The Coming of the Madness

I don't claim to be the greatest man in the world (well, okay, I do - I have quoted Johnny with the fiddle more than once) - mainly because I know I could never be as good as my colleague Sadeer Farjo, a man who has so many websites that Google actually recognizes his name as a common search! Sadeer, the handsomest man in the world! All of your camel are belong to Sadeer!

However, I do claim to be better than some. Specifically, with reference to fanfiction. Many people wonder why I write fanfic, thinking the whole thing sad and geeky and so forth. Well, yeah, it is geeky. And my stuff is very geeky - I have loads of webpages devoted to it and hours and hours of work on it. Check them out if you don't believe me - and check out the article I was interviewed for.

Anyway, the general quality level of fanfic is usually against those of us who engage in fanfic. I am not about here to defend the practice - my friend Mercury Gray is better suited to do that, frankly; she is working on a piece of work about the origins of the art form, I think. No, the purpose of this post is to state that, yes, indeed, most fanfic is just awful.

No, it is. Although the group of fanfic authors that I am a member of are truly awesome, they are the small congregation of candles in an otherwise dark universe. Most fanfic is not just bad, it actually warps the fabric of space-time with its dreadful lack of anything even approaching normalcy. Practically every single person who writes fanfic should never be let near a pen, or a piece of paper. In fact, they should be kept away from flat surfaces and anything that might make a mark thereon, in the vain hope that their insanity will not be committed to posterity and thus infect the fertile and fragile minds of those who read it. In centuries to come, archaeologists will run screaming from ancient ruins, having scraped away the detritus of the centuries to reveal the dark and hideous characters that spell the dreadful legend "But hary luvd hermyonee so much that he just had 2 kiss her".

In the future, exhibitionist English duchesses in Daisy Duke shorts and with figures more incomprehensible that $700 billion Wall Street bailout will be bound tightly with straight-jackets in psycho-wards after reading what the careless and uncaring purveyors of fanfiction called "authors" have posted on FanFiction.net, the fingers that they themselves have gnawed down to the knuckles shackled lest they bestow some hideous wound upon their faces twisted with the unrelenting fracture of their minds.

And the word will end in a tide of blood and madness, and Jesus Christ will descend from the Heavens in glory and say "My dad is going to be so ticked off with you people, I can't even begin to tell you."

It will be bad.

The simple fact is that most fanfic is everything that you have been told, and worse. Ours, of course, is not - and I urge you to check it out.

But I also urge you to check out this.

This is truly awesome, and it is a sign that God can make good of all things. And that Cath can make good of bad fanfic. I am not sure which is more impressive, but God's creation of the entire universe from nothing does give Him a certain advantage.

Cath (purveyor of fine baked goods whilst dressed as a belly-dancing Chocobo) has produced the following video, based upon this awful genuine and genuinely awful fanfic. And when I say awful, I don't mean it causes awe - I mean when I read it I am unmanned and void my bowels, claw out my own eyes and call for my mother to make the pain stop. Preferably with some kind of large caliber round.

Click here for the unending madness which, even yet, ends in the middle of what the author might refer to as a sentence if she had heard of the linguistic concept, even if only by reputation

And below can be found the video in question, a dramatic reading of the piece which makes no concessions and pulls no punches. This is the maw of madness, unfiltered through a lens and presented to you raw and bleeding, torn from the walls of a cathedral made entirely of screaming mouths and filled with the bright buzzing of a trillion wailing crystal bees. The light that streams into this place is nothing more than the venom of a thousand scorpions and the screams of the damned. It merely casts shadows, it does not illuminate.

Cath has brought his insanity to us. She has delved into the hideous holocaust where reality is merely the plaything of capricious dark gods to whom time is as a ball of yarn and causality is a bauble of tawdry nothingness. She has delved into the blackness of a night so devoid of light that it burns and a chill realm of endless fire that rends flesh like air. She has done, this, and brought this piece back unto us. For this, she deserves our endless adulation and thanks. She has endured that which is simple destruction to lesser people.

One day, the author of this piece of fiction, the woman by the name of Laura, will return to the earth in her new form, and she will open one of her six mouths as tears of burning pitch stream down her face. And then she will sing the song that will end the universe.

There is no escape. I have seen Armageddon, and it asks for reviews.