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  • IndyFront
    "But heading into 2020, as Sanders competes for the primary’s progressive lane with Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-MA), more moderate candidates have repeatedly taken jabs at what they see as the party’s shift too far leftward. In the latest debate in Detroit, for example, four moderate Democrats launched into the types of attacks that can be weaponized by the Republican opposition."

    Fucking imbeciles.
    In 1984, New Zealand's Prime Minister Robert Muldoon got drunk and spontaneously called for a general election - he then promptly lost (Irony!)
    Was gonna get rid of the baby spiders that just hatched but... mmm... I am officially at war with the asshole wasps and the spiders have proven their webs to be a force to be reckoned with... the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
    God damn it that sounds so fucking cheesey I can't beleive he wrote that and now you! :D
    In the process of tearing HaloFanon a new cyberasshole because of their shitty fucking default "Email Me When" BULLSHIT. Don't know whether at this point it is harassment, rank incompetence or both. Probably has a lot to do with the entirety of "FaNdUmB" being run by mentally retarded cane taods high on cat piss...
    When someone insults you in a debate, it typically means they are trying to distract you from how weak the rest of their post/comment is.
    • Like
    Reactions: Friendly Boi
    I wasn't talking about you but, hey, if the shoe fits...
    Thing is, you are pulling from the Republican playbook when you seek civility above all else. "Ignore the argument, they said things in a mean way."

    I find that when someone is called a fucking idiot (not referring to you), there is an even or better chance that the person actually is a fucking idiot, and that the weight of the arguments being made are not actually diminished by the insult.

    While some people only use the insults because they have no argument-supporting facts, there are also many who are willing to throw out an insult because the other party is either so stupid or dishonest (or both) that they willfully ignore the argument-supporting facts of others. It might make some people wince, but the insult itself does nothing to affect the strength of the argument, while tone shaming will more often support the cunt that has no argument but who plays to be polite but aggravating so as to "win".
    Eh, I still disagree. I think the bigger issue here is the desire of people to "one-up" or "win" rather than learn anything or have a productive and entertaining exchange with peers who come from different backgrounds and cultures, views, etc. And I don't ignore arguments, quite the contrary. When someone has made themselves very clear where they stand and they're digging in their heels despite all else, it is only THEN that I start ignoring them...
    There are three letters spelling out by new users' names a word that I find - to put it lightly - hilarious.
    "Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades, or untie the belt of Orion? Can you bathe in the fires of Arcturus, or illuminate a black hole? Can you reverse the expansion of the universe itself? You can no more assume these tasks as I have a heart to stake, as I have a mind to control, or a body to kill. You face a superorganism endlessly your greater." - Abbazorkzog ('The Speed of Light,' p. 404)
    Does anyone have video-editing software or know how to combine various clips into one seamless video? If not I can do it myself, been reaching out to various public-domain video uploaders on YouTube such as Hubble telescope and probe footage of planets and space and such and stuff, been making sure its ACTUAL REAL FOOTAGE of the universe itself. But if anyone has or knows of any useful tech/software that could be used to create a short video/trailer/etc it would be much appreciated.
    (The Speed of Light: A Total Assault, excerpt (pp. 83-86))

