PATHOGENESIS: VISUAL TREATMENT
Mar 30, 2016
PATHOGENESIS:VISUAL TREATMENT
PATHOGENESIS
WRITTEN BY
JAKE HANRAHAN
VISUALISED BY
SAM HALL
10pm is the time my life begins each night, and 6am is the time a die.
I have spawned. I wonder aimlessly into the pumping shed of industrial blood, a pollutant house of petroleum. I act like I’m not giddy with excitement as the sun dies behind me. The previous slave before me greets me as I take over, his name is John or Jim or Dave. He lets the last dregs of his engine drip all over me, he slowly stabs me in the neck, and the whole time he smiles an anxious grin. That grin wants a friend accept but I am definitely his enemy. He hacks away at my body and soul as I stand there nodding and blinking and nodding and blinking in time with his bullshit. Finally he stops for a moment to refuel, I take this opportunity.
“Jim” I say,
“What? No, my name is Peter” he is so awkward.
“Jim” I know he isn’t Jim, “You have just worked an eight hour shift... Today while others are landing million dollar bonuses on the stock market or deciding which shade of canary yellow
would match their yacht interior with their Sperry’s, you have been feeding termites their addiction of petrol and Reese’s Peanut-Buttercups for a wage that can only buy you nothing. What in your right mind convinced you that speaking to me would be a good idea? You hate me. You look at my drawn in face and coal coated eyes and die a little each time.”
“No, I-” I cut off his lips. I am Mendenhall. “Yes, my complete disregard for my own personal appearance is of great annoyance to you. If we hadn’t had to cross paths right now you would’ve gladly pretended not to see me. Is society’s unspoken rule of polite exchanges with colleges holding you to ransom Jim? Is it?”
Jim is thumper; he is caught in the headlights. His mouth twitches before he rushes past me and walks quickly to his necessity wagon. I make my way to the throne; I sit upon my chair of fulfilment and stare blankly into the ant farm.
10pm is the time my life begins each night, and 6am is the time a die.
I have spawned. I wonder aimlessly into the pumping shed of industrial blood, a pollutant house of petroleum. I act like I’m not giddy with excitement as the sun dies behind me. The previous slave before me greets me as I take over, his name is John or Jim or Dave. He lets the last dregs of his engine drip all over me, he slowly stabs me in the neck, and the whole time he smiles an anxious grin. That grin wants a friend accept but I am definitely his enemy. He hacks away at my body and soul as I stand there nodding and blinking and nodding and blinking in time with his bullshit. Finally he stops for a moment to refuel, I take this opportunity.
“Jim” I say,
“What? No, my name is Peter” he is so awkward.
“Jim” I know he isn’t Jim, “You have just worked an eight hour shift... Today while others are landing million dollar bonuses on the stock market or deciding which shade of
canary yellow would match their yacht interior with their Sperry’s, you have been feeding termites their addiction of petrol and Reese’s Peanut-Buttercups for a wage that can only buy you nothing. What in your right mind convinced you that speaking to me would be a good idea? You hate me. You look at my drawn in face and coal coated eyes and die a little each time.”
“No, I-” I cut off his lips. I am Mendenhall. “Yes, my complete disregard for my own personal appearance is of great annoyance to you. If we hadn’t had to cross paths right now you would’ve gladly pretended not to see me. Is society’s unspoken rule of polite exchanges with colleges holding you to ransom Jim? Is it?”
Jim is thumper; he is caught in the headlights. His mouth twitches before he rushes past me and walks quickly to his necessity wagon. I make my way to the throne; I sit upon my chair of fulfilment and stare blankly into the ant farm.
10:03
After assembling packets of poison
and preservatives in their rows I gaze
across the forecourt to see a female
approaching. She staggers to the
shutter; little does she know I never
lock the door. The kingdom is mine
but the peasants can view its interior,
perhaps someone will put me out of
their misery one day. Until that day I
am the ruler of the kingdom. The station
is mine.
The wench wanders through the door
after I signal for her to do so. She
has obeyed me; I may go mad with
power. Her drunken smile meets my
expressionless face, she stares as I stare,
and I manage to break down her jaw
before she asks for a packet of oxygen.
Clearly she is hanging; of course
tobacco will loosen the noose and save
her life. I watch her leave and open the
cigarettes, she lights one up, puffing
on the wonder stick. She is dependent
on the nicotine to ease the stress
that it has caused. As she inhales the
economy she transforms into a Lehman
brother, her disregard for the impending
doom around her simply confirms my
sighting. I watch the death stick linger
in her mouth, it slowly excretes its’
toxins and burns like embers in the
forest.
