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[personal profile] atma posting in [community profile] heroicrecords
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Every time a copy of something akin to the Weekly World News or whatever it is The Sun is publishing now or whenever Snopes has to sigh and debunk the same goddamn thing everyone’s aunt or grandfather sent them today, a special kind of negative energy enters our atmosphere. It’s comprised of a special flavor of paranoia and fear, of something so completely fucking stupid and couldn’t possibly be true, yet somehow out there there are far too many people who believe in it, with far too many being any amount conceivable above the number zero. We do not speak of things everyone questions or doubts now and again, like their own adequacy as a person, or if there’s a god or if it’s a she or how many or not enough, to it’s doubtful your team is going to win the super bowl much to the earlier mentioned in this story’s shopkeeper chagrin.

We’re talking about people like those that believe that not only is the president a vile lizard person, but that his blood is also made of flouride, and that’s what is in our water is not some tooth strengthening mineral but lizard alien blood, from stonehenge on the moon, owned by Target who is owned by France and they hate our soldiers, because a Muslim on September 11th did within purchase goods that could be conceived as explosive but only if you really thought about it, because it could melt steel beams the same way it could melt away those pounds, and it all comes back to your neighbor is spying on you so you better hole up and hoard all of the gold and Bitcoins and ammo you can, build a crappy shelter and stock it with several years’ worth of long term perishable goods, but by perishable goods you only mean Spaghettios because fuck if a vegetable is going anywhere near you. Nutrition is for pussies. Give me fat and cholesterol any day. USA! USA! We’re number being number one! You better believe it, compatriot.

Somehow, it sells. But that’s what they say is fear sells. Well, “they” say sex sells, but the only thing greater than that is fear. Just ask any man who is in fear of having his dick cut off. You can’t exactly sell sex to him after that, now can you? So keep it coming and keep it rolling, and you too can sell a steel plated condom to the same man buying Backayard Lemon Stealing Whores the 69th Special Edition: Getting Lemonier By The Sloppy Seconds and you are guaranteeing yourself early retirement. For bonus points and profit, include one of those aforementioned tabloids and you have a customer who will come back sooner and more frequently than even the most dire of meth addicts. Kids, don’t use shitty drugs. Do only cool ones, like your heroes, the Kings of California. We legalized it because you didn’t!

This energy that is emitted from fools when they read this and buy into the hype and the anti-hype seeps deep into the earth, where the mole people they believe in exist or would if they were real, and emanate back out into the spirit world. Whether you believe it or not, it does exist, but not in a shape any religion has quite gotten right yet, tho a lot are close. It was here that the good souls are kept from those of the ones that fucked up in life, and that is where the soul of the Lieutenant and the Communicator and now the one known as the Magistrate were marinating, tortured by rulers not unlike those that oversee the various underworlds in the world’s varied and incredible religions and mythologies. For crimes against their fellow countrymen and for banking on lies and fear and controlling those too poor to fight back, they were sanctioned to endure worse than the fear and pain of all those that they wronged combined for tens of millions of generations more.

But because of the energy mixing and interfering from humanity and its eternal desire to somehow fuck everything up no matter how good things are going, one escaped. It was the Communicator.

Known in life as Reagen, he was a president of the United States, one who ruined the economy and screwed over the working class and honest, blue collar workers and the most truest of American citizens that could ever be called real Americans from whence the country and the castes have yet to even begin to recover from, and is indeed still maybe worse yet. Called The Great Communicator, for some ungodly reason, he got his career started in California as its governor. Then more mild mannered, power corrupts, and he slowly got worse and worse until the state had to be rescued by Jerry Brown and his naked rollerblading supermistress Ronstadt, Schwarzenagger of all human beings, and then goddammit is it really Jerry Brown again are you shitting us?

The state was only able to start recovering its major tax issues from all of them once it finally legalized marijuana and brought in those sweet, sweet tax dollars and then elected the Kings Atma and Katsuragi, eliminating the position of governor and instead replacing it with a much more royal title. They made good use of the state’s tax and of the state’s legal weed both, and brought in tourism from those both eager to try some of the Emerald Triangle’s best, with king Atma having been raised just below it and familiar with the area, to just meeting the Kings themselves and maybe getting their tits autographed. The state was finally starting to really live up to its nickname of The Golden State for the first time since actual gold was discovered deep in its veins.

But it was not to last, at least, not yet. They were to be tested.

When that energy damages the spirit world and allows one to escape, they find themselves in one of a few major places in the world, waking up through a major conspiracy conduit, of which there are many in America. Some include Roswell and Area 51, but the one Reagen chose to come back through was the conduit of Bohemian Grove. The Grove was a he-man woman hater’s club belonging to the political elite of America, hidden in the forests of the Sonoma-Napa wine country in the North Bay Area of Northern California, of which Atma was also born and raised very close to. She once walked there in half a day from her childhood home just to prove she could and that she had her eye on them. While mostly out of use now and more a local curiosity, it remained a classic in the annals of conspiracy theory lore and those that believe in the Illuminati and more. Being that California is where he began his dark rule in his more alive and mortal years, he wanted it back, especially now that it had been taken from two of what he considered to be the embodiment of everything wrong with his nation and the world, on an ethical and moral level.

