people wouldn't believe that I actually wrote it.

If it had description or detail everyone would know you didn't.

In my nightmares I see him and the female pastor from Mason City invoking a witch-hunt because I don't exactly think like them – they want robots instead of people who thought freely.

But robots don't have souls, duh! They need humans to buy their way into heaven with their bags of souls!
Living there was similar to the pages of Anthem. When I get sick during the times when I was living at the apartment, I will have those nightmares and I hate talking about them because it reminds me of what happened to my young son; at the time of writing this he's about to turn eleven.

You mean when you beat the shit out of an infant? You hate talking about them because instead of writing a poignant story about a man realizing he had done wrong and how he desperately wants to atone for it, you'd rather just whine about how you're a victim and the child totally beat itself?
"The outsider must go, he must perish!" the youth pastor chants to the crowd as they respond like puppets on a string.


People don't have witch-hunts in 1999.

Unless they live in Florida, where they recently tried to convict a man on witchcraft.

That seemed true to form, but on April 20, 1999, they had one and everyone who wore black clothing,

It was all in the papers. The Great Burning Times of Iowa was all over the papers and CNN!

listened to loud heavy metal music, or read horror books.

Ummm... They had one, and everyone who blah blah blah... WHAT? WHAT FUCKING ABOUT THEM! Finish the fucking sentence instead of just trailing off into fantasies about hot man-sex in a bondage sleepsack.

Because of those things, we were the ones being put on trial because of a hideous act two assholes did in the high school library that day.

Read aloud your bullshit rambings and gave everyone coronary embolisms?

That gave the rest of the community permission to start another Salem Witch Trial.

They saw two teenagers dancing? Or were they having sex standing up and everyone thought they were dancing?
Some might see this and ask, "Nick, are you making this up?"

No, actually, we see this, and we wonder what the fuck your point is, since we know there were no great Iowa Burning Times of 1999.
I could fully picture that and would say no, because when I had the nervous breakdown.

What? When you had the nervous breakdown WHAT? You took part in a wild orgy with pantyless witches on Halloween? You had a nervous breakdown and realized what a fucking failure of humanity you were?

Oh, wait, nothing. This is a Pacione story.

I had many nightmares about this and each one was too horrifying to put into words.

OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE! No, it isn't. I've written descriptions about people being torn apart by the undead, about cannibalistic children murdering and raping, about monsters from beyond space and time. I've been able to describe every nightmare I've ever had. Here's my one from last night.

I was standing in front of my old barracks, the fog around my feet, fog that was clouds from further down the mountain, staring at the building. It should have been empty, my unit was gone to the field and we hadn't been allowed to leave a rear detachment. But my wife and children were in there, how they'd gotten there, I didn't know, but I knew that they were in there. And the ghosts of the Nazi's that had killed those people during the latter days of World War 2, people who we had found when we dug up the basement to lay the concrete, had them tied to chairs. I knew that an SS Major, the man in charge of interrogation training, was stropping a straight razor to go to work on my children. I knew that my wife was already slumped forward in her chair, drooling blood down her face from where they'd removed her teeth with pliers. Crimson streaking her torso from where they'd cut away her nipples and scored deep lines into the flesh of her breasts. That the laughing ghosts were around my family, resplendent in their black and silver uniforms, whispering the horrible things they were going to do to my family.

And I was unable to move. The fog chains around my feet.

That was my nightmare last night. Just the first few seconds.

That combined with the accusations of child abuse really weighed heavy on my conscious,

It should have, you fucking hunchbacked manchild.

and in many ways I am still haunted by this.

I believe I speak for everyone who knows what you did to that small child, who needed you to be a fucking man and care for it and love it, that you fucking well should be.
I keep having the nightmares of people saying that I turned into my biological father

And you still didn't change. Did you dedicate your life to making sure it never fucking happened again? To be a better person? No. You whine and try to make yourself out to be a victim. That's why we all hate you.

along with the nightmares of the youth pastor and the female pastor preaching off a near death experience.

What near death experience? When you got gouged in the back of the head with a ball point pen? Oooh, it's the Scary Door!

Things like that scare me to death for many reasons.

Things like fucking what?

One he was violent when he was school, and when I look in the mirror, I see the fucker's face instead of my own. Except he didn't have red hair, he had long black hair and a reddish tint of a goatee in the black hairs.

You don't have red hair, Sparkle Pony, you have lank greasy locks. Wait, it's RED under all that fucking grease, grime, and dirt? EW EW EW!
In the nightmares, I see the asshole quite well and still holding the screwdriver along with the clipping of the day that I was brutally attacked.

You see your father, or pastor?

What disturbs me is that the people who stabbed me were friends of his. That youth pastor was a different kind of monster, one that hides behind a caring smile.

Because he had friends, he's a monster to Sparkle Pony.

That caring smile was a mask for something more horrifying and that was the act of trying to brainwash as many people as he can – his way of sharing the Love of God was distorted with legalism.

I think I know what he's trying to say, but he's saying it really stupidly.

That in turn is something so sinister that I can't even put the words to describe.

You can't, but anyone else who has passed an 8th grade creative writing class can. Loser.
"God loves you," the youth pastor would say, but it was a mixed message by staring at him.

So you stare at him, and suddenly the words "GOD HATES YOU!" flashes in neon red letters on his forehead.

He said it with his words but his actions said "go fuck yourself; I don't like your kind walking into this church wearing all black."

