The DM13 Journal
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
She enchants who enchants
This sea witch enchants all who encroach
Ye mortals
She is not of the land
She is of the sea
She enchants like a turquoise siren
She spirals toward her seabed
She spirals toward her seabed
Against the current
Against the current
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
Men perish
Their names are null
Seize thou this sea witch against her will
Take this sea witch to the sea
That she may not die on land
Among men
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
The salt in the night wind cremates the eye
The waves detonate
The sand shatters
The whipping boys whimper
Their fears are ignited
When they see this sea witch
Reigning over her dominion
Do not place them on a holy pedestal most high.
You do not own them.
You share a memory together.
That is all.
That is enough.
Focus your attention, rather, inwardly.
Fertilize and plow the soil of your soul with knowledge, experience, dedication to craft. In 10 years they will be a flickering memory, but your mastery will have become brilliant.
People will worship your greatness, with all of its sacrifices, and you will smile among the gods, alone, in great company.
When you see Me in the incandescence of the marketplace, amongst the buzzing flies and loudmouth charlatans, a simple acknowledging nod is suffice. Do not attempt to stop Me, for I will stride past you–defiantly.
You will know Me by the black grime under My fingernails, brooding brown eyes, and disconnected disposition.
I do not care about your petty praises, save them for the self-important–the ones who count their counterfeit likes and fabricated followings on social media.
Do they not understand that those numbers are irrelevant and subject to the whims of their pseudo admirers, who care more about a follow-back than a genuine relationship?
Do they not understand that their time on earth is limited, and there is work to be done, legacy to be cultivated, self-mastery to be reaped?
Do not burden yourselves with such pathetic sycophants, for their existence will be null and void by the discerning verdict of time.
Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.
It's 3:37 am, and the spore swarms from the black mold are insidiously clutching onto my bronchioles, mindlessly feeding on the plump grapes in my air sacs with piggish gluttony. In their selfish apathy, they have succeeded in contaminating the oxygen in my bloodstream with their greasy little toxic secretions.
Respiratory distress, unusual rash formations, abnormal skin sensations, abdominal pain, bloating, diarrhea, chronic cough–and I haven't even brewed my morning coffee yet.
Every breath I take is a piecemeal necrosis–a symphonic masterpiece of mycotoxin discord.
I need medical attention, but my doctor is an incompetent, and I have shitty insurance. I will surely die, but I'm ready. The only thing that brings me sharp grief are my precious darkroom prints–what will happen to my well-preserved archives when I die? I hope whoever finds them conserves them for posterity.
I have to admit, I have a soft spot–in my FUCKING LUNGS. GET OUT OF MY RESPIRATORY AIRWAYS YOU TOXIC BLACK MOLD MOTHERFUCKERS!
Verily, I say unto you, that you are not alone. I am by your side.
And when you sleep, I watch over you.
And when you bathe, I watch over you.
And when you dress, I watch over you.
For it has been prophesied by the Oracle at Larapim, that I will lead the exodus of your existential dread off the treacherous cliffs of consciousness, into the crashing tides of oblivion.
You are surely not alone, for The DragnMastr's gaze is fixed upon you–lustfully–full of grace. It is so.
I summoned the gorgon, and testified before her.
Upon hearing the abominations made against my DM13 namesake, she swiftly declared her ruling: Guilty as charged. The sentencing: Bukkake by Satan's Legion to be carried out in the Second Circle jurisdiction every Wednesday morning for the next 337 years.
Before ordering her bounty hunter to repossess their cheap, snorting, swine souls, we reconfirmed our Friday fornication dinner date, kissed, and embraced in a salacious and genital manner.
Although Alan, Andrew, and Marion were strangers, tonight they would become inextricable fellow bond servants, fastened at the hip by My VENGEANCE.
Let it be known, desecrating the DragnMastr13 name is punishable by WRATH, for I am The Impeccable One!
It's been an entire month since the severity of your scent has faded from the accepting pores of my skin–along with the dwindling blood supply to my throbbing and earnest cock.
I will accept the withdrawal, the delirium, the confusion, the derision EVERY, SINGLE, TIME, if it means being able to press my pulsating and urgent manhood up against the perilous heights of your body, mind, soul.
Your spell is the mutiny wreaking havoc inside my consciousness.
I declare WAR.