Two women. Homosexual ones even. Who did drugs and loved freely. With weird religions and kept odd hours, they fought and trained hard but never invaded or hit first, their music loud and full of horrendous guitars and guttural utterances, carrying such un-American weapons as swords hailing from such an un-American land like Japan. How could America and California have sunk this low? This is the land where the sun set and shone gold and crimson on its coasts every evening. And now tarnished, just tarnished beyond the recognition of the Communicator’s eyes.

He vowed to take it back, make them pay, and then use his dark energies and magicks to take back America, and then the world and make it rue the day it looked down on him. Soon would begin his reign of ten thousand generations or more of darkness, and for that to be accomplished, he would need all of the help he could get.

Thankfully, now more than ever, America was easily swayed by fake news all over its internets, and he knew exactly who to summon first to help him accumulate the energy to bring about the bigger players. The first would be a man known as William Randolph Hearst, a journalist himself when alive, who became the father of what we now know as clickbait. His yellow journalism alienated an old worker of his and he set off to destroy him. Given how many people will not BELIEVE what happens next in this article and click anyways only to be sorely disappointed every time by an anti-climax but will click it again the next time anyways despite knowing better, it was safe to say Hearst won that rivalry, and his legacy endured. A propaganda machine was exactly what the Communicator needed, and his first of the sacrifices went to bringing Hearst back and naming him his great Lieutenant, setting him to immediate work flooding the airwaves, netwaves, and paperwaves with his lies and slander that people fell for hook, line and sinker. No matter what subject it was about, none was too small as it took even just one soul believing it for a second to accumulate more of the dreadful Illuminati energy.

For yes, the ultimate source of this was the Illuminati. They did exist, but not quite in the underground new world order form that many believed, but more as a wave existence, and it took the form of this energy, which was enough to rule the minds of men so that was enough for it to see itself as a society and enough for its believers to, well believe in that. Hearst’s work was an immediate boon to both of them, and they soon recovered the same bodies and vitality they had when previously alive, albeit in a slightly more ghoulish or demonic form, making them don a predictable set of dark colored robes, lest they be seen and recognized by any local populace. The time it took to get the energy and materials to revive someone as notorious as Nixon and retrieve him from the spirit realm was an unprecedented record. Now that they had him, dubbed their Magistrate, in his state and role ready to take over and declare useless “wars” on concepts and control the castes, they could go about bringing up more minor minions to keep things going for them.

There were so many that once belonged to the grove, if even in honorary status, that they would have enough to do and wage war forever and fill some smaller countries government cabinets right up. They worked mostly in dark of the night and the quiet wee morning hours to arouse less suspicion. The only people who would come out here regularly anyways were the paranormally curious and those a bit too high and wandered a bit too far off their campsite who could easily write off anything they saw about there as a drug induced vision. You know, much like two Kings earlier did.

And so it was with all this that the spirit world had become unbalanced and upset, and the rulers and peacekeepers of both sides agreed that this was indeed very much not good. The Embers and the Heavens agreed both that if the mortals could not rectify this on their own, they may very well have to tip balances and scales themselves and enact some kind of spiritual holy war, which would result in a lot more damage, especially to the psyches of those that believed in anything and being proven that their belief was wrong, and to the nonbelievers solely for seeing that someone was right and it was not them, not that that would be anything new to those like Dawkins, but so it goes. With Reagen’s dark new origin story revealed, the good side at least agreed to try to do something. It would have to interfere with some of the summonings, somehow, and it knew just what to do to tip the scales back to a more even balance.

The next couple times they would go to summon someone of a more major and greater status such as Nixon or Hearst, they would find themselves with an unpleasant surprise, and should Katsuragi and Atma wander into them, they would find them to be far more a pleasant one instead. It was not their time to enter the story yet, but as Hearst churned out more headlines to generate more energy with, it was siphoned by the rulers of the Embers and the Heavens to pick two very worthy souls to combat the dark forces now sitting on the thrones of Earth. Very soon, they would become to be known, but for now, we must remain satisfied knowing that evil will get its due in in due time.

Of course, when this did eventually happen to them when they were working on summoning others, they became a great deal upset and needed to spend energy and resources recovering themselves instead of furthering their plans, but this is neither here nor there for now, but it gave our Kings just enough time to prepare. The rulers of the Embers and the Heavens agreed to try to believe in the prophecy of the Kings that had been wrote in ancient and holy California scripture since the gold rush, found deep within the veins of the Sierras, and hope it came to pass and was not just the mere words of a prophetic crackpot with too much time on their hands.

For we have spoken a few times now of the prophecy, but have yet to expound upon it.

