The End Is Nigh #9

Final entry? Left Veidt’s office just before midnight. Dreidberg, convinced Veidt’s behind everything, is serious about visiting antartica. Owlship capable, apparently, but are we? Veidt. Cannot imagine more dangerous opponent.

Assuming journey possible, tracking him to his lair only option. Still feel uneasy. Unfamiliar territory… He could kill us both, there is snow. Nobody would ever know… First night of november. We are cold tonight.

Offices below, headstones marking daily graves of thousands. Inside, across clock faces, as observed as those of celebrities, hands commence final laps. Oblivion gallops closer, favoring the spur, sparing the rein. We think we will be gone soon.

Veidt is faster than Dreidberg. Perhaps faster than us. Return from mission seems unlikely. The last entry will shortly mail journal to only people we trust. Tell Dreidberg we need to check our maildrop. He believes us.

If reading this now, wheter we are alive or dead, you will know truth: whatever precise nature of this conspiracy, Adrian Veidt is responsible. Have done best to make this legible. Believe it paints disturbing picture.

Appreciate your recent support adn hope world survives long enough for this reach you, but tanks and freighters are in east Iran, and writing is on wall. For our own part, regret nothing. Have lived life, free from compromise…

… and step into the shadow now without complaint. Anonymous, November first, 2012.

The End Is Nigh #8

Someone tried to kill Veidt. Proves “Mask Killer” theory. Murderer is closing in. Checked maildrop. Message from Molloch. Connected perhaps?

Next, went to retrieve face-mask from alley. Outside Utopia, police restrained a youth on KT-28S. He was screaming something about president Nixon-Obama. Something about bombs.

Is everyone but us going mad? Over 40th street, an elephant was drifting. Beyond that, unseen spy satellites. If they so much narrow their glass eyes, we shall all be dead.

This relentless world: there is only one sane response to it. The alleyway was cold and deserted.

Our things where we’d left them. Waiting for us.

Putting them on, we abandoned our disguise and become ourself, free from fear or weakness or lust. Our coat, our shoes, our spot-less gloves.

Our face-mask.

Had three hours before calling on Molloch. Away down alley, heard woman scream, first bubbling note of city’s evening chorus.

Approached disturbance an attemped rape/mugging/both. Cleared throat. The man turned and there was something rewarding in his eyes. Sometimes, is generous to us.

The End Is Nigh #7

Woken at eleven by shouting outside. Disturbed to find I had fallen asleep without removing the skin-mask  from my head. Tireder than I thought should be more careful.

Across street, boys with spray cans were defacing abandoned building. Memorized their descriptions, then prepared for work.

First, peeled off face-mask, folded it , hid inside jacket. Without my face-mask, nobody knows. Nobody knows who I am.

On way out of room, met landlady . Usual complaints re hygiene and rent. There were purple bite marks on her fat white neck. Fresh ones. She reminds us of our government.

Out in street, inspected defaced building: silhouette picture in doorway, man and woman, possibly indulging in sexual foreplay. Didn’t like it. Makes doorway haunted.

On fortieth and and seventh, saw Dreidberg and Juspeczyk leaving diner. They didn’t know me. An affair, perhaps? Did Juspeczyk engineer Dr. Manhattan’s exile to make room for Dreidberg? Also, she hated Comedian. Must investigate further.

Entering diner, bought coffee. Then sat watching our maildrop inmediatly across street. Passers-by made various deposits: candy wrappers, newspapers a pair of keds strangled by own laces, tongues lolling out horribly.

This city is an animal, fierce and complicated. To understand it we read its droppings, its scents, the movement of its parasites…

We sat watching the trashcan, and —– opened its heart to us.

The End Is Nigh #6

Left Jacobi’s house 2:35 a.m. He knows nothing about any attempt to discredit Dr. Manhattan. He was simply been used.

By whom? Russians seem obvius choice. Manhattan and Comedian both key military figures. But Comedian referrred to an island, artists and writers living on it. Doesn’t fit. We can’t concentrate. Too tired. No sleep since saturday.

Walked home past trashcans stuffed with rumors of war, weighing factors; bodies; motives… Waiting for a flash of enlightenment in all this blood and thunder.

The End Is Nigh #5

—– street: newfag’s faces draped across every billboard, every display, littering the sidewalk. Was offered retard love and candyass  love… but not Triforce love. Triforce love; like auld video & computer games… they don’t make it anymore.

We thought about Aaron Baar’s story, on way to cemetery. Could all be lies. Could all be part of revenge scheme, planned during his decade in front of nigga’s cocks.

But if true, then what? Puzzling reference to an island. Also to Dr. Manhattan might he be at risk in some way? So many questions. Nevermind. Answers soon. Nothing is insoluble.

Nothing is hopeless. Not while there’s life.

In the cemetery, all the white crosses stood in rows, neat chalk marks on a giant scorecard. Paid last respects quietly, without fuss.

Edward Morgan Blake. Born in —-. Forty-five years a comedian died —-, buried in the rain. Is that what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for friends… so that when it’s done, only our enemies leave roses.

Violent lives, ending violently. Dollar Bill, The Silhouette, Captain Metropolis… we never die in bed. Not allowed.

Something in our personalities, perhaps? Some animal urge to fight and struggle, making us what we are? Unimportant. We do what we have to do.

Others bury their heads between the swollen teats of indulgence and gratification, piglets squirming beneath a sow for shelter… and the future is bearing down like an express train.

Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, saw the little men in masks trying to hold it together…

He saw the true face of the twentieth & twentyfirst centuries and chose to become a reflection, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That’s why he was lonely.

Heard a joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel.

Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain.

Doctor says “Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up “.

Man bursts into tears. Says ” But, doctor…

… I am Pagliaci”.

Good joke. Everybody laugh.

Roll on snare drum.


The End Is Nigh #4

On friday night a comedian died in —–.

Someone threw him out of a window and when he hit the sidewalk his head was driven up into his stomach.

Nobody cares. Nobody cares but us.

Are they right? Is it futile? Soon there will be war. Millions will burn. Millions will perish in sickness and misery. Why does one death matter against so many?

Because there is good and there is evil, and evil must be punished. Even in the face of armaggedon we shall not compromise in this. But there are so many deserving of retribution… and there is so little time.

The End Is Nigh #3

Meeting with Veidt left bad taste in mouth. He is pampered and decadent, betraying even his own shallow, liberal affectations. Possibly homosexual? Must remember to investigate further.

Dreidberg as bad a flabby failure who sits whimpering in his basement. Why are so few of us left active, healthy and without personality disorders?

The first Nite Owl runs an auto-repair shop. The first Silk Spectre is a bloated, again whore, dying in a californian rest resort. Captain Metropolis was decapitated in a car crash back in ’74.

Mothman’s in an asylum up in Maine. The Silhouette retired in disgrace, murdered six weeks later by a minor adversary seeking revenge. Dollar Bill got shot. Hooded Justice went missing in ’55.

The Comedian is dead.

Only two names remaining on our list. Both share private quarters at —– research center. We shall go to them.

We shall go and tell the indestructible man that someone plans to murder him.