Phantom abstractions in the blogosphere mist

..but my heart just wasn't in it. Besides, he was an abstract fanfiction of an abstraction too. In a way, we were like brothers, he and I. Rascally brothers who spend eternity chasing and fleeing each other. Sometimes he leads. Sometimes I lead. Sometimes he leads. Sometimes I. Sometimes we fight, sometimes we talk, sometimes we waltz as mere phantom abstractions in the blogosphere mist. If I arrested him, I would have no one.

So I adjusted my hat and left for the city outside. The city that is sometimes a lady. When I'm feeling particularly metaphorical. Which sometimes I'm not. But sometimes I am. And that kind of balance can be nice. So. So yeah. So I walked out of there.

The Blog Without a Face
Written by Jordan "DJa(Billy [Christoph Magreat] Everyblogger)y32" Dooling
Based on a concept that deserves some credit to Eric "Jesus Archangard" Taylor
Justin Bieber and James Joyce pictures were found on Google, as was the McLovin license. Slender Man art on license drawn by Rappu. Blog poster drawn by DJay.
Characters based on concepts from the Fear Mythos.
I hereby give the Fearbloggers permission to use The Blog Without a Face however they see fit.
2013-2015

A Brush With Fear, Esquire

Dateline: Waterday the Worst of Winter.

Today was the day. Finally. I had gotten the grant from HQ-- the real HQ, back at the EBI-- to bust Arch nemesis's hotel room down and catch him in his base of operations. So that's precisely what I did.

For the record, it really hurts to kick a door down. Do not try it.

After I had recovered my leg from the bust, I pointed my gun at the figure sitting on the bed.

"You're under arrest, Arch nemesis. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

At this point my Arch nemesis said something that surprised me. Namely, he said "rhubarb."

He was a background character all along?

"For this scene, he is."

I turned around again. I saw a figure taller even than myself. A figure wearing a gas mask. I figure whose name I recognized from one blog I had read: The Feared One. The foul vagrant lurking behind all that is Fearblog of Fear.

"Of course. It was only a matter of time," I said, "before you poked your head into another story that doesn't exist."

"I'll have you know, Slender man, that this story does exist. Things go far deeper than you could possibly imagine in your feeble faceless brain."

"Easy, bucko. My father was a brain."

"You're right, I'm sorry."

I offered him a cigar. He offered me one in return. That exchange got awkward fast. "You were saying?"

"I was saying, Slender man, that you exist in one hell of an abstract matter."

"Of course I do; I'm a character in a story."

"But who do you think is your author?"

"..God?"

"No, not alliterator. Your author is Christoph Magreat, with the occasional post by Jesus Archangard. Your general concept was a collaboration by both."

"Huh. Well, I'll be damned."

"You are not confused?"

"I mean, I hadn't heard of either of those, but it's not a big deal."

"Oh, that is where you are wrong! You see, Magreat and Archangard don't exist either! In fact, they could be said to exist even less than you do!"

Oh man. This was heavy. "What? How is that possible? They wrote me! As Fearblog of Fear fanfiction!"

And then The Feared One lifted the next veil: "Understand, detective, that the Billy Everyblogger who wrote Fearblog of Fear... also does not exist."

"Wait. Wait." My brain struggled to comprehend this. "I was written by authors who do not exist in response to another story by a nonexistent author?"

"All of these stories, you see-- both your own and Everyblogger's-- are the product of one DJay32."

"I. Was created by an abstraction of one author as fanfiction for another abstraction of the same author?"

The Feared One handed me a cup of coffee. "I understand this must be hard to hear."

I took it. "I have never felt so insignificant in the grand scheme of things."

"There's one more twist I must lay on you, Slender man."

"What's that?"

"I, all along, in both stories, was never The Feared One."

"Then what were you all this time?"

"I'm Camper James Joyce."

"Good god."

"That's me."

"Are you going to.. flood me away in a whisk of wordflowers or something?"

"No, son. I shall leave you, for you are amusing. CAMPER JAMES JOYCE, AWAY! BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMINARRONNKONNBRONNERONNTONNTUONNTHUNNTROVARENAWNSKAWNTOOHOOHOORDENENTHURNUK!" Or however that word goes.