One of the great ways the universe takes care of itself is it sets up balances and counterbalances for everything. For every action, there is equal and negative reaction, and so forth. For when evil arises and darkness crawls and stretches over the earth and envelops it in a hungered blackness devouring all over the horizon so even the horizon itself seems swallowed and gone, so shall light be born and shine forth and down over the land and revive it and push it back from whence it came. And what light shines more gold than gold, and within the veins of gold deep within California’s greatest mountainous mines, was found but a simple poem that miners of the time recited for luck and as a prayer to keep them alive, not knowing what sacred battle it depicted and predicted within.

It was so writ

So shine forth of blues and reds and of greatest golds
Come forth from the peasants to the kings in actions bold
From thrones ascended do the twin peaks do our rulers watch
Protecting us and our lives, for all the riches we sought
Shared freely ‘mongst the crowds they always did give
And from darkest depths did they pull us out to yet live
Let no devil from below take what belongs to you and me
Let no devil from below take our lands and our seas
Take ye not from me the spirit of California so free
As gold shines true, and let freedom ring again unto thee

And so this was sung in every tavern and mine shaft and up through the trains and coal racks and as California aged it was remixed again and again, but always it remained a prayer of those honest and most hard working and poor, who dreamed of the riches that lay within the state, be it literal like gold ore or more metaphorical like success from good work and love of state. But no matter who sang it or in what tune or with what genre or tone, the gist of it remained the same, and it quite annoyed the richer classes in places like Marin County to hear their grunt workers whistle this to keep them going.
It was largely believed to be just some miner’s lonely song at first, but religious scholars noticed that the metaphors in it bear great resemblances to the poems and warnings find in the scriptures of religion the world over, and a small cult formed around it, and many began to take it as a serious prophecy within academia if nothing else. And now here we stood, with a pair of Kings, perhaps those peaks it sang of, and a darkness encroaching. Amazing sometimes how a simple song can have the most literal of metaphors in it. Worse written ones had come to light before, so it’s not like this was anything new or exciting.

But that’s all that we had left now as Californians, as Americans, as a species was to trust in that small song, that prophecy, and hope for the best.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Katsuragi and Atma had gotten up the next day, not having heard back from anyone yet, but getting ready to head out back to New Hanzo and getting back to the war room and preparing for things, just in case. They had spent a good, long night with their women, since they may as well enjoy themselves and let their girls know exactly what it was they liked about them, kissing their still sleeping faces goodbye as they met in the hallway and showered and got equipped and devoured a protein and carb filled breakfast, enjoying only the most minimal of breakfast bonghits to go with it, not enough to cloud their brains but enough to kill whatever worry or paranoia they may get as they went and waited. The traffic was almost nonexistent this time of day, and those that didn’t trust them still knew better than to steer clear of two self-identified shinobi and samurai, let alone go near a school full of such trained by them.

Along the way, instead of playing any kind of power metal or punk rock or some soul-belting diva and singing along and getting their blood flowing, Atma found herself today humming an old, familiar tune, singing a couple words slowly before Katsuragi caught on to the tune and began to fill in the gaps of the song. Before they knew it, together, they were singing it at the same time, as loud as they could, windows down, Katsuragi tapping the side of the car door in rhythm to it as Atma tapped the steering wheel with her fingers rapping against it at every stoplight.

“Oh, so shine forth of blues and reds and of greatest golds...” Atma began.

“Come forth from the peasants to the kings in actions bold...” Katsuragi continued.

The two were singing the prophecy song together, though they only knew it as the miner’s song, they sang it for the same reasons they did back in the days of the rush, when things were dirty, the men dirtier, but the women dirtiest, and the words continued to flow form their lips like gold nuggets did from the veins and the rivers twisting in and out of the Sierras, high atop each peak and down below onto the forests and villages below, with coal carts going in and out as the golden sun shone down on the Golden State, enriching its beautiful landscapes and making it everyone’s home, whether they were from there or not.

Sure, they weren’t always in perfect harmony, but nobody expected that from them right now, least of all from themselves or each other, and some lines they sang together, and they would switch who started every time they song repeated. On their last repeat of it, they pulled into their secret parking lot, and began to make their way to their war room. Something about today seemed heavy, seemed warm, as the sun was awfully clear and the sky and horizon an extra deep blue to them.

As they unlocked the door, Ayame and her squad were already sitting there again, having arrived back just moments before the Kings, with them a few small boxes used to hide and protect evidence during shinobi missions. Ayame beamed and threw an arm around each of her mentors, nuzzling into their chests and smiling up at them adoringly.

“You two are going to be so proud of me! Well, us, but hopefully me!” the eager young shinobi began.

“Hm? What’s all this? Normally I have to say something cool first to get a hug from you.” Katsuragi joked. “You horny or something, kid?”

“Bah, you wish, Katsuragi. Let’s hear the kid out.” Atma pat Ayame on the head and gently pried her off of her.

Ayame nodded to the girls as they sat down the boxes, unlocking them but not yet opening them, keeping the mystery going for just a bare moment longer. Ayame did a pose, trying to emulate half of one Katsuragi would do and half one that Atma would. Someone was really eager today.

“Well, then, sit down and get ready, because you’re not going to believe what it is we found!”
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The Hall of Heroes | Atma's Writing Dump

December 2016

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