READ ME!

Hey there. DJay here. You'll see an eclectic table of Chapters and stuff up there. Everything in the black box is These Violent Delights, the story you clicked on. Follow the links one by one, starting with "Rebirth," and you should be fine. Each Chapter is split up into multiple parts, but those have all been gathered onto one page, so. Yeah, you'll be fine.

Clicking on any of the links in the grey box will take you to the predecessor, Fearblog of Fear.
Clicking on the "BACK TO TOP" button will return you to this readme. It'll come in handy.

Please enjoy this dark twisted angsty story, which is still in progress.

Opening Posts

a psalm for the living dead kings

it has been.
far too long.
since i last.
heard you speak.
by which i.
mean since i.
last wrote here.

my criti.
cal retreat.
into the dark.
subconscious.
of the mind.
is complete.

behold my.
expert eyes.
radio.
means nothing.

once was man.
i, that is.
killed for fun.
now regret.
i'm complex.

enjoy my.
typing quirk.

i'm billy.
no longer.
reborn, I
AM NOBLOGGER.
I KILL FOR
THE FEARED ONE
NOW AND FOR
EVER NOW.

Power

Hello, fellow readers. You may be relatively confused by this esoteric blog you are reading. Who is this intriguing personality, you're saying.

You may remember me as the name I once used: Billy Everyblogger. But that was then, and this is now-- now and forever. The Feared One has brought me back, like the fucking phoenix, ready to rise above all the fires and ashes of this damned world and blog no blog at all-- for I am noblogger.

I kill for the Feared One. I will kill each and every one of you readers, and then I will kill all of the Slendermen with my power, rising.

Power. It's what I represent now. It's what I resent now. I live in an abandoned apartment complex (complex like my soul) with other proxies who are not as powerful as me. The Feared One favours me, you see, and gave me all this...

...power.

(that's my theme song, by the way)

Lamentations and Thoughts

Early on, the Feared One killed my girlfriend. She's dead now. I was upset, but if I showed it he would kill me too. So I perservered. And I prevailed.

Woe to the world, I said from the rooftops.

After killing her, the Feared One gave me a mask, but I tore it up, because I wear no mask. My identity is nothing at all. I am not just like the shadows, I am the shadows. And because of that all disguises are pointless. They just make it clear where I am, or where I am not. It's like the philosophy of Sartre. But with no mask, I was and am still the Feared One's proxy, and I needed a name, so I chose noblogger. It is the antithesis of my birth name, my rejection of society's customs and expectations, my middle finger to The Man. I will not be defined by The Man's standards, instead I will be the opposite of what it wants me to be.

As noblogger, my head keeps spinning, sometimes I have insane bouts and kill people. Luckily they are always people that the Feared One wants me to kill, so me and him are on good terms. But still sometimes I wonder, what purpose is man? Must I live and die on the internet? Verily, my name is Failure.

But then what does that make my readers?

TERM OF THE DAY, from the Bible of Slender:

Greenmasks

Proxy Posts (63/96)

The proxy apartment is subdivided into three floors: The top floor is the penthouse suite where all us cool proxies live, it has a hot tub, and a big closet full of guns. The middle floor is a lame place for the lame greenmasks, it's nothing but beds for each of them and they don't even get snack privileges until they've killed their first Runner. The bottom floor is the altar where we throw Runner prisoners and force them to worship the Feared One. It also has a reception for welcoming us when we get home, because the front door is there and also vending machines stocked with Masky Way bars. Sometimes we go on the roof and drink beer together.

It's not easy being a veteran proxy, having to drink the most beer and then expected to kill many Runners to fill a quota. I haven't killed any in a while, but it's cool because the Feared One and I are bros. He recently started talking about giving me a super big task, said to be impossible. I suspect he wants me to kill alliterator, because rumors have been going around. But alliterator can't be killed.

The Feared One is calling me to the altar now. brb

(64/96)

"hellonoblogger" the Feared One said.

"Yo how's my main man doing," I said.