And then he was gone, leaving only my Arch nemesis and myself.

He was still muttering "rhubarb." This was the perfect chance to arrest him.

Hotels and Happiness Forever

Dateline: Wriday the Wecond of Winter.

I followed my Arch nemesis into a hotel. I kept my distance. He checked into a room for two. I waited outside, hoping to see who he was meeting with. Hours passed. Many hours. The other person never came. Then I was tapped on the shoulder by a policeman who arrested me for stalking.

You win this time, Arch nemesis. But you will not win the war.

How can I even sleep if I have no face?

Woke up today with a strong compulsion to turn on the stereo. Then I realized I couldn't have just woken up. An ace detective doesn't sleep. But as I got up and walked out of the house, I turned the stereo on anyway.

We're not summoning a demon. We're welcoming a goddess and the rise of her rain.

Blah, blah, blah

Who cares.

Day's Waltz

We were in the middle of drinking our coffees, laughing at the customers and the city around us, enjoying the beginnings of a beautiful friendship, when who would come waltzing on by the Costa but my Arch nemesis?

I stood up. I threw my thick coat onto the ground, revealing my slender business suit underneath. I straightened my tie.

And then I waltzed on out of that coffee establishment, leaving Coldems there to cover the tab.

And all was right with the world. With my world.

An Inspirational Dialogue

"Welcome to Costa, how may I help you?"

"Season's greetings. We'll take two coffees. Black and tall, please."

"Really? No requests for Slenderccinos?"

"Not today. Can't afford them. We got fired. Personal reasons, it's not important." "He arrested our boss." "Like I said, personal reasons."

"Well, your table's over there."

"By the window?"

"..really? You're not even gonna offer unnecessary third-person omniscient descriptions?"

"Our hearts aren't in it." "Not today."

"*sigh* Listen, boys. You win some and you lose some. Sometimes you win some and you lose some, like, at the same time. You can't let a simple firing get the better of your spirit."

"It's deeper than that. I found out I don't even exist, that we're all badly written works of fiction."

"You're only as badly written as your soul, man! Believe in yourself. Take another look at your table, what do you see?"

"A table by a window." "..I dunno, I think I can see, reflected in the sunlight, my hopes and dreams." "Huh. Y'know, I can see that too. And the chairs kinda look like they're held up by choirs of ambition on a new dawn."

"Yes! And what about that guy over there, who's sitting next to it?"

"A customer whose children look like they were beaten with ugly sticks made in a factory for ugly sticks, bunting, and probably also something practical like paint rollers." "Yeah, those kids make me physically ill to look at." "I'd have to say that the mere fact I exist on the same existential plane as those kids makes me want to cry." "I'm considering seeking therapy from the knowledge." "I'd pay millions of dollars for that therapy." "I would let the therapist subject me to shock therapy if it meant never having to see those ugly fucking kids ever again." "Yeah." "Yeah." "Yeah, fuck those kids."

"..."

"The guy himself looks fine."

"..here's your coffees."

"Thank you. Say, Coldems?" "Yeah, Slend?" "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful new friendship."

Aftermathematics

After all of Mr. Grott's assets were seized, I started packing my things into a cardboard box because I had just arrested my own employer and put myself out of a job. Should have thought that one through. Then again, I was also an undercover agent. But I was assigned to the city, not the honcho. So I was pretty much out of a job. Which sucked.

It was around this point that Coldems woke up. I gave him back his gun. He rubbed the back of his head. I apologized for hitting him. He said it was okay. Asked if he was out of a job too. I said yeah. Asked if he wanted a coffee. Said it'd be on me. He said yeah.

EBI

The cut to night meant lighting had significantly faded. Actually faded much differently than light usually does at night. It's almost as if, rather than cutting to night, some metaphorical director had simply applied a filter to the camera of life. To make it look like night. Also black and white. Coldems was no longer blue. Just grey. Everything was grey. Except for the city, which was black. Actually, everything was black but those rare described objects illuminated only by the lampposts. See what I did there? Call-back.

We pulled up at HQ. Got out of the car. Lit up more cigars. Coldems said very little. The people we passed in the halls all said "rhubarb" over and over again. Kinda creepy, if I'm honest. As if they were trying to summon the great god of love-craft Rhubarbia. But they weren't. They were literally just saying "rhubarb" to each other.

