Seymour
Liturgist
- Joined
- Aug 13, 2009
- Messages
- 152
Developing Grimoire: A Day in the Life
In the dark recesses of his australian bunker, Cleveland Mark Blakemore grew impatient. Hordes of savage cybernegroes and gay chinese jews howled their hatred of the white race as they broke like the waves against his Thinkboy defense system, the searing heat of its near-endless napalm supply creating a dense fog amidst the ice that almost covered the growing mountain of untermenschen corpses. Cleve paid them little heed, however, for his inestimable IQ had already predicted their attack and its inevitable failure in 374.298 different scenarios; in a few moments, all that would be left was food for the cheetahs. No, what was in his mind was far less pedestrian than the post-apocalyptic world banging in his unwielding reinforced doors: Grimoire.
Fifteen years had passed since he first announced his magnum opus to a now deceased world. All his predictions had inexorably come true one after the other: the collapse of Amerikwa due to the influx of lower races enforced by socialist multikult media, the coming of the ice age, the nuclear missiles flying like a swarm of locusts while the horde of manboons drooled over Oprah in the televitz, never knowing what they didn’t know that they didn’t know until it hit them.
Now here he was, and still the only thing he could not foresee were the random surges of unparalleled creativity and brilliance in his Asperger’s gifted mind. Trying in vain to distract himself from the memory of his one failure and boredom, Cleve checked the computer system’s status and the number of food rations left in the silos and its estimate duration at this rate of consumption, but the numbers would pop up in his head before they could ever appear onscreen. He tried estimating the market price of baby meat, the current Dow Jones index and the probable date for the establishment of a utopian society comprised of his Aryan offspring with titanium bones, all of which consumed the better part of a minute.
Suddenly, his mind wandered. “What was it that I used to do to pass the time and escape Grimoire before the meltdown of civilization?” A semblance of a smile formed in his lips as he searched the shambles of what was once known as “the internets” cached in a small partition of his HD. A strange advertisement for internet poker hailed him to RPGCodex, where the last headline read “THIS IS LIKE THAT THING CLEVE WAS TALKING ABOUT”. Its forums, as usual, were filled with cynicism and disbelief. While some hailed ITZ as a refreshing return to the old-school days when life was hardcore and ironman, most pronounced it boring, banal, overhyped shit or, worse still, Fallout 3. Cleve lost track of the time laughing at those long gone angry cunts and their stubbornness in being wrong about everything, and next he knew it was late in the evening already.
“Oh well”, he thought, “I’ll finish Grimoire tomorrow”.
In the dark recesses of his australian bunker, Cleveland Mark Blakemore grew impatient. Hordes of savage cybernegroes and gay chinese jews howled their hatred of the white race as they broke like the waves against his Thinkboy defense system, the searing heat of its near-endless napalm supply creating a dense fog amidst the ice that almost covered the growing mountain of untermenschen corpses. Cleve paid them little heed, however, for his inestimable IQ had already predicted their attack and its inevitable failure in 374.298 different scenarios; in a few moments, all that would be left was food for the cheetahs. No, what was in his mind was far less pedestrian than the post-apocalyptic world banging in his unwielding reinforced doors: Grimoire.
Fifteen years had passed since he first announced his magnum opus to a now deceased world. All his predictions had inexorably come true one after the other: the collapse of Amerikwa due to the influx of lower races enforced by socialist multikult media, the coming of the ice age, the nuclear missiles flying like a swarm of locusts while the horde of manboons drooled over Oprah in the televitz, never knowing what they didn’t know that they didn’t know until it hit them.
Now here he was, and still the only thing he could not foresee were the random surges of unparalleled creativity and brilliance in his Asperger’s gifted mind. Trying in vain to distract himself from the memory of his one failure and boredom, Cleve checked the computer system’s status and the number of food rations left in the silos and its estimate duration at this rate of consumption, but the numbers would pop up in his head before they could ever appear onscreen. He tried estimating the market price of baby meat, the current Dow Jones index and the probable date for the establishment of a utopian society comprised of his Aryan offspring with titanium bones, all of which consumed the better part of a minute.
Suddenly, his mind wandered. “What was it that I used to do to pass the time and escape Grimoire before the meltdown of civilization?” A semblance of a smile formed in his lips as he searched the shambles of what was once known as “the internets” cached in a small partition of his HD. A strange advertisement for internet poker hailed him to RPGCodex, where the last headline read “THIS IS LIKE THAT THING CLEVE WAS TALKING ABOUT”. Its forums, as usual, were filled with cynicism and disbelief. While some hailed ITZ as a refreshing return to the old-school days when life was hardcore and ironman, most pronounced it boring, banal, overhyped shit or, worse still, Fallout 3. Cleve lost track of the time laughing at those long gone angry cunts and their stubbornness in being wrong about everything, and next he knew it was late in the evening already.
“Oh well”, he thought, “I’ll finish Grimoire tomorrow”.