"prettygoodyouknowhowitis.anywayyouareprobablywonderingwhyIcalledyouhere," he said.

"You want me to kill alliterator," I said. "I know this because there were rumours. But killing alliterator is impossible," I then said.

"iwantyoutokillalliterator," he said.

"But killing alliterator is impossible," I then said.

"trueunlessyouhavetheonlyweaponcapableofkillinghim," he growled.

"And what's that?" I sasked.

"themightypen," he said. "inordertoacquirethisunholysacrilegedevice
youwillhavetotraveltotheveryoutskirtsofthecity
andstealitfromthepentagon."

"You want me... to.... steal from the Pentagon?" I said, bewildered.

"itwon'tbeeasy,youknowthistobetrue.
butthatiswhyientrustthistasktoyou,
foryouaremyrighthandman." he said.

I laughed and said "You know it. Bros before hoes, am I right?"

He laughed this time and said "youaremyfavouriteproxyBilly."

I recoiled in angst from this name which was a dagger to my heart. "You hurt me. I don't go by that name anymore," I whispered.

"i'msorrybutifyouwanttotrulybenobloggeryouwillhavetodothis." He said.

"I'll manage. When do you want it done by?" I said.

"iwantitdonebyyesterdayyouknowthat.
butyouarenotgoodenoughtohavedoneitbyyesterday
orelseyouwouldhavedoneitbynow." He said.

"Relax. I will do it, and it'll be done as soon as I can." I said. Then I turned and walked out.

"beforeyougothereisonemorething," he said.

"Make it quick," I said. I was planning on crashing with some proxy friends for the night.

"youmayhavetokillalltheSlendermenonyourjourney.
alsodoesthenameMaskymeananythingtoyou?" he said.

".........." I said, not turning around.

"ithoughtnot.goodluck." he said. Then I walked out, trying to wrap my head around all of this.

Proxy Mobile Posts, Chapter 10

part one

The Feared One gave me an iPhone so I can blog while I'm on my unholy mission. I would have preferred Android but whatever.

In order to get to the Pentagon I have to take the bus through several stops, each one more dangerous than the last. This city doesn't like proxies. It likes me even less because I'm a Blogger, even though I'm called noblogger.

Stop 1: The Timberwolf Cafe
Stop 2: Downtown
Stop 3: Subway Station
Stop 4: Runner Hospital
Stop 5: Grove Street
Stop 6: Blindman High
Stop 7: The Pentagon

I feel a little ill. I hope I don't bleed out on this bus. Oh god. Fhofpevor sbe zber pbqrf! Rl'yeh fhtagn... wish me luck, guys.

part two
(Ruminations on the State of Blog Fiction)

As I bodaciously rode the bus through sespiquidian fields of black nightfall, I turned my thoughts towards thy stars, O Fear Mythos! I got to thinking about the history and the weird nature of the whole enchilada.

In the beginning, of course, was the Slenderman Mythos, which started after Just Another Fool rocked the internet sensation. A simple tale, one of a perhaps intellectual love and loss, ruminating best in its later posts when it set up and broke all conventions for blog fiction. From there spawned such epic feasts as Marble Hornets, Tribe Twelfth, and Everyman HYBRID, and sprawling dizzying epics like The Tutorial, White Elephants, and et cetera. But there was too much talk of proxies and too little focus on good horror, so some people got together after a few years and started this gargonzolian nightmarefest we now know as the Fear Mythos.

In the beginning, there was simple blogs. Hidden in the Trees and Ontological and junk. They focused on a couple of monsters, showing proxies in whole new ways, and plus they were the scariest. And over time, more people joined and the place got a whole lot less cool because there were too many people spoiling the broth. Like really, did we really need Built For Two and its many sequels? That blog wasn't even scary. Between you and me, I never saw what the big deal was. But then my tastes have always been more thought-provoking and interesting. Eventually, sometime after yet another millionth new Fear was invented, long after the Woodenslendergrapher or whatever the fuck its name was, the scariness of the Fear Mythos stopped being so prominent in its focus.