I imagine the destruction that would
ensue if a single ash flake touched a
perfect spot. Alas, the zombified female
staggers off back through the depths; I
see the firefly of cancer flutter distantly.
12:07After assembling packets of poison
and preservatives in their rows I
gaze across the forecourt to see a
female approaching. She staggers
to the shutter; little does she know
I never lock the door. The kingdom
is mine but the peasants can view
its interior, perhaps someone will
put me out of their misery one day.
Until that day I am the ruler of the
kingdom. The station is mine.
The wench wanders through the
door after I signal for her to do so.
She has obeyed me; I may go mad
with power. Her drunken smile
meets my expressionless face, she
stares as I stare, and I manage
to break down her jaw before she
asks for a packet of oxygen. Clearly
she is hanging; of course tobacco
will loosen the noose and save her
life. I watch her leave and open
the cigarettes, she lights one up,
puffing on the wonder stick. She is
dependent on the nicotine to ease
the stress that it has caused. As she
inhales the economy she transforms
into a Lehman brother, her disregard
for the impending doom around her
simply confirms my sighting. I watch
the death stick linger in her mouth, it
slowly excretes its’ toxins and burns
like embers in the forest.
I imagine the destruction that would
ensue if a single ash flake touched
a perfect spot. Alas, the zombified
female staggers off back through
the depths; I see the firefly of cancer
flutter distantly.
By now I’ve watched the minions
stroll in and out of the royal kingdom,
I begin to despise them. My hopeless
stare of emptiness simply reflects
their inner self; I am the cocaine cola
covered mirror of broken dreams and
corporate identities, they dared not
look. I have accepted my fate as one of
many different yet identical bacteria’s
in the cess-pool of the gargoyle zoo.
I embrace the diabolical content of
this fiction that we call earth, perhaps
I’m Aoi, but it’s not funny, I’m not
laughing, man, I’m just dying slowly
each day like the rest of you.
I take the mop and slide it across the
floor, the stench of bleach rises through
my nostrils and descends down the back
of my throat. It is the Bear Grylls of the
olfactic world, unnecessarily scaling
another inanimate object, in this case
my trachea.
As I stare at my reflection in the shiny
tiles a foot slides across it, a filthy
foot followed by a body. A monstrous
body, no father or mother; he was
genetically forged out of oxymetholone
and anavar. His name is Syntholosees,
he has a withering female companion
named Polysiloxanne; she is chained to
his side. Polysiloxanne is the lost rat,
distant memories of her sweet sewer
linger as she realises that her present
reality is far worse than anything she’d
previously left behind. This is why
the grass is always yellow and dying.
She is a genetic cyborg, half human,
half silicone. Syntholosees however
is neither a cyborg nor a sewer rat, he
is simply rat. Rage and vanity rule his
world.
He is a regular, as he enters the
kingdom it becomes the pit of turmoil
that it once was before my rule, I
despise him. He sees through me, I am
Dr. Jack Griffin.
After collecting his usual feast of
hydrogenation he approaches my
throne, it suddenly becomes a simple
chair behind a counter; I’m melting.
His Rubik’s cube head grins at me; he
is immune to my powers, for his self
acceptance and awareness of his own
personal falseness makes him realer
than corruption. Syntholosees could
destroy my world at any moment, if
only he cared.
I speak only to inform the roaches that
they owe me money in exchange for
the goods that I’m allowing them to
take. I notice my hand starts to bleed as
I frantically clutch at any straw that I
can find. Syntholosees gives me a stare
that penetrates my pituitary gland; he
drains me of DMT before giving mercy.
As soon as the tank disappears over
the horizon I shakily lock the door and
return to my chair and counter. I am
Mohammed Ali’s single weakness.
01:39
By now I’ve watched the minions
stroll in and out of the royal
kingdom, I begin to despise them.
My hopeless stare of emptiness
simply reflects their inner self; I am
the cocaine cola covered mirror
of broken dreams and corporate
identities, they dared not look. I
have accepted my fate as one
of many different yet identical
bacteria’s in the cess-pool of
the gargoyle zoo. I embrace the
diabolical content of this fiction that
we call earth, perhaps I’m Aoi, but
it’s not funny, I’m not laughing, man,
I’m just dying slowly each day like
the rest of you.
I take the mop and slide it across
the floor, the stench of bleach rises
through my nostrils and descends
down the back of my throat. It is
the Bear Grylls of the olfactic world,
unnecessarily scaling another
inanimate object, in this case my
trachea.
I am Mohammed Ali’s single
weakness.
It hits dead on 3 o’clock and I feel
the need to rearrange all the Gatorade
awkwardly, not too crazy, nothing
psychotic; I just take the most popular
flavour and put every bottle to the
back. Someone’s going to commit mass
murder over this.
