Trending, Ovulating, Killing
Suggested Audio Candy:
Butcher Babies I Smell a Massacre
Entrée (TOK-Style Hot Boneless Wings)
noun – Current style; vogue: the latest trend in fashion.
If you asked me what the current trend was currently then you’d possibly be greeted with the inane response “beige chinos and a Sergio Tachini tank top”. That’s right folks, Keeper doesn’t follow them. When I heard the term trending my mind immediately sourced an image of Derek Zoolander, a face which brings on two contrasting emotions. First a wry smile as off the back of that I get a further visual, this being of Jacobim sipping his foamy latte. My second thought is more primal and consists of something along lines of slapping his pouting chops with the underside of a herring.
Like the selfie, I had remained oblivious while it grew like a cancer. Then a few weeks ago TOK Trended; King Matt and our Dark Queen Diane basically shafted one to the man by becoming the hottest shit on the tip of everyone’s frantic flappers. What a glorious festival it was. There was mead running freely from the taps that evening, folk indulged in one too many and all keys were thrown in the bowl. It was like one mass Twitter Orgy, or #Tworgy for the hashtaggers amongst us. We held a village fete, erected our maypoles and additional swing ball, sat, relaxed and drank elderflower from an eroded colander. Was there copulation? Of the webcam variety quite probably. I can see it now…”How’s that doing? You getting that? You see ma wares? My fancy dangler? I call him Pete…Pete Jones…Doctor…Pete…Jones.” “No love, still pixellated”.
You’re getting my gist though right? It was a veritable banquet laid on that evening, with pheasant meat and venison, spring & port wine and fine extra matured cheeses. And do you know what? I fucking missed it! In my defense, I’m like the Village Gump. Challenged by the most menial of tasks my brain has a flaccid flip-side when attempting to process. It’s not aided by the fact I blaze on command. Just so happens, I command it a lot. A bit slow on the technological uptake I’m afraid but, watching the implosion from afar was some sight. In a nutshell, Matt and Die lit that shit up like the Northern Lights and the whole free world shared a toke.
Needless to say when TOK next trended I was not an absentee. I sniffed their glory, raised my broadsword aloft and plundered Twitter with Keeper Prose. That’s right, first-class in-flight entertainment. As First Knight I felt the immense privilege of sharing the most divine euphoric skirmish first-hand and my soul-gage filled. That’s correct; the level-up. I placed my newly earned stats on Speechcraft and Luck. I poured crimson all over my metaphorical face and blinked it in frantically.
That’s the fucking shit right there! TOK Trends the ass-mouth out of it. Blasts it wide open like the lonely shepherd’s flock. Fists it wearing a glove consisting of barbed-wire giblets. Owns it like a pimp’s Ho. I’m mighty proud is all, felt true joy..much like sharing a round of Mouse Trap with my kindred souls. That feeling you’s feeling right now…that delectable twinge…is your soul absorbing affection. We circulate it together, and we do so at the court of our beloved royals. Each loving donation is the cruelest, most deliciously savage sacrifice of our souls and intoxicating intake of each others. Speaking of sacrifice…
Main course (Diane Cutlets & Baby Sister sautéés with a dense crimson sauce)
verb – To produce ova; discharge eggs from the ovary.
Pass me a Pale of Hog cruor. Then ladle it on. More…A little more…keep it coming, please. Crimson is the color; Lady Die, as she sprawls out on the white silk like a beautiful ink-spot, writhing, yearning and inviting, she transcends sex. Whether you urinate standing or seated, you’ll be feeling that pinch as you cast your eyes over them akin to a fisherman on crack. Feral best describes it; blood flows with every pose, whether fully bared or partly clothed. Her eyes sing such a delicate ode, that we almost blow our power node. You can take the poetry out of the man…yadda, yadda, yadda.
