Contents:
Opening - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Closing

This is The Blog Without a Face, a story from 2015. I've ported it to Website pretty much as best I could, bringing over the visual elements too, and even adding features. There's new art in the story, there's an original theme song you can listen to above (where it says "THEME"), and I've scripted this webpage so that the story's structural divisions, previously only implied, are now the navigation. The "Contents" links up above, do you see them? Click them to read each section. There's a "BACK TO TOP" button at the bottom of the page that will help too.

I'm very proud of this story. It has some of my favorite jokes in it. And now you can read Detective Slender man's existential descent into absurdism, in style!

Illuminated Only by the Lampposts

The city is a lady. A very... slender lady.

Except not as slender as me because I am the slender man, that is my name. Hello, I'm a master detective. I wear a cool hat and a cool coat and drift through the city streets at night, illuminated only by the lampposts. I'm one cool guy. My arch nemesis doesn't seem to think so, though. He's a gas mask-wearing hoodlum who signs his notes "Arch nemesis," the Arch always bolded. For years I've been trying to bust him-- that is, nearly three years-- but I just can't seem to get my slender hands on him.

A Brush with Death, Esquire

Dateline: Saturday the seventh of Summer.

I walked my way down to Portmouth Bay the other day following a lead that suggested my Arch nemesis had been seen on the beach, throwing cans into the ocean for devious unexplained reasons. If there's anything I despise more than people with faces, it's people who throw cans into the ocean.

By the time I got there, my Arch nemesis had just ran out of cans to throw and was now tossing innocent innocuous taxpaying puppies into the water. I stood there, hands on my hips, choosing not to intervene and to wait for him to stop throwing dogs for five seconds and notice me.

This took three hours.

Eventually, as he picked up his next puppy from an industrial-sized box labeled "PROPERTY OF ARCH NEMESIS'S RED CROSS AND ORPHANAGE," he reached into his hoody's pocket for a lighter to light this one on fire with, and in turning his head he finally spotted me.
We stood there, mano y esbelto mano, me staring into his gas-masked deadlights and him staring at my general face area, for a few minutes.

For ten seconds, it was tense. Then it got a little awkward, but we kept staring!

Finally, he shouted "CATCH" and threw the puppy at me, making a break for it. Little did he know, it would have taken far more than a "throw puppy at me and run" gambit to stop the gold medal winner in Uni Track and Field.

Our chase continued down a lot of alleyways and a lot of streets, to the point where I began to wonder if this city had any detail to it at all beyond "alleyways" and "streets." I'm not even sure, thinking back, if any of the streets or buildings had names. There was one bit of detail, though: A restaurant that Arch nemesis ran into. Unfortunately for him, the restaurant was closed, so he really didrun into it!

Into the door, that is!

Literally!

This opening gave me just enough time to grab him by the scruff of his hoody and wind up my fist for a classic no-holds-barred slenderpunch-out. In between punches, he took out his iPhone, pointed it at himself, and posed, an action I did not understand at the time but respectfully gave him time to perform before returning to bringing the noise.

After a few more punches, I grabbed his gas mask and ripped it off of him, holding it up for the world to see, shouting "AT LAST, MY ARCH NEMESIS HAS FINALLY BEEN UNMASKED!"

Then I just kinda stared at him for a little while because underneath his gas mask was another gas mask.

But this lull in action gave him ample opportunity to flee the scene of the crime-- my crime, that is, as I was immediately tapped on the shoulder by a police officer who proceeded to arrest me for physical assault.

I'm now forbidden from getting within 30 feet of that restaurant.

What more, imagine my face when I logged onto Facebook next and saw this on my dashboard:

"#beatdown selfie #Arch nemesis #the Arch is bolded #swag 4 life #THE MAN wont bring me down lol"

I don't know how he manages to keep doing this.

Avenues and Alleyways Forever

Dateline: Monday the ninth of Summer

I received an "anonymous" letter (clearly from my Arch nemesis) about a upcoming scheme. It went into no detail, unsurprisingly, but it did mention a local bar. Figuring I could use a drink, I decided to swing by for a little while. The place was quiet, with a rabble that the bartender looked accustomed to. There was nothing out of the ordinary. On my way out, a jazz band entered the establishment, presumably to perform, or relax after a prior performance elsewhere. This is an unimportant detail, an illustration of nothing being out of the ordinary. No, seriously, I promise.