I finish my carbonated chaos. A group
of teenage morons enter; they reek of
Abercrombie, Ivy League and all things
consumable. The only fruit they know is
Blackberry and Apple, neither of which
can aide ones physical well being.
Most of them giggle and stumble into
each other, the females are worst. Both
genders congregate together in a small
pack staring through the refrigerator
window, steaming it up like an orgy in
a cab. I move from the sandwiches to
the throne, I sit there, watching, I stare,
I stare till my eyes eject themselves
from their kamikaze vessel. I see one
of the parasites - perhaps his name is
Ed Hardy, it seems to be emblazoned
across his chest - he grasps the handle
to the refrigerator door. He opens it.
Touch the Gatorade. I fucking dare you,
take a bottle. He did as I told him, he
reaches for orange, but he wants berry,
berry would cure all of his drunken
problems, berry would stop his scum
father indulging in his polycarbonate
secretary while his foetal Foamex
mother plays the unhappy cut out, her
smile as empty as JFK’s cranium.
In the process of his drunken quivering
paws climbing through the labyrinth
of bottles, Ed manages to destroy the
carbonated empire of awkwardness.
Gatorade orange rains from the skies.
The vapour pressure of my blood equals
the environmental pressure around me,
I am in hell. Inside my head a thousand
drums crash and bang, St. Anger beats
through my ears and into my soul. I
am rage. I stand up and stare at the
pathogenic crowd of the congregated,
they don’t even notice, high pitched
laughter guffawing and giggles fill the
room.
I reach for the bat underneath the
counter, Jim or Dave must’ve left
it there for so called protection,
presumably from himself.
I stare at the torrent of bile that is
bathing in the glory of ruining my anti-
social assembly. I could call the cops on
them, but I’m no Robert Pickton.
I contemplate my next move carefully,
this is the perfect chance I’ve been
waiting for, time to break free from
the shackles that will forever hold me
to rational thinking. If I were a serious
serial killer, not just a minor one, I
mean I’ve never murdered someone per
say, but I’ve watched a few exteriors
wither and die in my presence. But if I
were a serious serial killer, or perhaps
just a maniac, here is my murderous
manifesto of spontaneous teenage
assassination.
First I would take the bat in my
hand, the firm familiar grasp of
power, I would leave the throne with
urgency, I can see it in my minds
eye; as I power walk toward the
crowd I shout something like “Hey!”
or “You think this is funny!?” or
maybe an amalgamation of the two.
That would have me running in the
ranks of the egotistical submarines
that drown in their own airlocks, the
“men” we know as “tough guys”, so
sickening.
I approach the crowd with my
shoulders arched, I’m a lion about
to maim a whole pack of zebra.
I approach the whores first, say
nothing, smash. A cheekbone is
pounded into dust; a mandible is
dilapidated beyond all recognition.
I have fed the bat of power into the
face of intoxication and promiscuity.
I do this three times, three whores
drop, teeth are scattered, blood is
seeping and screams are roaring
throughout the kingdom, I am
Goliath or perhaps Cuchulain.
Two male zebra leap upon me but
naturally I smite them with a few
deathly blows. Three remaining
crossing horses are cowering,
crying and sniffling, no courage
about them, where is the brashness
you used to destroy the Gatorade
society now?
One of the remaining beta males
gains an ounce of courage, he
starts screaming and ranting and
bubbling as he attempts to strike
me. Futile, I duck and dig the bat
into his intestines; he drops as any
oxygen he’d stolen is dumped into
the ocean.
I move forward but only before
turning my back on the quivering
mice, I flog three dead horses, why
not? My attention is then turned
back to the mice, one looks so
scared he’d probably trade places
with his own mother.
I take the tram into the city on this
guy.
His “friend”, Ed, goddamn Ed...
remember Ed? He is the so called
conqueror of Gatorarcadia; I had left
him till last on purpose of course,
partly because he had fled to hiding
in the corner at the start of the
show. His body is athletic yet his
heart so frail, I take out the legs,
he recognises me for a moment;
he looks at me almost as if I’m his
father.
As he lays there I simply let him
go, the room is filled with harrowing
death that will scar him deeper than
any physical wound ever could.
The scar of his murdered friends
hurts, the scar of his broken scapula
irritates, but the scar of his failure
to intervene or act bleeds as it is
always the deepest.
03:00
I am a minor serial killer though, in
reality I simply watch, tight lipped
and seething. The zebra live to waste
another day; they trot out of the
kingdom without even tasting its fruits.
They came, they sabotaged; they won.
Pathogenesispath·o·gen·e·sis [path-uh-jen-uh-sis]— nthe origin, development, and resultant effects of a disease