Sometimes I have to scramble to get my diary entries written, even when I feel the most smitten. For though I have only been smitten with a digital girl, and nothing of the flesh, I have however been smitten for the written word. And by extension, the flow of graphics on the page. All the rage, all of the time. But only in the farthest reaches of my mind.

At times I become to wordy, when I masturbate long, despite physically approaching thirty. I squeek and I squeak, like a girlfriend’s pet birdy, imagining her suck my cock. But perhaps it’s time to wind it down, and come around the mountain to the quietest of towns. Some for traditional are of want, yet for me the traditional is only the perception of those who wish to control others. In the past I spoke more abruptly, yet now I feint and whistle as I fall down onto the floor. Wanting nothing but the silence of my mind.

Just a century ago, I was fighting aliens inside of an prison laboratory, yet now I am among the flesh and blood of men. And women of course. But in this context, I refer to men in the collective sense. So spare your tuppence and threepence. I’d prefer to go to Republican pep rallies while others throw compliments at Mike Pence, if only to have an anarchist parade. Because reality is all a charade. Come around to my place, and we’ll have a parade. The parade of total silence in my bedroom, where beyond the closest door, are different portals and universes beyond what we may see. But I’ll spare you the pretentious verbiage, like us the people there just want to pee.

All I’ve ever wanted was to be free, and yet in return all I’ve ever received was being knocked down by others. Others whom blast music beneath my chamber door, thinking they’re as great as Edgar Allen Poe, all the Funky Music Ragtime Band. But I’d rather force them to eat sand and liverwurst, and give them families nothing but curses.

My rants can last so long.

Yet, only when I’m horny.

Public relations, one of those old methods of restoring trust in a company name; so often, it’s one of the more genuinely devious and dishonest of practitioners. I was a practitioner in the dark arts of the rogue spy. Working for myself, I owed allegiance to nobody. Individuals like myself never had this kind of of power to make private victims bleed, like grocery and hardware giant. Especially do to the controversial nature of other aspects that make themselves split off from society at large.

So much of their identity is contained within their professional, and not in the complexity of the self. Persecutions bloom like like midnight roses. Such events, sprinkling night fire flowing in arson musical notes, are due to avoiding the stigma that came with other political purges. The United States had not yet become like the USSR, but in a subtle and minute way, it was worse. Though one could imagine the guilt by association experienced by millions of Russians, when they dealt with the survivors guilt of the gulags, like Nazi death camps writ large. It was the twenty first century, so you would think that such political purges would not happen.

Would anyone really cry if I were gone today, give another baby at chance of life to see this day. Even despite the gradual degredation of our Earth. Our precious wildlife.

Our sunflowers turned to dust.

Yet I, Gin Bailey, a white girl, but also a trans girl, had a sexual fascination for blood. Rolling down a curved or angula blade, the life. The sado-masochistic desire of the flesh. This doesn’t mean I’ll cut you up, or kick your pup. While drinking 7 up. I hate carbonated beverage for one thing, the rest of the reason I’ll tear up, and let fade to history like dust in the wind.

You live your life.

And I will live mine.

Because of the quirk of natural selection, and the human minds tendency to accept guilt by association, even those whom claim not to, they persecute, because they don’t want to admit: we’re all part of the same space dust flowing faster than light speed. Very few people have true empathy, but I alway had. Almost to a fault of my own genes.

The vampire gene.

The life.

There was nothing like being surrounded by collapsing dough nuts, as one scrambled through a flight of cyberspace stair cases.

Sometimes when people argue whether they’re the infamous dough-nut ninja, sometimes its better to let them fight among themselves, rather than risk them finding out that it’s you. If you got caught, you’re the one getting blamed for stealing gold coins from your old allies wallets while they’re fighting against a common enemy you also have. There was nothing like jacking into a hologram deck, and dawning the mask in Cyberspace. I loved collected dough-nuts, while running and jumping off of collapsing sky scrapers, and manipulated the code to allow for longer wall runs while jumping to ledges I needed to climb onto. But one day, after completed a campaign, I was called by a new employer, who needed special information regarding a wanted serial killer. When I arrived at the office, I was unsure what to expect. Only that my skills were finally actually needed rather than resented by the public at large.