On my way home, I was stopped by a rather drunken looking old man, who addressed himself as "Henderson." I asked if Henderson was his first or last name, but he, instead of answering, went into a slurred rant about his "poor women" and his "inheritance" and his "criminal plans." I told him I don't do that kind of case and continued on my way after referring him to his local police department.

I got to thinking about Arch nemesis's potential schemes, recalling our encounter at the bay. Are all of his upcoming schemes equally as arbitrary, or is there some hidden reason for his odd plans?

He must be off of his head, I thought, before remembering the crate for the Red Cross and Orphanage facility that he apparently owns.

I will look into this soon, after I smoke without a face.

Why do I even own a stereo if I have no ears?

I woke up today with the strongest urge to turn on the stereo. What played puzzled me enough to make me stroke my faceless chin without a face in puzzlement.

The empty house with a refilling glass
To thin
But as I am a busy guy with a lot of things to do, I immediately went back to sleep.

Fucking carrots.

I work at a place called Horma Studios. Our movies make a lot of money, you might have heard of Cruel Embrace or The Year of the Plague, or how about Howl? Everybody loves Howl, Howl's a regular water cooler piece. Point is, with the amount of money we make, Horma Studios also runs an investigative division set up in one of their warehouses. We, uh... we look into things. You'll understand, just wait.

Head honcho came into my office today carrying a slip of paper; he waved it in front of my faceless and told me I had a big one. Considering Head honcho is a dog, that's kind of impressive.

"How big are we talking?" I asked.

"Big enough to fill your pockets for a year," he said. Threw the paper onto my desk. "Truckloads upon truckloads of you-know-whats."

"The V word?" I said.

"The V word," he said. "Now come out and play some darts with me."

Darts is one of our communal activities in the warehouse. The boys and I gather, we do things together, sometimes we talk business while we do it. It's a morale thing. Keeps people happy. Also lets me work on my throwing arm.

On this particular occasion, I was to investigate some illegal trucks we believed to be smuggling "the V word," and this time I had to go with a partner. The partner in this occasion was Coldems McBoy, head of McBoy and Gal's freezer comporium and professional darts champion. I don't get along well with him; he insists "comporium" is a word. But Head honcho insists, and when Head honcho insists you've got to abide. Otherwise he wouldn't be Head honcho. That's how the world works.

Here's another "how the world works:" A detective without a face cannot drive a car. Totally against the law. Something about "vision impairment." But anyway, this means Coldems had to take the wheel, and he's technically underage. That? The cops don't question that. Bizarre world we live in. I'm not one to use the phrase "police favouritism," but...

The job took us to a river under a bridge. Specifically the kind of "river under a bridge" where there's also still enough room for seven sixteen-wheeler trucks to drive on land under the bridge without actually being in the river. You know the kind. It's iconic. We stepped out of the car, walked up to the nearest truck, and pried its storage doors open with a crowbar.

Say. I just realized I've yet to provide an adequate physical description for Coldems McBoy. Allow me to break away from the narrative impetus to indulge that tangent: He's got fairly blue skin, the skin that brings to mind a morgue-sleeper. Dead body. That's the one. Orange hair, curly, he looks like a carrot. A blue carrot with curly orange hair, to be specific. The kind of carrot you'd throw in the bin, then throw the bin in a fire, then douse the fire with chemicals, then get arrested for toxic dumpage, then to watch your family disown you in tears as they wonder how their beloved could ever do something so horrible, where did they ever go so wrong, and you tell them they didn't go wrong anywhere, you tell them that this was all a misunderstanding of some sorts, this was all because of a blue carrot with curly orange hair, but they won't listen. They never do. That's why you became an ace detective, because your parents filed a restraining order and you want to prove to yourself you've still got it in you, you don't need them, you don't need anyone, you're independent. And you can never look at a carrot the same way ever again. Coldems also likes to wear wooly jumpers. Fuck him.

Inside the truck, and in fact every truck under that bridge, were hundreds of boxes filled with DV tapes.

I looked at Coldems, and Coldems looked at me.

"Vlogs," Coldems said with disgust.

We confiscated those things and took them downtown before remembering our offices are actually closer to the suburbs. Long drive, but at least we got the name of the company on the side of those trucks:

Grotty Videoz Corp.
A subsidiary of Viacom

I knew next we'd have to pay a visit to our longtime frienemy: Mister Grot, Esquire.