Yes, that's why people hate you. Not because you call them terrorists, child molestors, necrophiliacs, and shit like that. It's because you wear black. Not the Goths, not the punk rockers, not morticians, just you, because you wear black.
Staring right at him after he said that was saying without actually saying it was, "Hope you die fucker! You're an outsider and no one will bother to help you. The reason you lost your son is because the way you think –

Yeah, because you think it is OK to beat infant children for normal infant things.

the way you look and the way you carry yourself. If you want him back you have to look more like me, and think more like a puppet."

Or not, you know, NOT beat the kid, NOT let him shit in shitty diapers till the woman with a job got home, and NOT scream profanity at the kid.
I thought when I stared right at the son of a bitch, you want to be a puppet you brainwashed fuck then dance. Puppet. Dance.

AHAHAHAHA! Like you could make anyone dance. The only thing you can get people to dance is the "Fuck Pacione Dance!" which this is one of the steps.
I would look up to the sky and ask God why the fuck is this shit happening to me.

Let me speak for God real quick: BECAUSE YOU BEAT AN INFANT! God used to strike people like you with lightning.

I must had done something to piss Him off.

Like beat an infant and write the worst stuff ever?

Something that made most of the church population invoke some kind of witch hunt for anyone who has a Gothic appearance to them.

Too bad we never heard of the Great Iowa Emo Slaughter, which happened right after the 1999 Great Goth Burnings.

In Mason City from April 20, 1999, to the day I signed myself into the hospital was a form of the Salem Witch Trials in the last year of the 20th Century.

So they did the dunkings, the hearings, the heated irons on the flesh, the weights on the chest, and all of that great shit, and I missed it? GODDAMN IT! I watched CNN and even FOXNews every fucking day back then, and never saw this! Aw man, I miss all the exciting shit.

Over there hardly anyone wore black clothing or read horror books, and over there it was if I was a stranger in a strange land.

Oh, so it was a Salem Witch Trial of one? Geeeetting booooooored.......
In the nightmares I could still hear the dialog I would have with the youth pastor.

The only time he's actually a tough guy. Or bathes. Or has unrotted teeth. Or stands erect. Or has a penis longer than 2 inches erect. Or can actually write.
"Why the fuck are you doing this?" I would ask.

In his nasally whining tone, with one finger jammed firmly in his nose and the other scratching his cyst encrusted lower back.

"Because you stopped going to church, and everything you've done is nothing but an abomination in God's eyes!

For the Lord Sayeth: Care for the children, and watch over the infants, for I have placed the most precious treasure in your hands, and I charge thee with care of this most precious of all things.

I am here as your judge and destroyer of everything you create – you're nothing but a leper," he answers back.

Wah. Love these feelings of persecution. Notice nothing about shame or sadness for abuse of a small creature that has nothing but unconditional love, but rather whining about his whining and his own persecution. Please, Sparkle Pony, go on with how everything is poor you.
"This what you've done is nothing but blank pages, they shouldn't even be written – and you're wasting your gift on writing such abominations," he continues.

Ah, his gift.
"God gave me an imagination and a free will," I would argue back.

When in reality, he'd giggle and flee.
"Free will is a lie! God commands us to destroy anything that isn't of Him," he shouts as he takes the torch to the pile of classic books.


His fear must be having a wide array of knowledge and a person who is self-educated.

Then he has nothing to fear of Sparkle Pony, now does he?
From what I remember of him, he was a youth pastor only in name. He worked in the Christian bookstore in the mall for extra money.

Wait, you were scared of the guy who ran the Christian bookstore in the MALL? AHAHAHAHAHHAAA! That's like a riveting tale of police corruption and abuse, where you suddenly find out that it was all nightmares of the guy dressed as a policeman in the Village People.

Those two words he said still rings in the back of my mind even when I was hospitalized for a nervous breakdown less than three weeks later –

What two words? I want to know these words? Are they words that kill that only Pacione's iron will and strong mind resisted? Are they a pair of words that when put together drive men mad? Are they utterances of the Great Old Ones, or maybe of Those Who Dwell Below? Are they the names of Archangels?

in the hospital I can still the two words ringing and burning in the back of my mind; blank pages.


You know, it might be an absolute riot to send him emails marked "Blank Pages" and see if this is all hysteric and hyperbolic bullshit.

I could still describe the nightmares to this present day, a man doing things accordance to "God's Will."

Some Christian Book Store mall-worker telling you that your stories suck? You still have nightmares about? You snivelling little troll.
Doing things as a Nazi soldier

Anyone else want to punch him in the face while wearing a

and that's how he dressed in the nightmare,

He's not a Nazi, but he plays one in Sparkle Pony's dreams.

he even looked like he could pass off as a member of the "SS."

Which, after Pacione's exhausting research on WW-2 for his epic masterpiece ripoff of The Crow, he of course knows what one looks like.

Something that could fit the pages of Fahrenheit 441 –

AAAAHHAHAHAHAHHAA! He means, of course, Fahrenheit 451, and the fact that he thinks that the Firemen looked like Nazi SS is just funnier than shit.

fear of the knowledge that breathes and beats within the pages.

Umm... OK.
Such nightmares I still remember and when I crashed at a friends house in Chicago, those nightmares plagued me in such a dark and disturbing way.


I knew that I couldn't talk to him about such nightmares, and I didn't even mention them to my doctor in Oak Park, Illinois.

Because you knew that everyone would just laugh at you for being a thin-skinned man-gina?
Those nightmares about a torch and pitchfork party being lead by the uneducated youth pastor and the female pastor who preaches on a NDE.

That never happened. (snicker)

Some would tell me to pray them out of the system, but something like that can't be healed with prayer – especially when they were triggered by the events of Columbine.