Head honcho was not happy to see me. His ears were all up in my grill, so to speak. Plus he was growling. That's how I could tell. I'm good with dogs.

Head honcho told me to take a seat. Coldems stood there pointing his gun at me.

I looked at Coldems. Then I looked at Head honcho. Said "Alright." Took a seat. I took that seat and smacked Coldems upside the head with it. Grabbed his gun. Pointed it at Head honcho.

Head honcho, I could see, was pointing a minigun at me now. That is, a really really big gun. "Easy now, detective, unless you want to run The Blog Without a Head." I took a mental note of what to name the sequel. As soon as I got out of this shindig, of course.

"I'll sit down if you can answer me one thing," I said.

"Sit down and then ask," he said.

"Now hold on, I think you'll find this question precludes any necessity to having a seat."

"Fine, ask away."

"How do you hold a minigun with paws?"

That's when I saw his paws were not paws at all; they were hands. Head honcho was not a dog. He was a man in a dog costume.

So I said, "Just as I thought. Head honcho, I'm placing you under arrest for charges of false identity, tax fraud, and impeding a federal investigation. And also for humping legs without actually being a dog. 'Cause that's kinda weird. Not gonna lie."

"You're just a two-bit detective, and you work for me," he said. "You can't arrest me."

"That's where you're wrong," said I who put the I in PI. "All along I've actually been an undercover officer of the Eldritch Bureau of Investigations." I flashed him my badge. (The badge is blank; it has no face.)

"I should have known you were EBI," he said. "You showed all the signs." He looked at me for a bit. Then he sighed and took his costume off.

"I knew it," I said.

He was Mr. Grott, Esquire, all along. Sometimes spelt with one t, sometimes with two. Don't get too caught up on it.

"Why did you do it, Mr. Grott? You had worldwide fame for your books. Why put it all at risk?"

"Shows what you know, detective. Nobody likes Finnegans Wake. And I put nearly two decades of work into it! I wanted payback."

"You should have plugged it more. On the internet, I mean. There are fandoms for that now."

"There are no fandoms for my books! Only scholars who make reading look like dissecting a turd!"

"Alright, no need to get insulting. My mother was a turd."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"I think you should put the minigun down, Mr. Grott."

"I think so too."

And so he did. And I arrested him.

The modern man, you see, is an insect

The city's a lady. Except when it's not. Like right now. The city right now is a man, a very slender man. Because the city is badly written. It has never been described with depth. You cannot feel the city as being a city. As being alive. Or I mean cities aren't alive. There was a period of time when cities were often described, possibly even thought of, as alive but that was around the start of the industrial revolution. Was related to the rise in public consciousness of the imago that is "the modern man." The flâneur. I could really go for some flan.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A FACE, PART FLAN

Waltzing on my way to the local confectionary, I was stopped by Coldems McBoy. The blue carrot guy. With orange hair. He drove up in his Jaguar. What a tool.

"Get in," he said.

"I ain't gettin' in anything until you tell me what's all the hubbub," I said, wrestling a cigar around my faceless lips with a faceless tongue on this faceless day.

"Head honcho wants you," he said back. I noticed today Coldems wore a fedora. I noticed because he pulled a revolver out of it. Pointed it at me.

So I got in and we drove to HQ. On the way the day transitioned to night. You could say it transitioned between cuts.

Dread's Waltz

I couldn't handle this. I had no face. It wasn't just a metaphor. My first thought was that I might be a bad writer. For some reason that scared me far more than that I might just be a fictional character, so I ran out of the room screaming.

The Blog Without a Face, Part the Seventh

I found my way to O'Brien's bar, where I drowned my existential sorrows like a motherfucker. I remembered I had no actual mother, that she didn't exist either. So I drank more. I began noticing some odd details about the city that I'd never picked up on before.

For instance.

The bartender had no face either, nor did any of the patrons.

I was in a city of Slender men.

Everyone was a Slender man.

I was not the Slender man.

I was just a detective who couldn't even solve a simple murder case.

I drank until I was drunk enough to waltz out of there. My partner this time would be my dread. She led, I followed.