Roberto was a stupid little man. He considered himself progressive, when in fact, the only thing progressive about him were the masterfully creative ways in which he showcased his ignorance.
As he drowsily awakened from his malevolently-coerced comatose, he noticed an "Anesthesia For Dummies" book nefariously residing on his night stand.
Gradually, the logic of her laughter found resonance in his feeble mind, and he began to sort out what had transpired in the sordid twist of events: she had transplanted his puffy pink areolas onto his eyelids.
He panicked. He knew that the closeted homoerotic attention from his crossfit bedfellows was now lost forever. They would never lust over him again–his new areola gaze was to be the object of their conspicuous scorn.
Her justified laughter was deafening as it reverberated off the crystal chalice she preferred to enjoy her daily horchata fix from.
She had rendered his criticisms moot with two decisive incisions. The precision of her scalpel was deliberate and resolute, and she knew it.
Let it be known, The DragnMastr enjoys the company of such autodidactic women.
While devouring her mouth, the faint toxicity of selenium in her saliva forecasted My impending doom. That foreboding suspicion deluged into a general malaise, which left Me contorted and paralytic–with a temporary deadness in My jaw.
As her venomous secretions assimilated into the bloodstream and monopolized My body's responses, I perceived My face enter into a horrific catatonia. Streams of calamity ran over the edges of My unresponsive mouth like the heinous bloodbaths of some barbaric society.
I felt the cascading pools of saliva settle on My inner thigh, adjacent to My left sack. The wetness malevolently seeped into My pores and entrenched itself under My flesh like an overzealous scabies infestation declaring holy war.
There I stood, unable to move–dripping. Mouth open, cock limp, and wet everywhere in-between.
It doesn't matter! It simply, doesn't, FUCKING, matter!!
Be like Abraham and BELIEVE. Your faith will be preserved and lauded throughout posterity.
For she is The Lamia Leeanius, Matriarch of the Gorgon Legion, of the Second Circle. And her technique is masterful across the millennia, immaculate even.
Look, you can breed another child. Do not attach yourself to that which, by design of The Impeccable One, is temporal and fleeting. The laws He has mandated are immutable and unyielding, and leave no room for such vulgar speculation.
Besides, the bloodmeal will be used to propagate the mission at hand. It has been prophesied.
All HAIL, The DragnMastr!!
"Ok, that just about does it. Sign here please."
"Thank you SO much, we really appreciate it!"
"No problem! Oh, can I use your restroom really quick?"
"Yes! Of course! It's the second door on your left."
"Thank you."
***
"Mother! Mother!"
"What is it? What is it?"
"I, I...I don't know...the young Turk who just installed our water heater outside, he, he..."
"What did he do???"
"He, he...I can't explain it. There's red stubble all over our sink, resembling the glowing-red, forged wrought iron of a blacksmith's!"
"Ok, then I suppose he must've shaved before leaving, how rude of him to do so! How rude, and bizarre!"
"No mother! You don't understand. He wore no beard upon arrival, and he surely was not red-headed, he was a brunette!!"
"Oh dear." "Call your father!"
"Father! Father!"
"Yes? What is it Ophelia?"
"The young Turk who just installed our water heater outside. He left red stubble all over our sink, resembling the glowing-red, forged wrought iron of a blacksmith's!"
"That BASTARD! I'LL KILL HIM. TERESA! HAND ME MY MACHETE!"
"No father, no! You don't understand. He wore no beard upon arrival, and he surely was not red-headed, he was a brunette!!"
"Dear God." "I'm calling Priest Morales."
***
"Yes, Priest Morales, a word with you please. Ophelia! Here, tell the Priest what has happened!"
"Hello, Priest Morales?...The young Turk who just installed our water heater outside. He left red stubble all over our sink, resembling the glowing-red, forged wrought iron of a blacksmith's!"
"I see. 10 Hail Mary's and 5 Our Fathers."
"No Father, no! You don't understand. He wore no beard upon arrival, and he surely was not red-headed, he was a brunette!!"
"My God in heaven!" "Ophelia, are you sitting down?"
"No Father."
"Sit down, I will tell you at once what has occurred."
"Ok Father."
"Ophelia..."
"Yes Father?"
"The young Turk who just installed your water heater outside. The one who left red stubble all over your sink, resembling the glowing-red, forged wrought iron of a blacksmith's."
"Yes??"
"This is what has occurred."