Any sane reader will agree with me that that point, the point where the mythos stopped being about the horror and started seriously navel-gazing, was sometime before OH GOD THE RAPTURE IS BURNING ended. Even that story's later parts were really unhorror, it was like reading a Coen brothers movie, it was kinda cool at parts but mostly there was like no real.. chutzpah to its Fears, y'know? Where once that story could rock me to my core, Act 6 turned into this neverending boat ride of boredom with too many new characters that seriously nobody cared about and too much teen drama. Then the author started retconning shit? Hey man! All the best internet writers utilize the internet's "FIRST DRAFTS ONLY" policy!

But I digress. Like a cancer, this new trend of "no horror, we're too scared for that" spread throughout everything else. Suddenly nobody wanted to dare writing anything scary. And the mythos withered like a rose in autumn, perishing in periwinkle, as they say. Now it is the comedy writers (SHUDDERS) who dance upon its grave, twiddling their flutes and making fun of everything we used to be.

Well, I won't stand for it! That's why I have finally made my public return and started this blog. Not only do I want to keep my fans updated on who I'm killing, but more importantly I recognize that someone needs to set an example for these greenmasks who dare insult our mythos's horror pedigree by calling themselves "Fearbloggers." Someone needs to reincite the fear in our bones. And I am willing, since no one else will, to take up that mantel.

Let these Ten Commandments of Fear be my calling card of hate:

1) Thou Shalt Always Kill. None of this "characters get away scot-free to be moody and shit" business. This is a horror community. We need blood!

2) Thou Shalt Respect The Hierarchy Of Content. It's quite simple: Vlogs > ARGs >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Blogs >>>>> Creepypasta. Vlogs are the creme de la creme of creep. They're mimetic and junk (that's an intellectual way of saying they're performance arts rather than crummy campfire stories like blogs are). Vlogs are what we aspire for.

3) Thou Shalt Not Worship False Idols. We're the F E A R mythos. Not the "James Joyce" mythos. Not the "Comedic" mythos. Not the "Drag Slenderman Into The Dirt And Make Him A Lawyer" mythos. Not even the "Fears But Bullshit And Wordy And Pretentious" mythos. The FEAR mythos.

4) Thou Shalt Not Commit Blog Adultery. Come up with your own ideas. If you feel like you have to steal the good ideas of another blog, and I don't care how much better that blog is than yours, then you're obviously not cut out to blog at all! I'm sorry, I'm just saying.

5) Thou Shalt Not Be Pretentious. Get your stupid grandpa plays out of your brain. Stop what you're doing, don't give The Archangel a pipe and a beret. The only wandering your blogs should do is wandering headfirst into the bloodbath, or the grave, or both.

6) Thou Shalt Finish Using The Twenty Billion Fears We Already Have Before Thy Start Grasping For New Ones. I don't think I need to explain this one.

7) Thou Shalt Honour Thy Blogging Forefathers. Brush up on your mythos history, even if you just read this post-- that's why I made it. If blogging conventions were good enough for the Slender Man Greats, they're good enough for you.

8) Thou Shalt Not Maketh Unto Thee Any Graven Manifesto. Get that manifesto out of your brains. There is only one Ten Commandments post in this mythos, and this is it.

9) Thou Shalt Not Covet Alliterator's Blogging Proficiency. He's insanely good and insanely fast. But if you keep aspiring to be like him, you miss the sight of the bigger picture: There's more than enough horror to go around!

Finally, the most important: 10) Thou Shalt Fear Without Meta. This one is twofold. Firstly, it reinforces the essence of what I've been saying: Focus on the bonecurdling chills that we were made for. And secondly, it stresses not to be so pretentious. The meta is a cheap gimmick, only to be used by the utter experts. But remember your place in the hierarchy of content. Don't overstep your bounds, otherwise you too will be contributing to the cancer that kills off everything we hold dear.

