The perfect breakfast, now and forever
I updated my OKC profile again. The new one is, as tradition demands, even weirder than the previous one.
"I resolved that this would not be the end. I would have my breakfast, and the marshaled forces of heaven and hell themselves would not stop me."
The old one, as usual, is behind the cut.
I am quiet, careful, and hidden.
My Self-Summary
When the first news reports started to pour in, most of us were already dead. We took too long to accept the truth.
Putting thumbs on raccoons may have been good for business, but it sure as hell wasn't good for humanity.
What I’m doing with my life
In the dead of night, I storm the raccoons' chittering citadels. Man once ruled his economic landscape from these monoliths, but they now lie dark. Their new masters can see what little light is provided by the softly humming computational machinery of purpose... inscrutable.
I remember those halcyon days, when I relaxed deeply and imagined theories to describe the movements of a society which no longer exists. With the shattered remnants of my life and knowledge, I will strike back. With my dying breath, I will have my revenge for what they have done to us, to all of us. I will hurl my battered and bruised body against that wall, over and over again, until something breaks.
By day, I scout, I plan, and I forage for food and water. I must be careful. The deer are their allies, their fleet-footed eyes. Kill them on sight. The crows stay quiet if bribed. It is the devices, the slithering, whirling masses straight from the depths of nightmare, that will hearken your death.
I’m really good at
I was once a pacifist. To kill another intelligent creature was to die a bit myself. Then, the apocalypse shattered the soul of mankind, burning everything and everyone that I loved from the face of the earth.
Now my fingers twitch in my sleep, miming the all-too-familiar movement of clicking off the safety, taking careful aim, and quickly squeezing off two rounds; one for the left hemisphere, one for the right. I don't know what those damned fuzzy bastards did to themselves, but a single bullet no longer suffices.
My knowledge of chemistry was once turned toward finding cures for those few diseases that remained in our utopia. Now, I use it to build simple incendiary devices to plant amidst the raccoons' thrumming machinery. My mastery of mathematics is now reduced to aiding me in the creation of maps, schematics, and primitive weaponry.
Each and every one of my passions has been twisted toward the service of my revenge. And I am excellent at it.
The first things people usually notice about me
If I am noticed, it is too late. This new world in which I find myself trapped does not forgive any flaw in my camouflage. By necessity, I have become a ghost, tormenting mankind's destroyers in those few, small ways which I can.
I was careless and sloppy once, and once was too often. A sentry looked away, but its ears remained pointing toward where I waited, hidden and breathless. I exhaled, and the leaves beneath me shifted.
In a flash, the raccoon lunged toward me. Its septic claws, razor-sharp and blindingly fast, bit clear through my kevlar vest and scratched through the skin and muscle of my chest, rasping against my very bones. I grabbed its forearms and wrenched it away. Its retractable palm spike went clear through my hand, the hypodermic tip oozing a viscous poison; if the beast had not misjudged, if the spike had been shallow enough not to pierce me clean through, I would have died.
I was sick for nearly eight days from that trace of poison and the microbes from those filthy claws. I will never again be so careless.
My favorite books, movies, music, and food
Books, movies, music... If you find some, let me know. I know of none that survived those fiery raids in which most of mankind was slaughtered.
For food, I feast upon the flesh of the deer, upon the caches of wild mushrooms I can find in the caves, and upon those supplies I capture in my raids. The raccoons, I burn.
The six things I could never do without
I will always find a way to survive, no matter what resources I am given. I only need myself.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
There is no time for regret.
I have cried until I had no tears left, and I have dried my eyes. I will lament no more. What was lost cannot be regained.
I will live my life with purpose, with passion, with intensity. I will walk each day in the shadow of death, and I will never fear.
We were arrogant. We meddled in affairs which we had no business, and we paid dearly for it when we were scourged from the earth. But the balance has not yet been reckoned. And it will be.
I was not one of the scientists responsible. News have been spotty at best, but it seems that they disappeared shortly after the attacks began. This in itself not remarkable; so many died that it was not uncommon for bodies not to be recovered.
However, the raccoons have continued to change. They have become faster, smarter, stronger, more deadly. Three weeks ago, if I looked at one of their towers using an infrared scope, I could see their warm bodies moving through the stairways and ventilation shafts. Then, two and a half weeks ago, their heat signatures just... disappeared. All of them.
I know they are still there; I can catch brief, flitting movement through the telescope, and I can hear the ticker-tack of their claws when I place my ear against the building vents. But they have changed, once again.
Are the scientists that created these monstrosities still alive? Are they held captive, forced to improve upon their creations? Or are they working with the beasts?
There are so many questions. I fear I may never know the truth.
On a typical Friday night I am
The days blur together, the week's meaning lost since the collapse of civilization. Once I would have looked forward to a Friday night; I would forgo the clubs and libations of my more hedonistic friends, and look forward to a time when I could bring my work home and really make some progress.
I wish now that I had enjoyed the pleasures of company when it was available, that I had been carefree when I had the chance to be so. The work that I did, into which I poured my heart and soul... it is all lost. Did it ever really have a meaning? Was its purpose simply to prepare me for the coming storm?
The most private thing I’m willing to admit here
I sometimes doubt myself.
Is there a greater plan at work? The destruction of mankind, the rule of Earth's new masters... Am I a fool to fight?
It fades. I am what I have been made into. I am no longer a man. I am the ghost of mankind, and I will ensure that what has been bought with my people's blood will be paid for in kind.
I am beyond doubt, beyond hate, beyond fear, beyond anger, beyond grief. I am an arbiter of justice, and those furry little bastards will know me as their unmaker.