I imagined that I waltzed with a mirror twin, a Slender man not unlike me-- though this one was real. That is, I imagined he was real. Didn't make him really real. Not really. If anything, this Slender man was even less real than me. I could relate to that.

He slumped as he rose, his falls were catastrophic. His feet skidded along the floor step by step, he traced that imaginary box like it were all he was programmed to do... all he was written to do. When he led me into a twirl, he did so with the grace of a concept that had stood on the cliff of Being in the middle of a thunderstorm of words and origins, his unfeeling mind awake at the sensation that nothing prevented him from tumbling off the edge... and that nothing prevented him from walking away from that cliff unscathed. I saw in his faceless eyes that this Slender man in my head had the resolve only gained by those who stand at that cliff and trust their feet enough to dance.

I had invented the greatest waltz partner in existence. And he didn't even exist.

Did I truly exist? I had to have existed at least a little more than him. After all, I created him. What did he have that I didn't?

He'd learned to lead the waltz atop the cliff of existential anguish. He'd learned to lead the waltz of those who exist more than he does.

...

One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.
Four, five, six.
Four, five, six.
Step by step.
Step by step.
Step by step.
Left foot forward
Right traces the box
Left joins right
Right foot backward
Left traces the box
Right joins left. (Now add the rotation.)
Left foot forward (One)
Right traces the box (Two)
Left joins right (Three)
Right foot backward (Four)
Left traces the box (Five)
Right joins left (Six. Now rise and fall.)
Left foot forward (Fall, one)
Right traces the box (Rise, two)
Left joins right (Climax, three)
Right foot backward (Fall, four)
Left traces the box (Rise, five)
Right joins left (Climax, six.)
Left foot forward (Fall, lead your partner into the twirl, one)
Right traces the box (Rise, lead the twirl, two)
Left joins right (Climax, keep leading, three)
Right foot backward (Fall, nearly there, four)
Left traces the box (Rise, meet your partner after the twirl, five)
Right joins left (Climax, pose, six)
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.
Step by step.
Rise and fall.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.

That's how you do the waltz. That's how you live a life of ebb and flow-- you either lead or you twirl. Both are majestic. Both are nirvana. Both climax. You cannot have one without the other, even if you have to invent your partner.

Just keep tracing the box, one two three, four five six.

There is no real, there is no fictional.

When you step up to the edge of that cliff, you can finally be free to waltz.

Revelations

I have a face.

It has hair and two eyes and a nose and a mouth and two ears.

I have a face.

It is on my driver's license.

I have a face.

I exist.

I have a face.

I am not a character.

I have a face.

I am a human being.

I just checked my driver's license.

I have no face.

Oh god.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A FACE (BUT AT LEAST IT CAN DRIVE), PART SIX

A Chat Between Slenders

Fearblog of Fear was shit. But what's worth nothing here is that in exploring this newfound Fear Mythos, I discovered an internet chat room for impressionable young Slender Men, Slender men, Slendermen, and slender men such as myself. I even found a slender Man. Using the magic of computer clipboards, I will now paste for you the entire conversation in that chat room.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A CHASE, part five

MisterCharles has signed in.

bedclosethead85: It's absurd, is what I'm trying to say.

SofaKingSlender: While I understand your point of view, the fact of the matter is SurgeonGeneral has the monopoly on the name.

SlenderMLG: o rly

SofaKingSlender: MLG excluded. Obviously.

bedclosethead85: Yeah.

bedclosethead85: But.

bedclosethead85: You said it yourself; it's a bit murkier than a "monopoly."

opiterator: I, for one, think this is a stupid argument.

opiterator: bedclosethead, what do you call yourself where you're from?

bedclosethead85: Beast.

SlenderMLG: lol

bedclosethead85: BUT.

SlenderMLG: nah

bedclosethead85: I also identify as "the slender man!"

SlenderMLG: naaah

bedclosethead85: Oh, shut your fucking mouth, you scrub.

SlenderMLG: oh shit

SlenderMLG: thems fighting words boy

bedclosethead85: Why don't you come and fight me through jump scares?

bedclosethead85: Scrub.

perrywinkle: AW SHIT.