What was treated by the events of Columbine? Your shitty writing? You beating you son? Yes, all Columbine's fault.
These nightmares were perplexed by the ones of losing custody of my son,

Confused or puzzled; Bewildered

In translation: These nightmares were confused/bewildered/puzzled by the ones of losing custody of my son.

Perhaps a better turn of phrase would be: These nightmares were compounded by the ones where I relived losing custody of my son because I'm a greasy stain of the asscrack of humanity, a human piece of shit who beat an infant repeatedly.

seeing him at twenty saying, "You're not my father, and I want you out of my fucking life. You were never a father to me, I don't want to read the maps you created so I find you. You turned into your father!"

He wasn't a father, a father raises a person, cares for them, loves them, picks them up when they fall down, eases the hurts that life brings to a child.
When I had my nervous breakdown, everything was crashing down on me at once. I came very close to losing my apartment, my job, and everything else if it was just dried clay falling to pieces. My engagement went right to hell at that moment because I knew her parents where the ones who made that notorious phone call.

Is there a way I can send whoever made that call flowers?

When I heard the two words "child abuse" there was a looming horror over my soul.

The knowledge that you were a fucking worm who beat a special needs infant? I hope there was a growing horror WITHIN your soul, a guilt that gnawed at you and reduced the brightest day to smears of gray, that made food taste like ashes and drinks not slake your thirst.

That combined with what the one youth pastor said the reason I got stabbed for.

...with what the Christ Book Store Worker in the Mall said...

Fixed for accuracy.

The reason he gave me still gives me the chills to this day. The things he was saying he was doing in the name of God – leaves an unsettling terror in the pit of the human soul.

No it doesn't. You got mocked by a some dork who works in a Christian Book Store in The Mall. Maybe in your soul, since you're a spineless coward, but most people would have laughed at him, told him to eat a bowl of dicks with semen sauce, and walked out.
Those two words still linger at the darkest depths of my mind – "child abuse" along with my work being nothing but "blank pages."

That's FOUR WORDS you retarded baboon! For fuck's sake, watch some Sesame Street! Christ, there's 6 year olds chained in the basement with no more human contact than PBS who count better.
Those still ring hard in the back of my mind especially when the child abuse accusations were unfounded.

Not according to the State, your ex-girlfriend, multiple witnesses, and a doctor.

Stop lying, Sparkle Pony.

Yet they still hung my custody over me like some fucking carrot hanging from a fishing pole.

In other words, they told you to quit acting like some story-book troll, wash your nasty ass, and take a couple of parenting classes, but you responded with classic Sparkle Pony stupidity, cursing at everyone, claiming it was persecution, and screeching shit.

The child abuse accusations left a huge mental scar on my memory and it still tears me apart thinking about it. It reminds me how bad of a nervous breakdown I had.

Not fills him with shame that he beat an infant.
The fat bitch of a social worker actually did the deed of hanging the carrot in front of me, and other social worker had the nerve to be nice to me after taking my son away.

Trying to make you understand that if you had acted like a normal human, a reasonable adult, and something besides a gibbering hunchback troll, you might have been granted visitation rights or pictures or something.

I wanted to do something terrible to her, something unspeakable –

But since you can't describe anything unspeakable, you couldn't think of anything like that.

I wanted to take loads of dog shit and unload them into the front and back seat of her car.


Why not run up to the door, ring the doorbell, and run away giggling?
"Hello Nick," the one social worker said when I was on the phone.

The horrible cruelty!
I didn't say anything back though the look in my face said, "fuck off and die, I don't care how you die – just fucken die! You took my son away from me, and you're going to be nice to me. FUCK YOU, God-damned sow! I hope something terrible happens to you! Talking to me with a painted smiling face, rot in hell you half-decayed bitch!"

The look on his face. Over. The. Phone.

HAHAHAHAHHA! How "unspeakable" of you.

Those are one of those days I wished I practiced voodoo.

And you'd probably accidently set yourself on fire and turn yourself into a frog or something.

I wasn't in the mood to be nice that day,

So he just mumbled and jammed the phone up his ass.

part of me wanted to give her the middle finger –

On that you'd cut from an unspeakable hooker when you murdered her and dumped her body in front of her Superior Court Judge of a father's house? Oh, wait, that would be an excellent story, while this one is just the rambling persecution complex whinings of a bloated hunchbacked man-gina.

what made it even harder was the fat one's husband worked across the street from where I lived!

Which was too far for him to walk without taking two breaks and a nap.

That particular one I actually told her to go straight to hell.

Mumbling and looking down, his lank greasy hair hanging in front of his face while he wrung his greasy hands together, and when the social worker asked him what he said, he said "nuttin'" in his high pitched voice.

And right now as far as I care; I hope she fucking hangs herself for using my intellectual properties to fuck me over. (She did what the Washington Post did to a good friend of mine.)

No she didn't. And you don't have friends. Stop lying.
I wonder if any others she stole their kid from actually has a voodoo doll of her on a dartboard.

Because you're too big of a coward to do it yourself?
I knew that my world was crashing down by the day and week. I sometimes didn't sleep in the apartment,

To which your girlfriend celebrated by washing the sheets and sleeping in a clean bed.

but wandered the endless night like some vampire

Except without the cool wardrobe, the suaveness, the blood drinking, the turning into a bat, the mind control, the turning into a wolf, the supernatural strength, the allergy to sunlight garlic and silver, and without resembling a normal person. In other words, you wandered around like a filthy disheveled hobo.

on the prowl

Scurrying from streetlight to streetlight with nervous girlish giggles is not prowling.

or stayed all night in a diner to clear my head –

Until they left bars of soap hanging from the door to keep you out?

something that would keep me away from the bottle.