They recently unburied a mass grave of old android women, with their skins shaved off their faces. Nothing left of them now besides exposed metal where the flesh once was. This was one of the forensic photographs the case officer wanted to me to check out. It matched the same M.O. as these other unsolved string of murders related to a case ten years ago, where non robot women where left exposed to the elements without the skin on their faces. I didn’t exactly have the choice to say no. I suppose I could have, but I always had this fear of being viewed as a suspect in cases that I was never personally involved in.

By night I opened my console, collecting chocolate eclaires, and vanilla custard filled chocolate fudge pies. I also took cash from the wallets of knocked out cyberspace samurai, in this futuristic retelling of the Seven Samurai. It was a generic game that kept being churned out, turned into a massively role playing prototype session among millions of users in a consensual matrix. The problem was they left their source code exposed, despite it being marketed as proprietary software. It was much more fun cracking systems you weren’t designed to open, which is why I was always irritated when people said not to learn assembly, but rather then design games on Open Pandora. I had my own algorithm I followed, and it had nothing to do with making games for the general public. It was cracking into systems designed by nameless masters.

The masters of The Seven Samurai.

When I woke up the next morning, I woke up to an unknown caller, then I realized it must have been the case officer that I knew from earlier. – We got a lead on the case.

He drove to the old locations that were explored on yesterdays news stations, exploring various old sites where the dead women were located. One of the ideas floating around in my own mind, was trying to determine whether there was anything in these locations that could be correlated to things this new hypothetic android destroyer had that was similar to the old case, something about these parts that was tied in some way to their old life. A life very different twenty one twenty seven, back during twenty seventeen.

It was right around the Trump election.

I remembered it all to well.

One of the things I noticed, was how all these cases where associated with a certain sex fetish for women’s bodies, although mine always manifested differently from these murders. But there were times when they resembled my own fetish all to much. But for me, I was able to drown myself in non-alcoholic beer, and session of the Seven Samurai, while this murderer indulged in their fantasy revolving around women’s skin.

For me, my own fantasy was in seeing women’s heads roll off their bodies, not take the skin off their face. There was nothing you could stick your penis through in skin that was remotely comparable to someone’s throat hole. Although when I was caught for my own string of crimes, it was something far less than murder. At least not murder of anything physical. There was something inherently boring, and way to easy to get caught, cutting the heads off of young maidens to young to die. Don’t ask me why, it was something I felt like doing at the time. I hacked into some corporations, assassinated the stock values of different secret government agencies, and manufactured information about different crimes committed by rival activist groups. In all there cases, there was no blood or DNA to trace you. The only reason I got caught was I got a little careless: like in old science fiction novels, the hubris came from stealing from my employers.

But unlike in that book, most of my punishment was community service and months of psycho-therapy. I was simply to get at my job to give me probation. All that didn’t matter now. I was diving head first in another level of madness I never seen before, indulging in sexual fantasies on the flesh that I could never dream of. And it was about to get much hairier.

We arrived in the parking lot.

It was the parking lot of our suspect, who was not currently home now, We specifically timed it this way. That way we had plenty of time to relax, and search for files on his computers that could possibly suggest possible future android murder locations. X marked the spot. Multiple X littering reality, crushed by wires and teeth. The teeth, metal and not enamel, begging for me to find their killer. So I could go back to playing the game.

The killer planned on attacking a local pimp.

But this pimp was a lady cyborg.