    “This is getting out of control,” declared Ortega, watching the collider reaching levels of power never before seen.
    “That can’t be good,” said Abrams, sweat beading around his lips and nose, his hair damp.
    To be fair, he was perhaps the most collected of the four scientists, Ana visibly shaking and Maynard still sick from his transgression of being the first to question Schwartz.
    The latter was the most visibly collected, leaning against the back wall, his face blank. But everyone knew by now how bent and fractured his mind truly was.
    Once the energy-to-matter output surpassed two-hundred million times a second, Maynard came to an executive decision.
    “We’ve got to find a way to shut down that black hole.”
    The statement stunned everyone in the room, particularly Schwartz.
    “Coming from you, that’s a fucking miracle,” she said, “Now how the hell are we supposed to do that?”
    The superconductor whined as its innermost detector began to glow, and the alloy began to burn.
    “That’s not what we should be trying to do,” Abrams said, looking intently at a diagram.
    “What’s on your mind,” asked Schwartz.
    “This is what would be considered a micro black hole, correct,” Abrams inquired to Schwartz.
    “Yes, that is correct.”
    “Well, I’ve been reading up on past particle experiments dating back to the first in 1931, and according to studies decades ago… micro black holes generated by the LHC at CERN should have decayed immediately.”
    “This isn’t the LHC, and we’re not at CERN,” Schwartz replied candidly.
    “Yes, but this is still a micro black hole,” he said.
    “Meaning,” added Ortega, beginning to understand, “that it is the particle accelerator itself, not the black holes, that’s the issue.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Maynard, clearly annoyed. “But did you just say black hole-s, as in ‘plural’?”
    It was just then that Ana saw a light flicker in Schwartz’s eyes she hadn’t seen in twenty years.
    “Ana,” he began, rushing over to her, and squishing her cheeks. “You are a gift to us all,” he said, as he then kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s get this machine turned off, NOW!”
    Schwartz seemed like he was ready to redeem himself, as what he said after he took his coat off and threw it over one of the chairs was so simultaneously heroic and simple that it was altogether exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
    “I’m gonna go down to the accelerator,” he said, sending dry ice flooding into everyone’s veins at that instant, “and open one of the access tunnels,” he declared, strapping on a hazmat suit.
    “That’s… that, actually makes sense,” said Ana. “But how do we know the damage that hole’s causing to the integrity of the superstructure isn’t going to damage that failsafe?”
    Schwartz followed Ortega’s index finger to the screen, which revealed the extent to which the inner detector had been damaged. The inner supports had begun to bend, and the outer cylinder had now begun to heat as well. The proton beam axis itself was now white hot, and entirely consumed by the accretion disk.
    “I’d say we have less than a minute.”
    “I’m coming, too,” declared Abrams.
    “Alright, get that on and meet me at the bottom,” Schwartz practically shouted as he handed Abrams a second uniform.

    “Say again,” Schwartz shouted as loud as he could over the howling maelstrom just beyond. “Thirty seconds!”
    Schwartz reached down to the suitcase he’d been carrying, and opened it up to reveal a spool of steel rope, which he fastened to a pulley around his belt. He promptly shoved the spool into Abrams’s open arms, and pointed at it.
    “No matter what happens,” he howled. “DO NOT LET GO. I’ve gotta go through and switch off – I’ve gotta pass through the calorimeters, to get up to the solenoidal magnet that surrounds the inner–”
    “In ENGLISH,” shouted Abrams.
    “If the inside is too damaged by the black hole, I’m gonna have to go through to the accelerator itself and shut it down manually.”
    “Was that really so hard?”
    “FIFTEEN SECONDS,” shouted Ortega over the intercom.
    Abrams nodded.
    Schwartz turned and initiated the priming locks that began the process of unlatching the compression centrifuge.
    He hit the final lock.
    The central console revealed itself.
    He reached up and pulled with all of his weight as she reached five.
    “FOUR,” as the latch slid back.
    “C’mon, we’re gonna lose it!”
    It turned.
    It opened.
    The accelerator shut down right as the singularity pierced the solenoidal magnet, and Schwartz was able to catch a glimpse of what no human being should be able to live to tell about.
    And a glimpse was all it took.
    Schwartz reached back, just before the door could fully open, and grabbed Abrams forcefully.
    Schwartz looked at Abrams blankly, a look in the older man’s eyes he’d never seen before.
    “W-what, what are y… LET GO!”
    He began to smile something wicked.
    “LET, GOOOO-”
    Schwartz, using the centrifugal force from his arm as leverage, hurled Abrams into the particle accelerator.
    When he returned alone, Maynard and Abrams naturally asked where he had gone.
    “He went to bed. Turn the accelerator back on.”
    “Do what? Why w–” but before she could complete a second sentence, Schwartz had interrupted her by shoving her out of the way and onto the ground, and began punching in the commands to reactivate the proton beam axis.
    It was then that she noticed Abrams, his back and legs broken in countless places, screaming in agony.
    “This is to send them a message,” he said, as the beam began to glow once again.
    Abrams felt 100 trillion mega-electron volts crash into his broken body.
    “That we are not a species with whom to be fucked.”
    Abrams screamed as what was the equivalent of someone’s leg or arm going to sleep multipled by infinity and squared fractally… forever. The protons – around a quadrillion of them – seared through his flesh, starting at several points across his epidermis and then spreading out exponentially, while simultaneously moving down into his organs and bones… essentially disintegrating him before their very eyes.
    Nobody but Ana was able to communicate with Abrams, having been the last to speak to him that day, and thus was able to see him before he was completely rendered inorganic, flatlined, and brain-dead.
    “I… saw… it,” the mechanized stammering of his voice spilled through the computer, as Ana fought back tears and sobbing.
    “What do you mean,” she wheezed through the intercom.
    “My life, was reversed. Backwards. All… all of the events of today were played backwards. And you came in and told me it was time to go. And then… everything… stopped. And I became a flickering light. Like… like a hologram… being turned off…”
    Those were the last words of Professor Daniel Abrams.