SlenderMLG: perry stfu

SlenderMLG: this is so stupid

SlenderMLG: you guys all know im scary

SlenderMLG: my games wouldnt sell otherwise

opiterator: What's wrong with jump scares, necessarily? I mean, if they work...

SofaKingSlender: No, I can see where we'd agree, Beast. There's something rather.. Pychon-esque about the situation.

volvohunter has signed in.

volvohunter: Hey guys

SlenderMLG: sup

perrywinkle: Hi Frank!

opiterator: "Pynchon-esque?"

bedclosethead85: Thank you!

volvohunter: So what's going on today?

bedclosethead85: I'm glad we can see eye to eye on something!

perrywinkle: Lots of arguments is what's going on.

SofaKingSlender: Okay, maybe that was the wrong way of putting it.

bedclosethead85: I got your meaning. I think.

SlenderMLG: bed doesnt get why king is called king

bedclosethead85: As opposed to the Slender Man, which he had originally called himself!

volvohunter: Oh

volvohunter: Well it's because of copyright isn't it?

SlenderMLG: something like that

SofaKingSlender: Not quite. SurgeonGeneral has a trademark; the copyright is for the stories.

bedclosethead85: Yeah!

bedclosethead85: And we'd never try to steal the stories anyway.

DirkRossman: …

DirkRossman: Yeah. <___<

DirkRossman: I'll, uh. Brb.

SlenderMLG: kk

DirkRossman has signed out.

SofaKingSlender: So the point here, Beast, is that I'd rather stay safe.

opiterator: I wonder what that was about.

perrywinkle: Hey I just noticed, who is this MisterCharles figure that signed in?

MisterCharles: Oh! Hello!

perrywinkle: Hi new person!

volvohunter: Hey, how are you?

bedclosethead85: Welcome to our chat!

SlenderMLG: sup

SofaKingSlender: Hello! What canon do you hail from, o traveler from an arcane land?

opiterator: HAH.

MisterCharles: Hi. I'm fine. I'm Slender man, ace detective.

MisterCharles: Uh. Canon?

SlenderMLG: aw hell we got another newbie

SlenderMLG: probably going thru his identity crisis faze

bedclosethead85: *phase

SlenderMLG: fu

bedclosethead85: *ck you

SlenderMLG: omfg

opiterator: You're a detective, are you? Like film noir? 'Cause that is awesome.

volvohunter: I really wish you two wouldn't argue like this

SlenderMLG: its that asshole not me

bedclosethead85: Oh, cry me a river in dubstep, why don't you?

SlenderMLG: YOU PIECE OF SHIT DONT FUCKING BRING DUBSTEP INTO THIS

SlenderMLG: I SWEAR TO YGGDRASIL I WILL SEND MY MASKED PROXIES AFTER YOU

SlenderMLG: I AM NOT PLAYING ANYMORE

bedclosethead85: Oh noooo! Not the masked proxies!

opiterator: Just ignore them.

bedclosethead85: I'll be trembling in my Fear boots!

bedclosethead85: All the way to my FUCKING ELDRITCH POWERS OF BLOOD RAIN AND DEADLY BRANCHES DESCENDING FROM THE SKY.

bedclosethead85: Not to mention my, what, ARMY of proxies!

SlenderMLG: at least people play my games

MisterCharles: I. Yeah. I'm like film noir.

bedclosethead85: OH, THAT IS SO LOW.

MisterCharles: I write a blog, in case you guys want to see.

bedclosethead85: YOU DO KNOW THAT POPULARITY ISN'T AN INDICATOR OF QUALITY, RIGHT?

SlenderMLG: oh god not this again

SlenderMLG: for someone who thinks hes high quality

volvohunter: Sure, I love reading new blogs

SlenderMLG: youre really a whiny little shit

bedclosethead85: At least I don't have hordes of immature ten-year-olds in my fanbase!

perrywinkle: OH SNAP.

perrywinkle: ..yeah, I'd love to read your blog!

SlenderMLG: fuck you perry why are you even in here

SlenderMLG: youre hardly a slender man at all

SlenderMLG: what the fuck kind of slender man has blue semen

SlenderMLG: what the fuck kind of slender man even has semen

perrywinkle: Leave me out of it, thank you very much!