Sometimes it takes a dagger to swallow someone’s life force, other times it takes a punch to the gut. But this time, all it took was three swats of a paddle to the butt, and she was completely broken asunder. She barked back at us like Spring time thunder, starring into are souls like Latino Falcon sabers, riding giant eagles over the mountain side of Puma Punku and “the darro”, a vast expanse of ancient desert once rumored to be the site of an ancient nuclear street fight. One button to push on an alien Caveman, and it was simply all over for a group of ancient folk no matter advanced than bronze spears, the sky falling upon them like trillions of radioactive sky scrapers. Let’s just say, she had an explosive temper. But this temper was able to modify itself just long enough for us to get the information that we needed. The frequent customer was actually another woman, just like I was. Contrary to what you might expect, women were just as capable of men as sexual as men were. Hollywood likes to depict our sexuality as something of a non existence, except when a man saves us from having our heads whacked of with an ax. But really, the only real whores I’ve seen like that have been men.

I usually stab them in the gut afterward.

But in this case there was nobody we were rescuing, but instead determining the exact circumstance of their murder. The case officer had told us they recently found a woman whose body was turned essentially into a blood covered mannequin, her body covered in stiffening wax. When the team got onto the scene, they already began to smell the small of decay, worse than the smell of radioactive sulfur in ancient burial sites.

I didn’t need to stab at dagger into someone’s neck to temporarily paralyze them, so I could steal some floating chocolate dough-nuts. And I wasn’t particularly hungry anyway. So instead I went along for the ride as their personal body guard, whacking off the heads of the murderer’s henchmen. I wondered, what if I drew them into a playing a game of seven samurai, allowing them to fight me to the death in a holographic display, who was more likely to win. It was one of those thoughts win the murderess decided to turn herself in. Her main side kick had been shot in the back of the neck with a guillotine gun, blood spilling over the pavement floor. No time to invite to a game of Cyberspace espionage, she lived out her own life of her infamous lore.

We spent the rest of the month extracting locations of older android murders, and after a while she began to crack, not because of the sheer amount of pain of having her legs broken, but because of the sheer boredom of restless night under L.E.D. lights, the sound of shitty nineties music blaring in one’s ears like toxic ear worms.

After a while she’d rather had bugs crawling inside of her ears, than listening to the queasily weasel voice of the interrogator, playing his game of threatening fingernail pulling, like it was a nineteen seventies disco floor. He might as well have worn a blue dyed afro, wearing blue lip stick, and a pink fussy clown nose with doc martin boots, modified with stiletto length cleat blades. The image would not have been any less ridiculous to see unfold. She Case Officer let me go home, and I spent the rest of the night connected to game of the Seven Samurai, snatching up dough nuts like they were gold coin in Mario games. And using the cash of fallen comrades, instead of their credit cards numbers. As US was this much closer to legislating against being fat.

Now I spent the rest of my probation months playing with murderess from earlier, because the state decided not to decapitate her. She became my adversary in Cyberspace, hunting me down like old Shogun henchmen. But between us, it was a kind of deranged love affair of dough nuts and decapitation. Sometimes the flavor of the two blending into a bizarre bitter sweetness that even the best of Hibachi grills could not compare to. The state realized that my willingness to participate was merely a matter of necessity than willingness. And anybody they would ask would be exactly the same way.

I showed the girl different ways to not be caught by dream-scanners, and explored the nature of circumstance of her life. Not because I asked, she simply talked to much like an villain in the last stage of poorly scripted Japanese Role Playing games. But this was OK, as the head jobs I got afterward made being patient all the more worth it.

I knew her head was mine.

But attached to her neck. Spaghetti was a lot better, when you can imagine the sauce be the blood of a wheel broken petty thief, for months on end being denied the grace of death, with heaven dangled in front of them, ripping the illusion away. My cyber space, never releasing from their torment. Only dying when I say so. I lust for blood. But I knew that blood lust could easily become an addiction, and that I would never be satisfied, always wanting to be the best. Ripping out their eyes like cotton candy.

I wanted to be the prettiest.

But I decided, she wasn’t worth it.

I had bigger fish to fry.