You should message me if
If you have found this message, just know:
You are not alone.
"I resolved that this would not be the end. I would have my breakfast, and the marshaled forces of heaven and hell themselves would not stop me."
The old one, as usual, is behind the cut.
I am quiet, careful, and hidden.
My Self-Summary
When the first news reports started to pour in, most of us were already dead. We took too long to accept the truth.
Putting thumbs on raccoons may have been good for business, but it sure as hell wasn't good for humanity.
What I’m doing with my life
In the dead of night, I storm the raccoons' chittering citadels. Man once ruled his economic landscape from these monoliths, but they now lie dark. Their new masters can see what little light is provided by the softly humming computational machinery of purpose... inscrutable.
I remember those halcyon days, when I relaxed deeply and imagined theories to describe the movements of a society which no longer exists. With the shattered remnants of my life and knowledge, I will strike back. With my dying breath, I will have my revenge for what they have done to us, to all of us. I will hurl my battered and bruised body against that wall, over and over again, until something breaks.
By day, I scout, I plan, and I forage for food and water. I must be careful. The deer are their allies, their fleet-footed eyes. Kill them on sight. The crows stay quiet if bribed. It is the devices, the slithering, whirling masses straight from the depths of nightmare, that will hearken your death.
I’m really good at
I was once a pacifist. To kill another intelligent creature was to die a bit myself. Then, the apocalypse shattered the soul of mankind, burning everything and everyone that I loved from the face of the earth.
Now my fingers twitch in my sleep, miming the all-too-familiar movement of clicking off the safety, taking careful aim, and quickly squeezing off two rounds; one for the left hemisphere, one for the right. I don't know what those damned fuzzy bastards did to themselves, but a single bullet no longer suffices.
My knowledge of chemistry was once turned toward finding cures for those few diseases that remained in our utopia. Now, I use it to build simple incendiary devices to plant amidst the raccoons' thrumming machinery. My mastery of mathematics is now reduced to aiding me in the creation of maps, schematics, and primitive weaponry.
Each and every one of my passions has been twisted toward the service of my revenge. And I am excellent at it.
The first things people usually notice about me
If I am noticed, it is too late. This new world in which I find myself trapped does not forgive any flaw in my camouflage. By necessity, I have become a ghost, tormenting mankind's destroyers in those few, small ways which I can.
I was careless and sloppy once, and once was too often. A sentry looked away, but its ears remained pointing toward where I waited, hidden and breathless. I exhaled, and the leaves beneath me shifted.
In a flash, the raccoon lunged toward me. Its septic claws, razor-sharp and blindingly fast, bit clear through my kevlar vest and scratched through the skin and muscle of my chest, rasping against my very bones. I grabbed its forearms and wrenched it away. Its retractable palm spike went clear through my hand, the hypodermic tip oozing a viscous poison; if the beast had not misjudged, if the spike had been shallow enough not to pierce me clean through, I would have died.
I was sick for nearly eight days from that trace of poison and the microbes from those filthy claws. I will never again be so careless.
My favorite books, movies, music, and food
Books, movies, music... If you find some, let me know. I know of none that survived those fiery raids in which most of mankind was slaughtered.
For food, I feast upon the flesh of the deer, upon the caches of wild mushrooms I can find in the caves, and upon those supplies I capture in my raids. The raccoons, I burn.
The six things I could never do without
I will always find a way to survive, no matter what resources I am given. I only need myself.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
There is no time for regret.
I have cried until I had no tears left, and I have dried my eyes. I will lament no more. What was lost cannot be regained.
I will live my life with purpose, with passion, with intensity. I will walk each day in the shadow of death, and I will never fear.
We were arrogant. We meddled in affairs which we had no business, and we paid dearly for it when we were scourged from the earth. But the balance has not yet been reckoned. And it will be.
I was not one of the scientists responsible. News have been spotty at best, but it seems that they disappeared shortly after the attacks began. This in itself not remarkable; so many died that it was not uncommon for bodies not to be recovered.
However, the raccoons have continued to change. They have become faster, smarter, stronger, more deadly. Three weeks ago, if I looked at one of their towers using an infrared scope, I could see their warm bodies moving through the stairways and ventilation shafts. Then, two and a half weeks ago, their heat signatures just... disappeared. All of them.
I know they are still there; I can catch brief, flitting movement through the telescope, and I can hear the ticker-tack of their claws when I place my ear against the building vents. But they have changed, once again.
Are the scientists that created these monstrosities still alive? Are they held captive, forced to improve upon their creations? Or are they working with the beasts?
There are so many questions. I fear I may never know the truth.
On a typical Friday night I am
The days blur together, the week's meaning lost since the collapse of civilization. Once I would have looked forward to a Friday night; I would forgo the clubs and libations of my more hedonistic friends, and look forward to a time when I could bring my work home and really make some progress.
I wish now that I had enjoyed the pleasures of company when it was available, that I had been carefree when I had the chance to be so. The work that I did, into which I poured my heart and soul... it is all lost. Did it ever really have a meaning? Was its purpose simply to prepare me for the coming storm?
The most private thing I’m willing to admit here
I sometimes doubt myself.
Is there a greater plan at work? The destruction of mankind, the rule of Earth's new masters... Am I a fool to fight?
It fades. I am what I have been made into. I am no longer a man. I am the ghost of mankind, and I will ensure that what has been bought with my people's blood will be paid for in kind.
I am beyond doubt, beyond hate, beyond fear, beyond anger, beyond grief. I am an arbiter of justice, and those furry little bastards will know me as their unmaker.
You should message me if
If you have found this message, just know:
You are not alone.