Ovulation I have begun to touch on more frequently of late as another penny dropped. I figured that, being the stage when a woman is at her most resplendent and sensual, Diane Foster is evidently on perpetual cycle. I mean, beauty like hers, beauty which steals every attempt at exhalation, beauty that glides a finely manicured digit into your panties and flicks the on switch. Goddamn. Words just simply fail me at this time. Give me a second to wipe away the crimson joy-tear which paints this clown’s face on its tantalizing descent.
Perfection, always achievable regardless of anyone telling you the opposite is true. There’s no gage to brilliance, it simply is. Lady Die simply is. I scour my mental archives for more breathtaking beauty and get the same rejoinder each time… ‘No Search Results. Define your search’. It’s like the almighty has concocted a brutal broth of Monroe and Hepburn, seasoned with sprigs of wild Blanchett. There’s your motherfucking perfection…the one caked in crimson. Hope you haven’t been gluttonous and have left space for a dessert…
Dessert (King Matt’s Bloodied Profiteroles, dusted with grue)
noun – an act of causing death, especially deliberately.
It appears deliberation is not requisite when our Dark King is slaying. It’s organic, he beats us to within a millimeter of our lives with those peepers. Ocular orgasm inducing, tender and true, retinal intoxicants sent here to destroy. They annihilate, rip our souls from our opened cavities and lick them thoroughly. To us guys they make us wanna jump from our seats and yell “WOLVERINES!!!” in our very best Swayzes. Nobody puts fucking baby in the corner!
Each strike is a one-hit kill, repeatedly we perish more frequently than Halo 2 on Legendary solo. A barrage of brutality with every exhibition to Peeperville is guaranteed, as Lady Die percolates in full season on one side of our grateful mind-box Matt is blasting in our psyche’s barn doors with a bloodied battering ram. As little pigs we don’t desire getting our shizzle huffed and puffed upon so we unbolt and invite him inside. The His every first action once insulated is to wipe his boots on the front door mat, then proceed to Take off his footwear and hang his coat up.
Misery apparently loves nothing more than a spot of company, maybe a quick round of charades and a tray of after-dinner fondants then as we wait for “la quinta”. You see, King Matt exhibits madness effortlessly, his peepers may be the key players in a fine ensemble cast but all his shit’s up for Oscars. Better start dusting those mantles. The killing is intent on continuation, more bodies shall fall this night.
TOK 2: Bound X Blood is upon us like a blackened heartbeat, pulsing with ever more urgency as each sun bleeds away. Marcus Miller is ready to stalk once more…he’s rustling in the bushes, that’s him over by the restored caddy across the street, his breath on the back of your collar and his axe grinding gently into your kidney. I have held communion with our Dark King, and during our counsel, have ascertained enough to steal my blood supply and leave it at lost and found, which just so happens to be located mid-gooch, along the scrotal tail, less than a block away from Neil and Ned, the Crimson Orbs of Pulsation +5 Splurge. It’s gonna be the shit; the absolute ferret’s left whiskers, a bloated Vat of flossed Crimson Candy. Trust Keeper on this Grueheads, more is more…not in fact less as we’re led to believe. Whilst speaking TOK, Keeper truly advocates this theory. More carnage, more skin, more filth under our nails, more clutching of our Quills and Quimms. Let the dark union commence, limber up as Keeper enter y’all with TOK Prose.
Trend, Ovulate Kill!
Trendsetting whilst netting a trawl of those let in
I’m betting is getting cranked up to next setting
Our peepers bleed Crimson our souls bleed pure warmth
Our appetites getting one hell of a whetting
The slaying you’ve seen is just playing you see
For Marcus has just been relaying to me
Intention to bludgeon take us to his hell
For now he’s arrived here he’s staying you see
Siphoning crimson screwdriver rotating
he’s better than that last douche you were dating
Invite him inside introduce him to all
For nobody shall now exonerate him
He strides with such purpose and slays with conviction
For this wretched plague is forearmed with diction
No bargaining tools or bungs you to be bunged
For Marcus is focused on your dereliction
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013