Or facing that you'd fucked up not only your life, but your girlfriend's and the child's lives. Anything but that.
I knew I hit rock bottom at this point, the fact I believe in God kept me from ending it there and then.

Thank God, otherwise the entire world wouldn't have you to laugh at.

If I did that, I would have given up on everything that I was striving to do –

Get away with beating an infant?

in that way, the sinister youth pastor would have won. I could still see his smile being a focal point for something much more sinister. Hiding behind the warm hearted facade was something, dark, something sinister that not even some of the more well known horror writers could begin to imagine.

No, YOU CAN'T, you unimaginative child beater.
In the nightmares I could see both dry bones waking and setting things on fire that were of the old horror classics in print or books of philosophy.

Firestarter and he read the title of Cemetery Dance. (snicker)

I still get nightmares about how I was banned from the library there,

For looking at porn on the computer and refusing to return books and harassing them to carry your crap.

and what they did had no idea that they would cut off my communication with the family back in Illinois – there, I was all alone.

Because only the LIBRARY possessed the remarkable devices known as pens, stamps, paper, and envelopes, which are considered mystical and magical objects, mysterious in their creation and storage to the rest of the world.
"These manuscripts, nothing but blank pages – give me an Amen as I light them on fire," the female pastor shouted to the darkened skies as she took a torch to the pile of books and manuscripts.

What female? Oh, yeah, he keeps mentioning the female pastor. Oooh, The Scary Door!
Rough drafts that weren't allowed to see the light of day.

Psst, what really happened is his computer crashed and he lost it all.

I watched in horror as they did this as the nightmare played out.

As they deleted his hard drive and forced him to bathe! DUN DUN DUM!

I was helpless to stop them because I was too medicated;


it was if they didn't want anyone to actually have an individual thought pattern. To them, writing something that really made people think was a sin in their eyes. Something that expressed a darker side of human thought, a darker side of faith. This in the waking world was going on between April and May 1999.

So in reality they burned his works? Oh, wait, no, his computer exploded and blew off his penis. Wait, no... what really happened: He got in a fight with his girlfriend, went to deleted her writings, and accidently deleted his own. He then curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor and sobbed for six hours.

In the nightmares, it was in the near future during the winter months; sometime in 2004. In the dream, they actually had copies of one of the books and tossed them into the pile of books to burn. "What's not of God, shall be giveth to the fire with The Devil and his angels. Can everyone in the congregation an Amen!" I heard the female pastor bellow in the winter night. The youth pastor only in name handled the torch and then tossed the floppy disks into the cold concrete along with books by Stephen King and Ray Bradbury.

Yes, because those floppy disks (all one of them) belong with those works. The only thing that they have in common is that they are made up of the same kind of markings.

That dark revelation gave me a bone shattering chill,

That 2 years worth the work fit on one 3.5" floppy?

and when I think about those nightmares years later. The very thought still frightens me to the core; the idea that some would see free thought as a crime. The chilling portrait of Rural America walking around as a dark entity in the duration of April 20, 1999, to the middle of May 1999.

Love this paragraph. I might have it inscribed in bronze and hung on my wall with LED lights lighting it and a plastic Jesus holding it up.
Thinking about this gives me a nerve numbing chill as the nightmares are still vivid in the back of my head. The two words that still ring in my mind, and would end up being the trigger the dark nightmares about two people hiding behind a faith in God to do evil deeds wanders deep in the mind. Things such as that leaves a frozen terror in the depths of the human soul.

Blaaaaaaank paaaaaaaages.
Such things they say, "Think upon the pure and the lovely, but in truth – one man's pure and lovely is another man's tormented nightmares. Those nightmares, reflecting the horrifying memories of the figurative torch and pitchfork parties by the youth pastor only in name and the lady pastor who preaches on a near death experience."

Wait, so now the pitchfork and torch parties were only figurative? So Pacione was just using hyperbole to make us feel sorry for him that he's a child abusing moron? Fucking figures. The only good thing in this "story" was the Great Iowa Witch Burnings of 1999.

I've known these kind of nightmares all too well and wander as an entity within my dreams as I would fall into a doped up slumber. Time span of April 20, 1999 to May 8, 1999, are the things that cast a looming shadow in the back of one's disturbed memory.

Wait, like 18 or 19 days? Less than 3 weeks?

The type of things one wishes they were making up about their hellbound nightmares –

Hellbound nightmare? That some fat kid working in a mall bookstore and some woman pastor burning your works? THAT'S hellbound? What the fuck do you call the nightmares the rest of humanity has?

the things that horror stories are made out of is the best way to describe such nightmares about a youth pastor only in name or the lady pastor who preaches out of a near death experience.

Ummm... now. The best way to describe it is: Boring bullshit.
I had these kind of nightmares when I was staying with the friend in Chicago and also while in the hospital The only thing that kept me from waking up and screaming was the drugs they had in my system. All those RX in my system, it was a god-forsaken-miracle that I was functioning –– the nurse and doctors didn't exactly want me functioning, when they pump one with such a high dose one is often sleeping for days on end.

They gave him 2 asprin.
The reason for the breakdown was that I was on the receiving end of a modern day witch hunt from some of the churches and from the damned social workers using my intellectual properties to fuck me over.

Sounds to me like you used a nervous breakdown to avoid going to jail for Child Abuse you little shitweasel.

The horror that echoed the Salem Witch hunts many centuries before in New England.