The Thickening of the Plot (of the Lambs)

Mister Grot, Esq's bedroom was dank and sweaty-ass. The kind of sweaty-ass that makes you think of all the places you'd rather be: A fish factory. A shoe store that is also a gymnasium. The capital of France. The kind of dank that causes you to question your place in life, as well as what the hell makes it so damn dank. I swear, Coldems looked so distraught he might have been about to melt. The reason Mister Grot's bedroom stank so un-swagly is because it was a bedroom. A bedroom for a man who is so good at criminal underachievement he could criminally underachieve even in his sleep.

When we got there, Mister Grot was asleep. We decided not to bother him; we'd come back another time.

A few minutes later we remembered a detective does not wait for sleepers and we waltzed right back in there (waltzing right back into places is a regular activity we practice in between darts sessions; on this occasion, Coldems led and I followed).

When we re-got there, Mister Grot was dead.

A Description of Mr. Grot

The boys took their usual photographs of the corpse, and then Head honcho assigned us to the job of investigating Mr. Grot's death.

From what I understood at the time (the time which is not concurrent with the date on this post, for legal reasons), Mr. Grot had no first name. He was just born "Mr. Grot." Became an esquire at age five, might have been eight, always hard to tell with these cases. Either that or I'm just a really bad detective. Spent his teenage years hitchhiking trains, striking deals with blues musicians in exchange for their souls, and playing a lot of ragtime piano in saloons. Somewhere in the west, you know exactly where I'm talking about. This was back in the early 20th century.

Mr. Grot graduated at the College of Hard Knocks with a Ph.D in Psychology. Freud was a big influence on him. The two were good drinking buddies until Mr. Grot killed him in a horrible accident involving tying Freud to a bear and setting it loose upon Moscow. I think that was him. Either way, something or other involving an accident with someone or other resulted in Mr. Grot seeing his first dead body, and from there he progressed into a full-fledged criminal and sought to join the Fearsome Pantheon of Really Monomaniacal and Hubristic Villains. They turned him down, saying their positions were full. Offered him an internship. He accepted.

Since Mr. Grot now had that job as an intern, he didn't need his day job striking deals with blues musicians, so he gave that to his secretary, Samuel "Jack of All" Beckett. You can see where this is going if you know anything about historical figures.

Grot set up shop in this city a few years back. Kept changing his address. Set up a massive corporation that sold video rights. Apparently used that as a front to smuggle vlogs over the border. Kids these days really need their fix, and Mr. Grot was just the man to give it to them.

Looks like someone else was just the man and/or woman to give it to him too. I'm too tired to write snarky detective wit. But an ace detective doesn't sleep. He just gets tired. It sucks being an ace detective, is the general theme I'm trying to get across here.

With Mr. Grot's dead body, we found 20,000 pages of mad scribblings scattered across notebooks, typescripts, random sheets of paper, you name it. The man was obsessed with something in the years preceding his death. We were hoping they could give us some clues as to who killed him.

Then we realized one of Mr. Grot's aliases was "James Joyce." Those 20,000 pages were Finnegans Wake.

That's when Coldems and I called a coffee break.

Caffee

In the interest of pursuing my literary career, I will experiment with form by writing this following post entirely through dialogue.

"Welcome to Starbucks! How may I help you?"

"I'd like one grande Slenderccino and a tall Coldcha, please."

"How many times do we have to tell you that those aren't drinks?"

"Then give us the usual! And make it snappy as Coldems and I take seats over here and describe your coffee establishment aloud in third-person omniscient narration style."

"The Starbucks was cold like some like it hot."

"The sun drenched the windows like a sponge drenches a car at a car wash."

"Approximately twelve patrons littered the restaurant."

"Like twelve rowdy citizens in a pub that only serves coffee!"

"Leave the similes to me, Slend. The lady at the counter had a peachy face, as if Jodie Foster gave birth to a.. a peach."

"Where'd you say you majored in creative writing, Coldems?"

"Harvard. Why?"

"No reason. The two young and reasonably attractive detectives eyed the floor, which had recently received such a vicious mopping it looked like dogs had salivated all over it."

"Dogs with mops."

"There sat, opposite the table of our modern protagonistic heroes, a fat-faced man who had such an ugly face he legitimately hurt to look at."

"Your coffees are ready!"