MisterCharles: http://fearblognoire.blogspot.com/

SlenderMLG: and by the way bed you do know most of your readership are fucking incels right

SlenderMLG: incels and those who want to fantasize

bedclosethead85: I have to take the bad with the good!

SlenderMLG: id rather have little kids than fucking fedoras

SlenderMLG: mlady

SlenderMLG: and such

SofaKingSlender: Oh wow, I like this blog's design.

perrywinkle: Same! <3

bedclosethead85: I'll have you know that a substantial portion of the readership acknowledges the difference between a trilby and a fedora, thank you very much!

bedclosethead85: Of course, I wouldn't expect the same from a fucking scrub like you.

volvohunter: bed don't you think you're milking this "scrub" thing?

SlenderMLG: nah hes just doing it to annoy me

SlenderMLG: and yknow what

SlenderMLG: hes good at it

SlenderMLG: ill give him that

SlenderMLG: annoying me is what he is good at

SlenderMLG: as well as being a fedora apologist

bedclosethead85: Wearing a trilby does not mean I support the MRAs, you know.

bedclosethead85: Oh wait, of course you wouldn't.

bedclosethead85: Because you are a

bedclosethead85: S

bedclosethead85: C

bedclosethead85: R

bedclosethead85: U

perrywinkle: THIS BLOG IS FUCKING HILARIOUS.

bedclosethead85: B

perrywinkle: Oh sorry.

bedclosethead85: It's okay.

SlenderMLG: yeah its okay i still got the message

SlenderMLG: bed is a douche with a capital d

SofaKingSlender: So from the sounds of this you're trying to solve the mystery of Mr. Grott's death, right?

MisterCharles: That's right.

bedclosethead85: At least I don't have noodle arms.

MisterCharles: I'm stumped on it.

SlenderMLG: i dont have noodle arms in the arrival

bedclosethead85: You had may as well.

perrywinkle: Have you considered that he may have died of natural causes?

MisterCharles: It's possible. But Mr. Grott had a lot of enemies. People really didn't like his books.

SlenderMLG: wtf is that supposed to mean

perrywinkle: Ah.

SlenderMLG: do you even have eyes

MisterCharles: And plus he was kind of a dick.

bedclosethead85: I don't need eyes to know your model needed work.

SlenderMLG: you really want to talk about appearances santa claus

opiterator: I suspect the answer might lie in distortion.

bedclosethead85: Hey, I'll have you know that Christmas special was a fan favourite!

MisterCharles: Distortion?

opiterator: Yes. If you see here, in the posts during your identity crisis, there are lots of hidden messages.

opiterator: I suspect these might be able to be strung together to give clues.

SlenderMLG: jingle bells jingle bells

SlenderMLG: slendy softened up

MisterCharles: But I'm the one who wrote those messages. They're representations of my thought processes.

SlenderMLG: oh what fun it is to ride in slendys fucking sleigh

SofaKingSlender: Maybe Mr. Grott is actually another part of yourself?

bedclosethead85: That didn't even rhyme.

SlenderMLG: didnt need to

SlenderMLG: the point was still made

MisterCharles: How so?

SofaKingSlender: I'm just saying. Maybe your true search is for your own Self.

SofaKingSlender: That'd be cool.

MisterCharles: Maybe. Doesn't feel that way, though.

bedclosethead85: I don't even know why I'm having this argument with you.

bedclosethead85: I don't need to defend myself.

SlenderMLG: whatever

volvohunter: Perhaps you have to cross-examine more people?

MisterCharles: I'm a detective, not an attorney!

volvohunter: Oh. My bad

SlenderMLG: mistercharles maybe this grott guy was a proxy

SlenderMLG: maybe you killed him

SlenderMLG: or drove him to suicide

MisterCharles: We hardly interacted, that can't be it.

SlenderMLG: oh well

bedclosethead85: Oh!

bedclosethead85: I bet his death was part of an even bigger scandal.

bedclosethead85: Mr. Grott may be the harbinger of far worse disasters.

MisterCharles: Well, that may be so for all I know, but there's no use thinking about that.