Ummm... this shows that Pacione doesn't know jack or shit about those events. And MANY centuries? Less than 310. That's MANY centuries!
The use of my own intellectual properties to incriminate me was a nightmare waiting to happen – that every horror plot came to mind actually came true that day.

Wow. Those are some boring ass horror plots.

After the day when they pulled out the my written works, I began to think my darkest hour was yet to come. If there was any time that I wanted to have a drink of hard liquor by the fifths, it was then.

Instead of manning up and helping his girlfriend and acting like a real man, he went for long soulfull walks where he often blew men for pocket change.
The nightmares were painted in the back of one's psyche, and everything was turning to shit before my eyes.

Because you beat a child, you tremendous shitweasel.

Started with the witch-hunts,

That never happened

then the engagement started crumbling before my hands as a lump of dry clay.

Because you beat her child.

What followed next was the legalistic churches

Church of the Divine Sec. 9 Sub 4 of the Penal Code

started to corner me because of my nervous breakdown, deep down I heard the loud noise of the walls crumbling down upon me –– tried to pray to God for guidance but He wasn't listening.

Because he doesn't like child abusers either.

I actually felt like Job

Except Job got screwed on a bet, not because he was a child beating shitweasel.

at that moment because I was losing my family (my then fiancée and my son,)

Because you beat an infant.

the fight for custody was a nightmare –

Because nobody wants to give a special needs infant to a greasy, food stained, unwashed, rot-tooth, hunchbacked troll that likes to beat children. Probably as a precursor to eating them.

one that I can't sit down and relate in detail

Because you suck as a writer.

but my mind was decaying by the duration of weeks.

by or over you blithering manchild?
The only thing that was my saving grace was my writing habit. If I gave that up, I would end up the way Robert E. Howard would be before I turned twenty-three. If I gave up writing, my parents would have to make funeral arrangements because I would end up dead.

Because if he doesn't mainline some sentences every day, he goes into withdrawls and eventually ends up sucking dick at the train station for typewriter keys.

I think a lot about that duration when I lived there –– it would make for a really fucked up horror film.

Yeah, the most boring fucking horror film ever. You couldn't even get that shit on Lifetime or E! if you filmed it from the girlfriend's perspective.

Oh, wait, you could.

A young woman, a mother to a special needs infant, feels trapped by the violent unwashed hunchback who beats her son. Trapped, with no wait out, and terrified of what the crazed unmedicated freak might do to her or her son.

Yeah, I could sell that shit to E! in a heartbeat.
The fact there was at least eighteen churches within blocks of each other, much like how it is with Wheaton, Illinois.

Three solid blocks of churches.

The difference between Mason City, Iowa, and Wheaton, Illinois, are that Wheaton is actually Goth and Horror friendly.

The sign "WELCOME GOTHS AND HORROR WRITERS AND EMO KIDS!" at the city limits is a dead giveaway!
The kids never really thought for themselves

They had printed instructions from the Church every morning on exactly how many steps to take for school. You could fuck them all up by parking a car in the middle of the street and watch them bumping into it for hours.

and never really knew what Atheism was or had an idea what the nature of evil if God and Satan were taken out of the question, their idea of an open mind is one that is open to what only God has in store for them.

Because they don't have the internet, they're all virgin's until marriage, they don't smoke pot, and the town used to be known as Stepford.

Chances are they were either home-schooled or went to a Christian high school, their parents would not allow them to own a Stephen King novel or a Richard Matheson book because they would deem them mental poison.

Yeah, I saw that movie too. I can't wait till Nicky starts dancing in the trainyard!

Living out there, it was a witch-hunt waiting to happen ––

They keep their dunking seat polished in case any women are seen without panties or fucking standing up.

their logic is beyond raped with the idea of how a Christian oughta be. Their view of a Christian is something out of the movie Disturbing Behavior.

Anyone seen that movie? I haven't. You know what a good movie is? Cloverfield. It's one of those movies that if it scares you, you only watch once. But my favorite part is HOOAH! US ARMY OUT OF NOWHERE! Oh, wait, we're supposed to reviewing this "story", not talking about movies. Well, let's get back to it, but first, you should watch Hills Have Eyes 2 remake, just for the line "SHITMAN THE BARBARIAN!"

That meaning no one there actually dressed in black,

They were all immortal from spider bites and never had funerals.

grew their hair long,

The women were bald? Sexy. Know what's fun? Having a bald or near bald girlfriend and shooting all over the top of their head. Seriously, try it sometime. You fucking sicko, we both know you got hard at that thought.

had an earring in a guy

IN a guy? How about "on" a guy. Otherwise, you're saying that none of them shoved earrings up their ass, which might be painful. Or, if you're like me, accidently tongued it off of her ear and swallowed it, choked on it, and threw up on the bed. Yeah, I'm suave.

or some other piercing on their face,

I hear bones are in fashion with Christians now.

or got ink (that is a slang term for a tattoo.)

Thank you Captain Obvious. Thank God you showed up, a child needs abusing!
They see people dressing in black as either a witch or a Satanist –

Or a funeral director. Or a principal. Or a well dressed man. Or a mourner. Or on the way to church. Or someone wearing black that day.

when in truth, they're are a man or woman in God just they see God in a different way. Something that was referenced in Lucifer Dethroned – about people that are drawn to the color black. In my observations, I think what they portrayed is a misconception about people who tend to live closer to the shadows of light. The way they portray people with Bipolar as being some kind of monster, that's formation of nightmares waiting to occur. Some form of a dwindling horror as it dwells in the back of a withered soul.