"Excellent. Now the detectives stroll, at a leisurely pace, across the establishment, pick up their drinks, and then return to their sun-drenched wet-floored table."

"And drink up!"

"Yes. And drink up."

"So what are your thoughts on the Grot case?"

"Mm. I'm not sure."

And then we left, frustratingly no further in our thoughts.

Death's Waltz

At this point, we were completely out of leads. We had no idea who might have killed Mr. Grot. Honestly, we were about to just call it a day and go pick up an alcohol addiction when who else but my Arch nemesis waltzed on by.

I left Coldems there on the sidewalk and joined my Arch nemesis in his waltz.

He led. Then I led. Then he led. Then I.

We waltzed through traffic, we waltzed through alleyways, we waltzed down nameless streets and into blank avenues, past houses that receive no narrative descriptions, past people who are so inconsequential they're not even two-dimensional, through the gates of amateur and into the mouth of inexperienced.

He led. I led. He led. I.

On this waltz, I didn't even consider my job. There was only his gas mask and my faceless visage. His wit and my fists. His evil and my passion. He had to be devious, and I had to stop him.

And he led. And I led. And he led. And I.

For all I knew, we were dancing through space, a wake of wormholes preforming in our performing wake. We might have traveled through time, stepping in 3/4 with the primordial giants and with the gods that will be here when we're gone. I was so unaware of my surroundings we could be anywhere.

He led. Then I led. Then he led. But I.

We were outside my apartment, or wherever it is I live. Arch nemesis had stopped, looked at me.

"We can continue this endless dance, or you can go online and see how high this goes."

I looked back at him.

Then I remembered the frustrating cuckold that was this case, the responsibility I had to Head honcho, and the legitimate interest in figuring out who exactly killed Mr. Grot, and I left my nemesis there to dance with a different partner: Google.

(Note: The above was a metaphor. I do not dance with computers.)

Numbers and Letters

The city is a lady, a very slender lady with curves made of asphalt and a groin made of cars. Every time you drive somewhere, you are in her womb. Think about that for a second: Every time you leave a car, you are being born. There's something about the psychology of an eldritch nature, wouldn't you say? I wouldn't. I have no face to say anything with.

The Blog Wherein No Faces Are Worn, Second Part

My trip onto the internet bore no fruit until I gave up searching for anything on Mr. Grott, got bored, and decided to Google my own name. The first result was for something called the "Slender Man Mythos." I stroked my faceless chin in puzzlement as I read up on that. And then I did a search for "Marble Hornets," and you wanna know what I find? You don't wanna know what I found. To make a long story short, there is an entire community devoted to writing fanfiction about me.
My head went faint. Words no longer had meaning. I began to wonder when they ever had meaning to begin with. So I did a google search on linguistics. Went from there to the etymology of "exegesis." Looked up what that word actually meant. Good stuff.
Then a thought hit me: Was I truly responding to the abnihilisation of the etym by usurping the head case of endo-ontology with an identical head case of e-searches? I was only propagating the Market-Place King's reign over history! That would not do. I am no egg, dammit, and I am no postman. I am an ace detective. Who is only a postman on weekends.
So I went back to that mythos thing. Made an account there by the name of "Mister Charles." Before I knew it, I had officially infiltrated the cyber-zone. I felt abbreviations enter my head at a mile a minute: zomg the rofl on these subwoofers is ttly ttlr, m i rite u fookin mong? JPNDTS! H3H3H3H3H3H3H.
1 4M TYP1NG W1TH T3H 1337 5934K NAO. 1 N33D 4 D91NK. BRB.

tbwaf

Had a drink. Now I can resume the story, the story that is happening right now but is also narrated in the past-tense. As I was saying:

Thoughts raided my head like the raiders of a much-raided raid-y place, thoughts such as "u fookin wot m8 ill fookin do u" and "r wii nowt s bayad s dem nao 4 dewin wot wii dew." I felt the compulsion to punch myself in the face. Of course, as we all know, that's impossible because I have no fists.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A FIST, PART THREE

I had to concentrate. This was too much for me. There couldn't be a community writing stories about the slender man; I'm Slender man, and they're spelling my name wrong! Their stories made me out to look like some Meyer-written faux-epistolary eldritch abomination of literature, with constant references to some crazy love-crafting going on? I don't craft love! I'm not like that! I solve cases, not war peace death love! These stories weren't even getting the love-crafting right! They better resembled the offspring of stories who had once heard of the craft of love but ignored the central message. Not that I would know. I write blogs, not tragedies comedies saint jimmies that's my love-craft.