MisterCharles: My job is to investigate his death and worrying about the future would only interfere with that.

perrywinkle: I for one think the answer is incredibly obvious.

perrywinkle: MisterCharles, the secret to figuring out Mr Grott's death lies in the comedy.

MisterCharles: What comedy?

perrywinkle: …

SlenderMLG: …

opiterator: …

volvohunter: …

SofaKingSlender: …

bedclosethead85: …

SurgeonGeneral has signed in.

SurgeonGeneral: What's on, chums?

SurgeonGeneral: I heard somebody was asking about the trademark.

SurgeonGeneral: I'd like to clarify that I sold that trademark to a third party.

SurgeonGeneral: If you wish to profit off of my name, you will have to go through that third party.

SurgeonGeneral: SlenderMLG did.

SurgeonGeneral: opiterator has the right idea in distinguishing himself enough.

SurgeonGeneral: Of course, this whole case would probably be very difficult to argue in court, thanks to your general tendency for taking my name and applying it liberally as if it were public domain.

SurgeonGeneral: So.

SurgeonGeneral: Thanks for that.

SurgeonGeneral: But I'd appreciate it if you guys still respected the trademark.

SurgeonGeneral: With that, I'm off to scare the piss out of more curious internet-goers.

SurgeonGeneral: SLENDER MAN, AWAY!

SurgeonGeneral has signed out.

SofaKingSlender: Well, that settles that.

bedclosethead85: Dammit.

bedclosethead85: I liked him better when he had a face.

bedclosethead85: He's been a dick ever since the operation.

MisterCharles: Again, I ask: What comedy?

MisterCharles: You guys didn't really clear that up.

MisterCharles: And what with that General guy's appearance, I must say I'm only more confused.

perrywinkle: Oh boy.

perrywinkle: Who will be the one to break it to him?

volvohunter: I think I can give it a shot

MisterCharles: Break what to me?

volvohunter: MisterCharles, you are not the slender man

MisterCharles: No, I'm not.

MisterCharles: I'm Slender man.

MisterCharles: Ace detective!

SlenderMLG: man i cant handle watching this happen its always too painful

SlenderMLG: im out

SlenderMLG: hmu on skype when its over

SlenderMLG has signed out.

opiterator: You may call yourself Slender man, but you as a character are actually a parody of the slender man.

MisterCharles: "Character?"

MisterCharles: Guys, you're starting to scare me.

opiterator: Yes. "Character."

opiterator: You don't actually exist.

opiterator: You are a creation of some sort.

opiterator: I don't actually think I can figure out who created you, though.

MisterCharles: My. My parents.

perrywinkle: Who were these parents?

opiterator: What were their names? Tell us about them.

MisterCharles: Uh. My father was James Norris, my mother was……

MisterCharles: ……..

MisterCharles: I know this one.

MisterCharles: She was my own mother.

MisterCharles: I can remember her taking me to Slender School.

MisterCharles: Or wherever it was I graduated.

MisterCharles: She had a pretty face.

MisterCharles: And she made the best macaroni and cheese.

perrywinkle: How do you eat if you have no face?

MisterCharles: Oh come on, there's no need to wax rhetoric.

perrywinkle: It's a serious question

MisterCharles: The faceless thing is a metaphor, guys!

MisterCharles: I'm an aspiring writer!

SofaKingSlender: These were the same parents who disowned you for the carrot incident, correct?

MisterCharles: Yeah.

SofaKingSlender: When did that happen? How old were you?

MisterCharles: I don't remember.

opiterator: So what does your face look like?

SofaKingSlender: Why don't you remember?

MisterCharles: I don't remember because I'm forgetful! Sheesh! Is that so farfetched?

SofaKingSlender: Well, how old are you now?

MisterCharles: I don't keep track of my age!

opiterator: MisterCharles, what does your face look like?

opiterator: MisterCharles?

volvohunter: Give him time

volvohunter: He's nearly at the moment

MisterCharles has signed out.