Ah, yes, every Sunday the preacher used to tell us how people with Bipolar were Satanists!
When looking back at that area, there were only a few people who were kind enough to help me out or made me feel at home –– one of them had an article about Eva O being a Christian at the time. The photograph of her in the magazine was her caressing a crucifix. Since then she walked away from the church and God. When I see the shadows of the past about that place, the souls are often left as dry bones and whitewashed tombs –– left alone to their madness and the nightmares forge out of them.

I'm willing to bet they all have nice lives, people who love them, and bathe regularly.
When I see the purple or green t-shirts that read "Upper Room Ministries."

You what? Run away giggling? Curl up on the bathroom floor crying? Or run downstairs, climb in your bondage sleepsack, and furiously masturbate while ramming the stick of a hobby horse up your ass? Or maybe all 3?
The first thing that I think is that they are zombies

Braaaaains. Braaaaaains and cunnilingus.

because they're brainwashed with the logic of a preacher that preaches on a near death experience.

This story would seriously be better if we got to hear about it.

A MOTHERFUCKING near death experience; what the FUCK lady?

BEAT AN INFANT? WHAT THE FUCK, SPARKLE PONY? Gouged in the head by a ballpoint pen? WTF, hunchback?

The only reason I didn't buy into it is because I am an educated man.

Who didn't graduate high school. Who dropped out of college. Who just barely use a spellchecker. Let's just chalk that up to Sparkle Pony not knowing the meaning of the term "educated man" and leave it at that.
If I had an NDE, I would become an even darker breed of horror writer by playing around with it.

Unlike your award winning story "Fat Fuck Fall Off A Fence" and "Fat Fuck Fails At A Witch Orgy"

That "church" was helmed by children of the grave;


their world;

Graveworld! The next Ratchet & Clank Game!

and when they see it through a man with a dark mind their world would be that the center failed to hold.

Good thing that it's only Pacione writing. They're perfectly safe.

I could remember when I brought two from that church into a place where I check my e-mail at, they bolted out like a banshee in a cemetery.

In other words, they took one look at the mold infested, left over food strewn, semen encrusted hole in his grandparents basement, and they ran off screaming.

Admit it, so would you. You'd figure this loathsome troll lured you down there to kill you, have sex with you, and eat you. In that order. Oh, and then make a suit out of your skin to wear so that the sunlight didn't burn his flesh.
Horror crawled upon them as a shadow within darkness;

As they looked around the room and heard PACIONE'S LAUGHER!

as an entity that watches the blind children pray around the cold headstones.

This is just all kinds of fucked up. Just picture a foul hunchback, his clothing spattered with grease, semen, food spatters, and grime, crouched behind the gravestones, giggling to himself as his shit and pus encrusted hand fondles his crotch. His beady little eyes set in the pimply dough like face fixed on the poor blind children praying at the cold headstones of the parents they lost in the terrible fire.

Umm, THAT'S scary.

The madness became the catalyst for the endless nightmares, from the eyes of a man whose already fragile of mind they see someone whose about to see their walls crashing down on them. No matter how many prayers to God are spoken, He doesn't listen. The Fuck of Fucks doesn't hear anyone's prayer because there is something about mortals that just leaves Him royally pissed off.

No, just you, because you beat infants.
Sometimes the slaves take it just a little too far. What is seen when the slaves act up are the horror that some wish not to see, but are the witness of a display of a modern torch and pitchfork party. They claim that if they are saved by grace – really in truth; the horrors of reality are weighing down upon them. Staring back as a shadow in the back of the mind creating the infinite nightmares that echo the madness crumbling down upon them. The shadows in the tormented memory would be created in the eyes of the youth pastor that is only a youth pastor by name and the pastor who would preach upon a near death experience.

Great, more shit about the minimum wage mall worker and the chick who almost died.
Between the two of them, it's nearly sin to be writing of the nightmares they induced combined –– almost the memories are scarred in the back of one's mind of what they did.

What the fuck did they REALLY do?

One saying what I do is nothing but blank pages,

Look! The Scary Door!

and the other causing me to lose all outside communication to my family back in Illinois.

So she got him kicked out of the library for being a foul unwashed freak who panted on the computers and stared at the blind kids. No shit. Where can I send her some candy and a bunch of flowers?

Every horror came to life when I lived there,

Wow? Vampires and werewolves and demons and devils and cybernetic killing machines that run off of human blood, and the next Shrek movie all came to live while he lived there? Why, he's lucky to escape with his life.

Wait... he got in trouble. Oh.

and it was every horror playing heavy on the back of the mind –– the pure and the lovely turning to shit or that is the way it seems when the whole world was crashing down on oneself.

All just because he repeatedly beat an infant. And you call the world fair, when a greasy troll isn't allowed to abuse a baby without facing jail!
Each day I was growing more sky high and fucked by the hour,

Doing meth and hanging out in the bus station bathroom.

some refusing to help me get food

So he blew them for a hot-dog BEFORE they gave him the hot-dog? Man, he sucks at that too.

or helping me find a way to get my custody back.

Lawyers don't really hang out in bus station bathrooms, Nicky.

It was just another carrot hanging in front of my face that I couldn't reach.

It was just another carrot dick hanging in front of my face that I couldn't reach suck.

The nightmares of the constant holy-rollers tossing things of reason into the fire; it was if they were reflecting the shadow of abomination. Everything one sees within that kind of nightmare is every horror coming to life;


the kind of picture where they say think upon the pure and the lovely only to see the pure and the lovely all of the sudden turn into a world of dog shit. When they would approach me with their fake smiling faces and holy roller demeanor. They would say it would be in God's will that I get to reach my family, that was a lie to my face told as truth. Something that would play in the back of my mind as much as the one the greeter told me about saying I don't have ADHD – saying it was a lie from the devil. Being lied in the face by other Christians. Puppets dancing on the strings of a religion known as legalism.