This really was, as mentioned in the above paragraph, too much for me. Who was I? What if they were right and that I was the fanfiction?

The twirling dawn of an apricot awakening caressed my skull, but Dawn (I still wait for my god) would not take me into her underwomber wat this day (despite the self-help of my faith).

Who was I?

Who was I?

Who was I?

Who was.                                                               I?

An Aside

There is a blog out there titled Fearblog of Fear, subtitled Dreams and Sleep and Fear, written by a boy named Billy Everyblogger. I linked to it in the post prior. This was my introduction-- away from that world of fake love-craft-- to the Fear Mythos. I don't actually remember how I found it. It just sorta appeared in the previous post? Maybe some other slender man from worlds beyond planted it there. Maybe I misplaced it. Or it was taken. But that's beside the point. I'm supposed to be narrating my identity crisis here. Of course, how "I" can narrate my own identity crisis stands as a bit of a paradox, doesn't it? It would imply-- or insinuate, if you want to use big words arbitrarily---- don't end sentences in adverbs, Slender man, remember your training------ alright, which one of us is Mister Charles, again?---- easy now, we are all projections of your subconscious here-- like some pompous fucking tool-- that I know my own identity and thus the crisis, insubordinately termed and inexplicably learned as it was,, was that supposed to be an attempt at a rhyme?,,, wait guys I don't think this gimmick works with commas,,,, why is "Hey Ya" now stuck in my head,,,,, oh there's actually a fascinating exegesis I could give you regarding that,,,, alright calm down buddy this isn't a dream these are just thoughts written on a blog post,,,,, u fookin wot m8 ill fookin do u,,,, wait why aren't we using punctuation anymore,,, probably because we're already using commas as the formatting here,, okay now I know that wasn't intentional, had been averted.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A TRACE (of shame), PART 4

A Chat Between Slenders

Fearblog of Fear was shit. But what's worth nothing here is that in exploring this newfound Fear Mythos, I discovered an internet chat room for impressionable young Slender Men, Slender men, Slendermen, and slender men such as myself. I even found a slender Man. Using the magic of computer clipboards, I will now paste for you the entire conversation in that chat room.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A CHASE, part five

Revelations

I have a face.

It has hair and two eyes and a nose and a mouth and two ears.

I have a face.

It is on my driver's license.

I have a face.

I exist.

I have a face.

I am not a character.

I have a face.

I am a human being.

I just checked my driver's license.


I have no face.

Oh god.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A FACE (BUT AT LEAST IT CAN DRIVE), PART SIX

Dread's Waltz

I couldn't handle this. I had no face. It wasn't just a metaphor. My first thought was that I might be a bad writer. For some reason that scared me far more than that I might just be a fictional character, so I ran out of the room screaming.

The Blog Without a Face, Part the Seventh

I found my way to O'Brien's bar, where I drowned my existential sorrows like a motherfucker. I remembered I had no actual mother, that she didn't exist either. So I drank more. I began noticing some odd details about the city that I'd never picked up on before.

For instance.

The bartender had no face either, nor did any of the patrons.

I was in a city of Slender men.

Everyone was a Slender man.

I was not the Slender man.

I was just a detective who couldn't even solve a simple murder case.

I drank until I was drunk enough to waltz out of there. My partner this time would be my dread. She led, I followed.

I imagined that I waltzed with a mirror twin, a Slender man not unlike me-- though this one was real. That is, I imagined he was real. Didn't make him really real. Not really. If anything, this Slender man was even less real than me. I could relate to that.

He slumped as he rose, his falls were catastrophic. His feet skidded along the floor step by step, he traced that imaginary box like it were all he was programmed to do... all he was written to do. When he led me into a twirl, he did so with the grace of a concept that had stood on the cliff of Being in the middle of a thunderstorm of words and origins, his unfeeling mind awake at the sensation that nothing prevented him from tumbling off the edge... and that nothing prevented him from walking away from that cliff unscathed. I saw in his faceless eyes that this Slender man in my head had the resolve only gained by those who stand at that cliff and trust their feet enough to dance.

I had invented the greatest waltz partner in existence. And he didn't even exist.

Did I truly exist? I had to have existed at least a little more than him. After all, I created him. What did he have that I didn't?