Be smart. Be safe. Be aware. Our future depends on it.

part three

part four

Oops. Didn't mean to click "Publish." Where was I? Oh yes. I stepped across the threshold of madness and into the depths of Archangle hate.

The Timberwolves all looked at me like I was a deer in deadlights. And that's when I realized something was terribly off here. These did not look like Timberwolves at all. These looked like a different kind of Slenderman altogether.

Here, I took a picture with my phone, confirm it for yourself.

I was in a cafe full of Slender Man Slendermen.

I had to get the hockey puck out of there pronto.

So I did.

part five

After leaving the Timberwolf Cafe (full of Slender Men)

Chapter 11

Motherfucker do you realize how hard it is to type anything at all on a phone? Let alone write an entire shitting "Mobile Post." This is complete torture. Speak more! Speak more! More more more! Speak! Type! Tap those keys! Enjoy Web 3.0 in all of its contemptuous allocations! Kill me now if it turns out I have to write this entire blog as actual mobile posts. I am accustomed to having near instantaneous transcription of thought to binary using the standardised physical computer keyboard, which decades of training-- often in isolated conditions  (and rarely consensual)-- have allowed me to reach. Now I am.muted.

-billynotreally  (aka Masky)

Chapter 12

part one

If I wanted to kill alliterator, I had only one chance: Do it tonight, or don't do it at all. The Feared One would consider me an outcast, and I'd never see my friends in that apartment complex again. Such was fate, of course, should it come to that, but I had other plans.

part two

The subway station, covered in all sorts of graffiti, had seen better days and far better nights. It was packed full of people. How was I ever going to make it through?

part three

Riding the subway, there's little to do but think and be pensive.

How many Slendermen will be waiting for me when I get off?
What trials from which underworlds in whose songs?

Steadily, I reach for my face. The woman across from me on the train glances at me.

What is the meaning of Masky's intrusions upon my web log?
The Feared One mentioned his name to me.

I grab my face. People are starting to stare.

The Feared One... he told me he was the Slenderman.
Have I been working for the Slenderman all this time?

My hands clench and I bypass the part of my brain that wants the pain to stop. I feel someone grab my shoulder.

But what about the Obamas?

Crunch. I break my face.
The people around me scream as I remove my hands-- my cheeks have gaping holes through which my teeth grit, my nose isn't where it should be, blood has blinded my eyes.

I say, to no one, "My transformation is complete."

And then I get off the train.

part four

The Runner Hospital

part five
(introducing the ghost)

The Runner Hospital

IV.

In through the window, out with my drive to leave. The hospital was a real hole of shit. A shithole for the sick ages, and here I was climbing into the second floor because a Runner told me that's where he'd be.

Masky...

As I sneaked through corridors, a stolen doctor's mask over my broken face to be my only disguise in this Hell, my mind tried to predict what the ultimate significance was of Masky's being here.

Was he here to kill me? Or perhaps something different?

It was around this time that a nurse stopped me. They thought I was a temp and asked me to go help some doctor at a surgery some rooms down. I said I'd see what I could do.

V.

Devon Finnerty ..... was the name on the sheet of paper handed to me. Autopsy report. Gender unknown, occupation of known, identity in a state of flux thanks to the black splotch of blood covering a last name.

"Fork," said the faceless doctor. I passed him a narrow thing that looked like a fork. He stuck it up the cadaver's nose. The cadaver twitched. I brought this up. The doctor told me not to worry. "They're not dead, is all."

"Are they at least unconscious?"

A shrug. "I don't know." The fork goes in deeper. Doctor reacts to something. "Ah, there's the brain." Slowly withdraws fork, a bit of gray matter on the end. "Now they're dead."

I didn't have the stomach for this, so I excused myself and left the room. I didn't care that this attracted the attention of some suited people. They asked what the problem was, and I had nothing to tell them. Instead I just kept going down the hallway, looking a little more desperately for he who I came here for.

part six
(the escape)

The Runner Hospital

VII.

8:00 in the morning, Masky was due for transfer out of the hospital, out of the city, out of the country. I had no time for a conversation here. All I could do was bust him out.