An Aside

There is a blog out there titled Fearblog of Fear, subtitled Dreams and Sleep and Fear, written by a boy named Billy Everyblogger. I linked to it in the post prior. This was my introduction-- away from that world of fake love-craft-- to the Fear Mythos. I don't actually remember how I found it. It just sorta appeared in the previous post? Maybe some other slender man from worlds beyond planted it there. Maybe I misplaced it. Or it was taken. But that's beside the point. I'm supposed to be narrating my identity crisis here. Of course, how "I" can narrate my own identity crisis stands as a bit of a paradox, doesn't it? It would imply-- or insinuate, if you want to use big words arbitrarily---- don't end sentences in adverbs, Slender man, remember your training------ alright, which one of us is Mister Charles, again?---- easy now, we are all projections of your subconscious here-- like some pompous fucking tool-- that I know my own identity and thus the crisis, insubordinately termed and inexplicably learned as it was,, was that supposed to be an attempt at a rhyme?,,, wait guys I don't think this gimmick works with commas,,,, why is "Hey Ya" now stuck in my head,,,,, oh there's actually a fascinating exegesis I could give you regarding that,,,, alright calm down buddy this isn't a dream these are just thoughts written on a blog post,,,,, u fookin wot m8 ill fookin do u,,,, wait why aren't we using punctuation anymore,,, probably because we're already using commas as the formatting here,, okay now I know that wasn't intentional, had been averted.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A TRACE (of shame), PART 4

tbwaf

Had a drink. Now I can resume the story, the story that is happening right now but is also narrated in the past-tense. As I was saying:

Thoughts raided my head like the raiders of a much-raided raid-y place, thoughts such as "u fookin wot m8 ill fookin do u" and "r wii nowt s bayad s dem nao 4 dewin wot wii dew." I felt the compulsion to punch myself in the face. Of course, as we all know, that's impossible because I have no fists.

THE BLOG WITHOUT A FIST, PART THREE

I had to concentrate. This was too much for me. There couldn't be a community writing stories about the slender man; I'm Slender man, and they're spelling my name wrong! Their stories made me out to look like some Meyer-written faux-epistolary eldritch abomination of literature, with constant references to some crazy love-crafting going on? I don't craft love! I'm not like that! I solve cases, not war peace death love! These stories weren't even getting the love-crafting right! They better resembled the offspring of stories who had once heard of the craft of love but ignored the central message. Not that I would know. I write blogs, not tragedies comedies saint jimmies that's my love-craft.

This really was, as mentioned in the above paragraph, too much for me. Who was I? What if they were right and that I was the fanfiction?

The twirling dawn of an apricot awakening caressed my skull, but Dawn (I still wait for my god) would not take me into her underwomber wat this day (despite the self-help of my faith).

Who was I?

Who was I?

Who was I?

Who was.                                                               I?

Numbers and Letters

The city is a lady, a very slender lady with curves made of asphalt and a groin made of cars. Every time you drive somewhere, you are in her womb. Think about that for a second: Every time you leave a car, you are being born. There's something about the psychology of an eldritch nature, wouldn't you say? I wouldn't. I have no face to say anything with.

The Blog Wherein No Faces Are Worn, Second Part

My trip onto the internet bore no fruit until I gave up searching for anything on Mr. Grott, got bored, and decided to Google my own name. The first result was for something called the "Slender Man Mythos." I stroked my faceless chin in puzzlement as I read up on that. And then I did a search for "Marble Hornets," and you wanna know what I find? You don't wanna know what I found. To make a long story short, there is an entire community devoted to writing fanfiction about me.

My head went faint. Words no longer had meaning. I began to wonder when they ever had meaning to begin with. So I did a google search on linguistics. Went from there to the etymology of "exegesis." Looked up what that word actually meant. Good stuff.

Then a thought hit me: Was I truly responding to the abnihilisation of the etym by usurping the head case of endo-ontology with an identical head case of e-searches? I was only propagating the Market-Place King's reign over history! That would not do. I am no egg, dammit, and I am no postman. I am an ace detective. Who is only a postman on weekends.

So I went back to that mythos thing. Made an account there by the name of "Mister Charles." Before I knew it, I had officially infiltrated the cyber-zone. I felt abbreviations enter my head at a mile a minute: zomg the rofl on these subwoofers is ttly ttlr, m i rite u fookin mong? JPNDTS! H3H3H3H3H3H3H.

1 4M TYP1NG W1TH T3H 1337 5934K NAO. 1 N33D 4 D91NK. BRB.