He'd learned to lead the waltz atop the cliff of existential anguish. He'd learned to lead the waltz of those who exist more than he does.

...

One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.
Four, five, six.
Four, five, six.
Step by step.
Step by step.
Step by step.
Left foot forward
Right traces the box
Left joins right
Right foot backward
Left traces the box
Right joins left. (Now add the rotation.)
Left foot forward (One)
Right traces the box (Two)
Left joins right (Three)
Right foot backward (Four)
Left traces the box (Five)
Right joins left (Six. Now rise and fall.)
Left foot forward (Fall, one)
Right traces the box (Rise, two)
Left joins right (Climax, three)
Right foot backward (Fall, four)
Left traces the box (Rise, five)
Right joins left (Climax, six.)
Left foot forward (Fall, lead your partner into the twirl, one)
Right traces the box (Rise, lead the twirl, two)
Left joins right (Climax, keep leading, three)
Right foot backward (Fall, nearly there, four)
Left traces the box (Rise, meet your partner after the twirl, five)
Right joins left (Climax, pose, six)
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.
Step by step.
Rise and fall.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.

That's how you do the waltz. That's how you live a life of ebb and flow-- you either lead or you twirl. Both are majestic. Both are nirvana. Both climax. You cannot have one without the other, even if you have to invent your partner.

Just keep tracing the box, one two three, four five six.

There is no real, there is no fictional.

When you step up to the edge of that cliff, you can finally be free to waltz.

The modern man, you see, is an insect

The city's a lady. Except when it's not. Like right now. The city right now is a man, a very slender man. Because the city is badly written. It has never been described with depth. You cannot feel the city as being a city. As being alive. Or I mean cities aren't alive. There was a period of time when cities were often described, possibly even thought of, as alive but that was around the start of the industrial revolution. Was related to the rise in public consciousness of the imago that is "the modern man." The flâneur. I could really go for some flan.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A FACE, PART FLAN

Waltzing on my way to the local confectionary, I was stopped by Coldems McBoy. The blue carrot guy. With orange hair. He drove up in his Jaguar. What a tool.
"Get in," he said.
"I ain't gettin' in anything until you tell me what's all the hubbub," I said, wrestling a cigar around my faceless lips with a faceless tongue on this faceless day.
"Head honcho wants you," he said back. I noticed today Coldems wore a fedora. I noticed because he pulled a revolver out of it. Pointed it at me.
So I got in and we drove to HQ. On the way the day transitioned to night. You could say it transitioned between cuts.

EBI

The cut to night meant lighting had significantly faded. Actually faded much differently than light usually does at night. It's almost as if, rather than cutting to night, some metaphorical director had simply applied a filter to the camera of life. To make it look like night. Also black and white. Coldems was no longer blue. Just grey. Everything was grey. Except for the city, which was black. Actually, everything was black but those rare described objects illuminated only by the lampposts. See what I did there? Call-back.
We pulled up at HQ. Got out of the car. Lit up more cigars. Coldems said very little. The people we passed in the halls all said "rhubarb" over and over again. Kinda creepy, if I'm honest. As if they were trying to summon the great god of love-craft Rhubarbia. But they weren't. They were literally just saying "rhubarb" to each other.
Head honcho was not happy to see me. His ears were all up in my grill, so to speak. Plus he was growling. That's how I could tell. I'm good with dogs.
Head honcho told me to take a seat. Coldems stood there pointing his gun at me.
I looked at Coldems. Then I looked at Head honcho. Said "Alright." Took a seat. I took that seat and smacked Coldems upside the head with it. Grabbed his gun. Pointed it at Head honcho.
Head honcho, I could see, was pointing a minigun at me now. That is, a really really big gun. "Easy now, detective, unless you want to run The Blog Without a Head." I took a mental note of what to name the sequel. As soon as I got out of this shindig, of course.
"I'll sit down if you can answer me one thing," I said.
"Sit down and then ask," he said.
"Now hold on, I think you'll find this question precludes any necessity to having a seat."
"Fine, ask away."
"How do you hold a minigun with paws?"
That's when I saw his paws were not paws at all; they were hands. Head honcho was not a dog. He was a man in a dog costume.
So I said, "Just as I thought. Head honcho, I'm placing you under arrest for charges of false identity, tax fraud, and impeding a federal investigation. And also for humping legs without actually being a dog. 'Cause that's kinda weird. Not gonna lie."
"You're just a two-bit detective, and you work for me," he said. "You can't arrest me."
"That's where you're wrong," said I who put the I in PI. "All along I've actually been an undercover officer of the Eldritch Bureau of Investigations." I flashed him my badge. (The badge is blank; it has no face.)
"I should have known you were EBI," he said. "You showed all the signs." He looked at me for a bit. Then he sighed and took his costume off.
"I knew it," I said.
He was Mr. Grott, Esquire, all along. Sometimes spelt with one t, sometimes with two. Don't get too caught up on it.
"Why did you do it, Mr. Grott? You had worldwide fame for your books. Why put it all at risk?"
"Shows what you know, detective. Nobody likes Finnegans Wake. And I put nearly two decades of work into it! I wanted payback."
"You should have plugged it more. On the internet, I mean. There are fandoms for that now."
"There are no fandoms for my books! Only scholars who make reading look like dissecting a turd!"
"Alright, no need to get insulting. My mother was a turd."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"I think you should put the minigun down, Mr. Grott."
"I think so too."
And so he did. And I arrested him.