Blah blah blah. More poor persecuted me bullshit.

I look at them now and sometimes ask them this with authority – do I scare you now?

That someone could be that disgusting? Fuck yeah it does. For the love of the Hanukkah Zombie, BRUSH YOUR FUCKING TEETH!
I found myself being seen as a monster there,

A child beating monster.

a monster of my own making when they try to put a mental illness as something demonic.

Mental illness didn't make you beat your kids. The fact you're a piss poor excuse for a human being is why you beat that child.

The stigmas the pastors would put on a mental illness – thinking about it still gives me the chills in many ways. The kind of thing that drove Robert E. Howard to suicide – the kind of thing that would drive any fuck to the asylum.

BUZZ! Wrong for sooo many reasons.

Slavery in the name of God, and seeing those green and purple t-shirts reading "Upper Room Ministries" I wonder if they follow because of the near death experience. They are drawn to every damned word she says and like mindless puppets -- they follow. They follow to the point where they see no more free will, and in one's horror they obey every word she says. She says, "Let us pray." They without question bow their heads.

Yes, obviously mind control.

In no other church does such a thing happen! THE FIEND!
I, on the other hand, just kept my head up as an observer.

Like a true MAN OF GAWD would.

A dark brooding beast that sat there – knowing that something was up when she started preaching from a damn near death experience.

Point of Order, Mr. Sparkle Pony, many people are drawn to the calling of God by near death experiences. This often happens in the human world. Perhaps if you bathe and brush your teeth, you may experience it someday.

I watched as they allowed themselves to become brainwashed by the day – by the hour, the things of nightmares were being written in the back of my scarred psyche.

Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaages.

Somewhere in my nightmares I would hear the bitch preaching in the cemeteries as the demons scream for the unholy choir, a question if she was from the heavens or from the abyss below. The shadows of a dark memory crawling, waiting as an entity waiting to be awakened with an incantation from a blasphemous tome.

ALMOST HAD IT! Then failed so utterly.
The nightmares etched in the back of my mind as they wander as entities all their own! The shadows of their memory become the blueprint for the late 20th Century witch-hunts

The Great Goth Burning of Chicago! The Emo Hunt of Wichita! The Anarchist Massacre of Reno!

that shall cast a modern shadow on me for a good number of years.

Meaning that normal shadows slide away rather than touch him. Good to know!

No matter how many times I try to wall the memories out of being made a demon in human form for my illness,

Or for beating an infant.

they make their ways of being known. A dark, growing monster within the scarred remains of a tormented mind – with each memory screaming out incantations of the nightmares somewhere still-beating in the black heart of a tormented man.

Such horrible nightmares.

Of a mall employee and a pastor.
(Those nightmares made themselves felt while being placed in the walls of a mental health facility, where time stands still and not even God will hear the sick man's prayers. The nightmares of a Salem Witch Trial still-beating alive and well within the present day within the fucking cornfields in the rotting heart of Iowa.

Ah yes, the great Cornfield Witch Project.
I forgot about that.
I could still hear the female pastor telling the congregation in the green and purple t-shirts saying, "Let us pray."

As I think of those times, they were somehow a madwoman's prey. When I see them bowing their heads somewhere to myself I would say of them, "Dance. Puppet. Dance." When I see that youth pastor only in name,

Christian Book seller at the mall.

there is one question I want to ask the brainwashed fuck – Do I scare you now?

And we told you: NO! You're a foul little hunchback, not something from the depths of time with the blood of a thousand thousand sacrifices smearing its bulk with crimson blasphemies as it rises up from the depth of the earth and shatters cities when its shoulders heave from beneath the earth where it slumbered from before the sun was spun from darkness.

You're just a nasty little child abusing hunchback.
I keep hearing the self-righteous fuck's works, "Blank pages" ringing in my head. The words that scream witch-hunt in the eyes of those who seem to have a view of the world that isn't the pure and the lovely, but distorted and perverse.

YAY! It's the Pacione Repeat! Everyone's favorite dance.

It's just a copy from above. And then a paste to beeeeelow! Put the text in again. And tuck the words in tight! Let's do the Pacione Repeat agaaaaaain!

Some might ask think this narrative of someone who fell from grace,

Or the whining snivellings of a man who is trying to come off on the victim after beating an infant repeatedly and terrorizing his girlfriend.

but it's a narrative of a man who's torments dwell and breathed on their own for a good part of a decade of the horrible things people did in the name of God.

Wait, you beat the kid in the name of God? You sick fuck.
Such things become the nightmares of a tattered psyche, and the horror of it shall live within the pages of a narrative of a man who suffers with the stigma the church gave upon him.

Ah yes, in all of his photos we see where the Inquisitioner put burning brands against his cheeks to forever mark him with the word "SHITWEASEL" for all to see. Wait, no it didn't.

Being coined the modern leper in their eyes. Presenting themselves with hearts of gold, but in truth they have a hearts of still-rotting shit.

And they're still better than scumbags who beat infants and terrorize women.
When they offer the way to heaven, the only thing they are giving in return is a detour into the depths of damnation on earth. Damnation seen in the guise of eternal life, the promise of the pearly gates but when they find out that one has a mental illness -– it became the gates of damnation. From the words of the holy woman and holy man raping redemption, salvation from mental illness is a lie. One that they say they have to seek deliverance from only to be the scarred horrors seen from one who suffers the most.