    • Like
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    I'll post another excerpt later on too
    Cosmic horror, or classical horror for what matters, relies on conveying the sense of dread, fear or hopelessness, which itself can't be done by dialogue alone as long as you rely on text format. There isn't much difference in between genres when it comes to what you have to do as a writer, main difference between classical and cosmic horror comes from the long term story where cosmic horror focused on a vast threats beyond your comprehension no one can possibly win against. It can't be done in a single short chapter. And if it can be done, I am certain it is not easy
    That wasn't even an entire chapter beast regards, it was 2 and 1-half pages. Anyway, here's another excerpt that isn't so dialogue-heavy:

    Ran’Kahn Rall had resigned his post at the Ministry shortly after his confrontation with the human ambassador.

    He’d decided he was finished fighting others’ battles for them. All of these years – decades even – being a whipping boy for arrogant and shortsighted politicians.

    No more.

    Rall understood that Pallas was just one of several communities of humans – Trans and otherwise – and machines in the asteroids beyond Mars. And he further understood that the only true way to maintain cohesion and unity was to direct their enmity at Earth and Ceres – the latter of which was the most pro-Martian of the Belt.

    But another thing he understood was that he had a choice, and as he paced idly on a backroad of Palladium’s suburbs he began to realize how corrupt everything was.

    An older human man hobbled by as Rall neared the intersection, old late-21st Century-era hover chassis and even older locomotives zipped and screamed by. For a second, the Palladian thought the old man was going to continue in silence – like they all do – but he stopped.

    “Hey, Mister,” he croaked, “you got the time?”

    Rall raised his wrist computer to eye level.

    “Twenty-Four: Fifty-Two,” he replied. “Why, got somewhere you need to be on this rock?”

    He shrugged and came to a full stop, looking up into the heavens.

    “In about five minutes, Unitas should be rising just over the skyline there,” he said, pointing to the old buildings.

    Rall sighed. “Wish I had somewhere to be,” he said, after a moment. “I joined the Palladian Ministry after my son got taken away from me. The mother didn’t want him growing up on an asteroid.”

    The man shook his head. “That’s a damn shame. Police have too much power out here.”

    “You’re damn right about that.”

    After another moment, Rall introduced himself.

    “Nice to meet ya. I’m Nathan.”

    Rall squinted, he knew that accent from somewhere, but – curiously – he couldn’t place it.

    “Where you from, Nathan?”

    He spat out an old dip and put in a fresh one, breathing deeply through his somewhat-clogged nostrils, yet Rall was unable to tell if his grimace was because of the harsh material in his lip, or the stale chemical-filled air that surrounded them.

    “Can’t remember where I was born, honestly,” he said, firing off a missile of tobacco-ridden saliva. “Family was all military and merchant marines, dad was a space-trucker, hauling ore from the belt to Mars and back again,” he explained. “Mom was a marine, like myself. I’m reserves at the moment. Sucks they don’t like our kind, you don’t hear much about Martian-Americans anymore after the UN intervention in the 2060’s… I prefer the term ‘Ex-Martian myself.”

    And then it hit him… ‘Martian-American,’ less than a few million of them left. He wanted to ask him more about his lineage, as pre-Transhuman history always fascinated him, but he thought better of it.

    The two sat for a long time in silence as the streets behind the apartment complex were illuminated by the reflective surface of Unitas, and for a moment – all of their worries were nonexistent.


    I should also say that I'm looking for constructive criticism in GENERAL. I know very well what cosmic horror is -points at avatar- and I have a plan, BELIEVE ME. Don't get hung up on trying to point out how what I'm posting isn't cosmic horror because I haven't even gotten to that part of the rewrite yet. These two excerpts don't even take place halfway into the story...
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