Aftermathematics

After all of Mr. Grott's assets were seized, I started packing my things into a cardboard box because I had just arrested my own employer and put myself out of a job. Should have thought that one through. Then again, I was also an undercover agent. But I was assigned to the city, not the honcho. So I was pretty much out of a job. Which sucked.
It was around this point that Coldems woke up. I gave him back his gun. He rubbed the back of his head. I apologized for hitting him. He said it was okay. Asked if he was out of a job too. I said yeah. Asked if he wanted a coffee. Said it'd be on me. He said yeah.

An Inspirational Dialogue

"Welcome to Costa, how may I help you?"
"Season's greetings. We'll take two coffees. Black and tall, please."
"Really? No requests for Slenderccinos?"
"Not today. Can't afford them. We got fired. Personal reasons, it's not important." "He arrested our boss." "Like I said, personal reasons."
"Well, your table's over there."
"By the window?"
"..really? You're not even gonna offer unnecessary third-person omniscient descriptions?"
"Our hearts aren't in it." "Not today."
"*sigh* Listen, boys. You win some and you lose some. Sometimes you win some and you lose some, like, at the same time. You can't let a simple firing get the better of your spirit."
"It's deeper than that. I found out I don't even exist, that we're all badly written works of fiction."
"You're only as badly written as your soul, man! Believe in yourself. Take another look at your table, what do you see?"
"A table by a window." "..I dunno, I think I can see, reflected in the sunlight, my hopes and dreams." "Huh. Y'know, I can see that too. And the chairs kinda look like they're held up by choirs of ambition on a new dawn."
"Yes! And what about that guy over there, who's sitting next to it?"
"A customer whose children look like they were beaten with ugly sticks made in a factory for ugly sticks, bunting, and probably also something practical like paint rollers." "Yeah, those kids make me physically ill to look at." "I'd have to say that the mere fact I exist on the same existential plane as those kids makes me want to cry." "I'm considering seeking therapy from the knowledge." "I'd pay millions of dollars for that therapy." "I would let the therapist subject me to shock therapy if it meant never having to see those ugly fucking kids ever again." "Yeah." "Yeah." "Yeah, fuck those kids."
"..."
"The guy himself looks fine."
"..here's your coffees."
"Thank you. Say, Coldems?" "Yeah, Slend?" "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful new friendship."

Day's Waltz

We were in the middle of drinking our coffees, laughing at the customers and the city around us, enjoying the beginnings of a beautiful friendship, when who would come waltzing on by the Costa but my Arch nemesis?
I stood up. I threw my thick coat onto the ground, revealing my slender business suit underneath. I straightened my tie.
And then I waltzed on out of that coffee establishment, leaving Coldems there to cover the tab.
And all was right with the world. With my world.

How can I even sleep if I have no face?

Woke up today with a strong compulsion to turn on the stereo. Then I realized I couldn't have just woken up. An ace detective doesn't sleep. But as I got up and walked out of the house, I turned the stereo on anyway.
We're not summoning a demon. We're welcoming a goddess and the rise of her rain.
Blah, blah, blah
Who cares.

Hotels and Happiness Forever

Dateline: Wriday the Wecond of Winter.