I found him comatose on a gurney, surrounded by a doctor and several suited men. I punched the doctor, grabbed the gurney, and shoved it through the crowd, chased by mad footsteps and radio chatter.

Someone even fired their gun. A bullet pierced my leg, right behind the knee, but by then I had already gathered enough momentum that I could shift my weight onto the gurney and ride out in style.

Until we came to the stairs, anyway. That part didn't go as planned.

But that didn't matter. Nothing mattered. There was a crowd of people coming for my.. my... friend. And I needed him. I needed. Him. But I couldn't even lift my legs now, laying below a crashed stretcher with broken face at the bottom of a staircase.

So I reached deep inside, found the strength the Feared One must have sensed in me long ago, and...

..got arrested.

VIII.

In the back of a police van, handcuffed next to a Masky who had may as well have been dead, I realized no one would listen to my struggles and roars. I was in over my head. The cops didn't care that I was on a mission from my god.

All they cared about was getting our car past Grove Street without "hoodlums" shooting the van.

Grove Street... the next stop on my journey!

Did I have a chance?

part seven

I Dove as They Drove on Grove Street

They shot the van. I took this as the signal to bust out of my mobile prison and breathe freedom anew. The seam created by their bullet holes, spilling fresh nighttime light into the interior of the van, is where I applied the full force of my foot to effect an exit.

The door opened. I dove out. The van was speeding, so when I hit the ground, I rolled to apply torque to my body and thus dilute the dizziness. The force of the ground (pull me under, othello) versus the forced self-sufficiency I was bringing manifest through my body (the spirit must carry on) erupted in a turf war of asphalt, concrete, tarmac, and granite. An alphabet of conflict within me, without me, jumbling before your very eyes.

Bang. Bang bang, bangarang. Here bangs the ways of crime, west to east coasts and north to south neighborhoods. Guns flying, fired from their bullets as the impoverished shoot themselves to stand their ground. The laws of the land, cause before sand, protest an inborn truth as they blackmail our urborne youth, black male, into the ways of vagabonds and aqualungs. I'm not erasist but. Inebriated, it's that or incarcerated, thy names are all the system promises for their future.

I think the cops in the van saw this in me, this urge to put truth to power, and so after I dove out of the van, they kept driving, afraid to face no blogger at all. Also, the gunfire.

the arm of the law consciously transforms the home of the marginalized into a slum, so that the marginalized must choose sublimation or slum

Chapter 13

part one

Before I could proceed through the street of groves, a woman walked up to me with something to say, trailed by five or so men of varying height and age (but all carrying the same expression: "listen to her").

"Hey young man, a word."

I said nothing but stopped in place and looked at her.

"Now I don't know what you're up and doing, but you just got out of a siren. You look like trouble." My face must have reacted, prompting her on: "Oh, you think this place is trouble, do you? I'm here to tell you, you are trouble greater than that. You know that?"

I raised my hand to speak. She was about to interrupt me but stopped herself, looking at me with worry. I said "I promise you, I only want to go through. I will not trouble you."

Her eyes passed, through suspicion, into an understanding beyond even my own. "Alright."

I said, "Is that okay?"

She nodded, mouth pressed shut. "But you've got to know."

I asked, "What?"

She said, "Grove Street is some blocks away from here."

"Oh. Then where am I?"

"This is the corner of 13th and Rhodes."

"Do I need to go through Grove Street to reach the Pentagon?"

"No. Just go through-- the Pentagon, you say?"

"That's right."

A pause. "..yeah, you're going to want to tread between the Crown and the Canoe for that."

"Thank you." I bowed my head lightly for her, which she acknowledged as polite, and then I walked on.

When I was farther down the street, one of the men behind her shouted out to me, "Aye aye! You'll run into Mister Everyblogger, say hey!"

I had no idea what that meant then, unlike now while writing this post, but I still raised a fist without turning around, to express my acknowledgement.

[That marks the end so far. When I continue the story, I will add it to this page.]