It appears your support has paid off. There's been no word from the DA Admins. Ladies and gentlemen, trolls and lurkers, this old war dog has not yet had his day. Thankyou all *ever* so much. I love my readers. I respect every last one of you. <3

The next chapter of hunted is actually coming along well for once. I've been inspired by some rather gut wrenching personal drama in my life. I've always been good at converting negative energy into creativity. It's a way of coping, though I promise you won't be seeing my characters listening to Linkin Park, piercing their lips and slicing their own wrists with razors while yelling, "IM NOT WORTH IT", "I AM MY OWN MONSTER", and other classically lulzy refrains of emotionally unstable teenagers.


Nothing crawls in their skin, and if wounds don't heal, they put a bandaid over them, bite into a lemon, and yell at traffic.

No, seriously. Like real people they get on with life no matter how bad things become. Do not underestimate the power and resilience of the human spirit! I'll not allow anything to keep me down, ladies and gentlemen, and I advise you take a similar approach if you find yourself contemplating curling up in a ball and bawwwing like a butthurt furfag, or An Heroage.


Which leads me to the purpose of this journal. A special on suicide; because all the cool kids are doing it! ^_~ Desu ne~?

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So you've had enough. Your wife left you to live with a Rastafarian, and sold your daughters to marauding Muslim raiders. Your son joined Al Qaida, your mother in law gave him her blessing, you lost your job to a poorly qualified 'thin person' for the sake of preserving diversity (if all their workers are fat, it's bad for the company's image), and now you're lying in a pool of whiskey that you actually sweated through your skin.


What do you do?


Well, if the time has come to an hero, don't take some sleeping pills and climb into a nice hot bath. No! That's the COWARDS way out! LIVE FOREVER THROUGH THE POWER OF SPIRITUS MUNDI!

You *subsisted* in obscurity. Now, for the price of a hand gun and a cheap leather trenchcoat, your trip to Valhalla will buy you eternal infamy! All thanks to Faux News and its affiliates!



The manly way to an hero these days seems to be, 'death by IRL Counterstrike'. Terrorists win!

This process involves immortalising yourself through one of your nation's increasingly right wing media outlets. Yes, that's right, you. You, the archetypal America, with your seventeen airsoft guns, your movie replica katana, your pocky sticks, your XXXXXL pimply buttocks upon which you sit all day, and your Renamon pinups, you filthy furry otaku savage.

The media, increasingly infatuated with death and bloodshed - much like you, their ruthlessly conditioned viewer - has taken to allocating airtime to hopeless lowlives who dress up like Neo, kill their team mates, and try to 1 man the left 4 dead campaign commonly referred to as, 'Real Life'. Their failure is usually tremendous, but they tend to take an unsettling number of bystanders with them before they're permabanned from the server.


These people are usually just scumbags, but in death they accomplish more for society than they ever did in life.


For a start, they act as a single use, compact bottle of Genepool Chlorine. They take out the rubbish so you don't have to! And furthermore, they eliminate their vile presence from the face of the earth by 'dying like Jesus Christ', as one deluded twit named Cho Seung Hui tried to argue.


Jesus was strung up like a ham hock on a vicious instrument of torture, Garry. You were filled with more lead than the Chernobyl water supply. Get it right fgt.




You think your generation is edgy for inventing this barbarous practice?


Sorry. As always - whether it's sodomy, pedophilia, philosophy or manliness, the Greeks got their first.


Imagine you're in Ephesus, 356BC. According to legend, tonight is the night Alexander the Great is to be born, but you're not Alexander the Great. No, just like now, you're some fatty whose 13 year old wife won't put out, because you're too foul smelling and ugly, and aren't fast enough to chase her down and have your way with her. For shame!!!

Now, you're out looking for a strapping young lad with whom you can fornicate to take your mind off it all, when you see a great plume of flame rising from the legendary Temple of Artemis.



Oh teh noes! Someone has set it aflame!

Fortunately, also according to legend, Artemis wasn't in her temple at the time, and was busy delivering Alexander the Great. That guy sure had a big ego, writing himself into the history books as a truly divine ruler. Oh well. It was necessary in those days. For him to be that badass, he had to be more than human. What silly logic.

Being the concerned and proactive citizen you are, you decide to go and gawk at the flames while snacking on chickenshit. Om nom nom nom. Perfect fuel for killing tiny cowards!!!


You see them dragging away a rather crispy looking fellow, all covered in soot and oozing smugness like all successful trolls, grinning with bright eyes through the night, eyes that capture the dancing flames beneath a sky as red as blood. It seemed to you, superstitious as you are, that the anger of the Artemis herself, goddess of the Hunt, goddess of the wild and of childbirth, is *pissed off with all of you*.

Well shit. That's gonna be bad!





Then you recognise him. It's that common as muck prick, obvious troll extraordinaire, Herostratus.

He shouts that he did indeed start the fire. Being the hopeless chime you are, you shout, "But Herostratus-kun, why desu ne~?!"

Herostratus trollfaces at this pre-common-era weeaboo, grinning from ear to ear.

Problem, citizen?

Glaring at him, you demand he get the fuck out of here, but he ignores you. All your life you will be ignored, and in death, nothing will change.


Even as he turns away from the flames, and is transfixed by that hellish glow, as though Hades himself rises from the bowels of the earth to claim his soul, to cast it into Tartarus where the titans languish, imprisoned by their Olympian offspring, his eyes still flicker with the light of the blasphemous fires he dared to light.


"I may die. I may be tortured to death, destroyed! You may hate me, and the gods themselves may despise me for what I have done! But when your names, and perhaps even theirs are forgotten, I shall live forever! Through my name and my deeds, I will not be forgotten!"


Snarling at this monster, this heathen, this man who has cursed you all, you join in the chorus with others who demand his blood.

Another - a man of some influence - laughs at this perilous fool, this 'Herostratus'.


"Your ploy has failed," the man chuckles darkly. "Your name will be omitted from the history books, scored from the pages of every document. You will be forgotten as no man has been forgotten before."


Screaming, Herostratus was taken away. You sleep soundly, knowing he has been punished. Knowing that, despite your lack of ballsiness, he is no better off than you.




---



Your bones are dust now. But Herostratus survived through his name. Just as the An Heroes of today are attempting to do, by branding their faces upon the Western psyche.

They lived hopeless lives. They could have died alone, in their baths, and not been found for weeks.. But instead they rush forth and kill the people they hate, unleashing viciousness that is almost inhuman in its intensity and ferocity.

Within each one of us lurks a demon, a shadow aspect. ANd as they die, the shadow aspect gives these people strength unimaginable.

And they die with the same words on their lips.

"I will not be forgotten."


And despite your best efforts. Forget them you do not.