I followed my Arch nemesis into a hotel. I kept my distance. He checked into a room for two. I waited outside, hoping to see who he was meeting with. Hours passed. Many hours. The other person never came. Then I was tapped on the shoulder by a policeman who arrested me for stalking.

You win this time, Arch nemesis. But you will not win the war.

A Brush with Fear, Esquire

Dateline: Waterday the Worst of Winter.
Today was the day. Finally. I had gotten the grant from HQ-- the real HQ, back at the EBI-- to bust Arch nemesis's hotel room down and catch him in his base of operations. So that's precisely what I did.
For the record, it really hurts to kick a door down. Do not try it.
After I had recovered my leg from the bust, I pointed my gun at the figure sitting on the bed.
"You're under arrest, Arch nemesis. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
At this point my Arch nemesis said something that surprised me. Namely, he said "rhubarb."
He was a background character all along?
"For this scene, he is."
I turned around again. I saw a figure taller even than myself. A figure wearing a gas mask. A figure whose name I recognized from one blog I had read: The Feared One. The foul vagrant lurking behind all that is Fearblog of Fear.
"Of course. It was only a matter of time," I said, "before you poked your head into another story that doesn't exist."
"I'll have you know, Slender man, that this story does exist. Things go far deeper than you could possibly imagine in your feeble faceless brain."
"Easy, bucko. My father was a brain."
"You're right, I'm sorry."
I offered him a cigar. He offered me one in return. That exchange got awkward fast. "You were saying?"
"I was saying, Slender man, that you exist in one hell of an abstract matter."
"Of course I do; I'm a character in a story."
"But who do you think is your author?"
"..God?"
"No, not alliterator. Your author is Christoph Magreat, with the occasional post by Jesus Archangard. Your general concept was a collaboration by both."
"Huh. Well, I'll be damned."
"You are not confused?"
"I mean, I hadn't heard of either of those, but it's not a big deal."
"Oh, that is where you are wrong! You see, Magreat and Archangard don't exist either! In fact, they could be said to exist even less than you do!"
Oh man. This was heavy. "What? How is that possible? They wrote me! As Fearblog of Fear fanfiction!"
And then The Feared One lifted the next veil: "Understand, detective, that the Billy Everyblogger who wrote Fearblog of Fear... also does not exist."
"Wait. Wait." My brain struggled to comprehend this. "I was written by authors who do not exist in response to another story by a nonexistent author?"
"All of these stories, you see-- both your own and Everyblogger's-- are the product of one DJay32."
"I. Was created by an abstraction of one author as fanfiction for another abstraction of the same author?"
The Feared One handed me a cup of coffee. "I understand this must be hard to hear."
I took it. "I have never felt so insignificant in the grand scheme of things."
"There's one more twist I must lay on you, Slender man."
"What's that?"
"I, all along, in both stories, was never The Feared One."
"Then what were you all this time?"
"I'm Camper James Joyce."
"Good god."
"That's me."
"Are you going to.. flood me away in a whisk of wordflowers or something?"
"No, son. I shall leave you, for you are amusing. CAMPER JAMES JOYCE, AWAY!"
And then he was gone, leaving only my Arch nemesis and myself.
He was still muttering "rhubarb." This was the perfect chance to arrest him.

Phantom abstractions in the blogosphere mist

..but my heart just wasn't in it. Besides, he was an abstract fanfiction of an abstraction too. In a way, we were like brothers, he and I. Rascally brothers who spend eternity chasing and fleeing each other. Sometimes he leads. Sometimes I lead. Sometimes he leads. Sometimes I. Sometimes we fight, sometimes we talk, sometimes we waltz as mere phantom abstractions in the blogosphere mist. If I arrested him, I would have no one.
So I adjusted my hat and left for the city outside. The city that is sometimes a lady. When I'm feeling particularly metaphorical. Which sometimes I'm not. But sometimes I am. And that kind of balance can be nice. So. So yeah. So I walked out of there.
The Blog Without a Face
Written by Jordan "DJa(Billy [Christoph Magreat] Everyblogger)y32" Dooling
Based on a concept that deserves some credit to Lindsay "Jesus Archangard" Taylor
Justin Bieber and James Joyce pictures were found on Google, as was the McLovin license. Slender Man art on license drawn by Rappu. Coldems, opening and endslates drawn by DJay.
Characters based on concepts from the Fear Mythos.
I hereby give the Fearbloggers permission to use The Blog Without a Face however they see fit.
2013-2015, 2023