The infant. He's the victim here, Nicky, not you.
Sometimes I wonder about the female pastor having nightmares holding two coins over her physical lifeless body – those two coins being for the boatman to cross the river Styx.

Aw man, not this shit again.
The fact she preaches so much off her near death experience that she might have an obsession with it!

No shit. That kind of happens when you ALMOST FUCKING DIE!

She claims that she felt angels, but sometimes I wonder if she saw the boatman coming for her coins within the depths of her most death-laden dreams. The question if the near death experience she preaches upon still haunts her twisted mind, as often she prays to God for it to go away.

Ummm... It does, Sparkle Pony. See, you'd know if you had actually been attacked by a maniac with a screwdriver instead of getting stabbed with a ballpoint pen for groping the girl.

Only for the nightmares to be even more intense by the night – does she wake up screaming?

Probably. Something a sheltered manchild like you would never understand.

Does she beg God not to allow her to relive the horrors of that day she died, and does the lunacy haunt her day and night as she preaches out of her house?

Probably. That's what happens when you actually know what horror is. Something you obviously have no clue of.
The madness within her dreams becomes the darkening battery of a shadow from a entity that doesn't run from his darkness,

Yes you do. You claim that you didn't beat that baby, despite the fact that the State said you did, witnesses said you did, and your ex-girlfriend has told everyone all about it, you pathetic failure.

one that doesn't hide

Yes you did. You ran away and left your ex-girlfriend to deal with all the fallout, because you're a yellow bellied craven coward.

but still casts a shadow looming in the depths of ones more tormented dreams – the one who watches her puppets dance when she says, "Let us prey!"

What, is she leading them on the hunt?
When I see those photographs of her, some of them look like she has pitch black eyes. She says she has her soul saved by Christ but when I see that photograph. The photograph brings a dark chill in the back of my spine being she might be a Child of Dagon – the photo looking she doesn't have any eyes! I am wondering if she has gills on her chest for her to breath when it rains. Some might not want to have that fucked up picture in they some of wouldn't even begin to imagine to illustrate from the depths of their shadows.

And somehow you made even that boring.
Over the past eleven years, I had morbid hued nightmares about that pastor and the youth pastor only in name.


Sometimes, I actually wonder if this lady pastor is really a Miss Linda (something a friend of mine once wrote a song about a psychic with all seeing eyes. First thing at that comes to mind when I think of this lady pastor – the very thought gives me the chills.)

In other words, now you're stealing from other people.
I sometimes wonder if the lady pastor could really be a medium, or something of that nature – using a near death experience to preach; in some ways would give someone an icy chill down one's spine.

That she'd actually know you're a scumbag?

I sometimes have ideas of writing the Miss Linda into a story where she's holding the coins over her lifeless shell of body laying in the hospital bed, waiting to pay the boatman.

Except you'd "find it impossible to describe"
When I see that photograph, I wasn't looking at a Holy prophet –

You were terrified that it was a woman!

I staring in the eyes of a Miss Linda.

And he rips his "friend's" work off wholesale less than a paragraph later. Nice work, Sparkle Pony.

A damned mystic that hides behind the Word of God. Standing from her wooden podium and preaching out of her house. Her living, thinking zombies in purple and green t-shirts with the church name on the shirts walked in the doors of the fringe store. The moment they entered; got scared shitless when walking into a store that does body ink.

That's tattoos, in case you missed Ol' Sparkle Pony informing us of this insider fact earlier.

They though they actually stepped into a demon's apartment when they were in that place.

Yeah, I'm sure they did.
They act like they walked right into the Devil's den, especially when I saw one of them selling off their Black Sabbath cassettes a few months earlier – with the thoughts of Let Us Prey in their mind.

Blah blah blah. I should namedrop shot you on that one.
(Yes they were prey for Miss Linda. They sit and listen while she pulled their invisible strings with her hypnotic song, the song of the blond siren with black soulless eyes – Dance! Puppet! Dance! Their soul is slowly strangled in her spiritual tourniquet!)

Wow, he's just really ripping off his "friend", but it isn't plagiarism, oh no, not when Sparkle Pony does it.
I would loved to imagine them stepping foot at a night club in Chicago,

Sorry, Sparkle Pony, they probably have by now.

and if they actually set foot in The Exit – they would have felt like they stepped into the lungs of hell

Well, using it right once out of two stories just shows us that the first time was an accident.

with the dungeon shackles on the walls with the scribble bench in the back room.

Yes, yes, and tomorrow we'll go to the scary Ice Cream shop.

But looking back at those years, I kept having those disturbing dreams about the Miss Linda. She might go around thumping the Holy Book yet something was missing – her damned crystal ball! Her dark, soulless eyes in the photograph didn't even seem human but serpentine – it was if the nightmare was coming to life! I wonder if she could hear my darkening roar thundering these words as she lays with the blackest depths in her looming comatose nightmares of her soul holding out two coins over her sleeping corpse:

OOOH! Words!


That he just plain fucking stole.

So, in conclusion:

Sparkle Pony beat his infant son for doing infant stuff.
The State takes away the infant.
The woman leaves him.
He has nightmares about a guy who works in the mall calling his writing blank pages.
In 2 years he didn't fill up an entire 3.5 floppy disk.
He has nightmares about a woman who had a near death experience.

Wow, what a tale of persecution and magic.

BTW-This whole thing clocks in at 12,003 words. Originally it clocked in at 6,047 words.

I added a fucking lot. And at least I made goddamn sense.

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