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The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and no relation to existing people or events is implied.

Wrong film (short story)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The blogger looks down at the charcoaled remnants of the professional S&M pornographer. After all this time she can’t resist taking a swift boot to whatever is left of his face, which isn’t much. The head dissolves upon impact and her foot passes right through the mount of ashes suggesting a face she once knew. “Ο ανθρωπος είναι νεκρός. Disgusting in life, even more so in death.”, murmurs the blogger as she tries to dust off the ashes from her shoe.

Το Γρύλισμα stands next to her. “What are you feeling now?” she asks. “That’s such a girly question!”, it cackles. “It’s like watching your house burn to the ground, but knowing it had to happen. This house was built on rotten foundations. The stove was broken down, it had been broken ever since they prepped that philosophical dinner where faggots were talking poetry as they got robbed by a dude with a black stocking over his head. I warned him, one day that stove will explode and there will be a huge fire, I knew it would. This is what happens when you screw your handyman like a homo instead of letting him fix the GawdDamned stove.”.

Mission accomplished, or? “I thought the two of you were closer than close.”, says the blogger, the suspicion in her voice dripping like foam from her mouth upon your chest, like the blood still dripping down her leg from her injured knee when she tripped and fell over the cables.
“He wouldn’t have it any other way.”, shrugs το Γρύλισμα. “Blogger, tell me honestly, did you really hate him? He always referred to you as his dedicated hate-blogger, but were you? Was it hate that drove you to blog as hard as you did?”
“It’s hard to hate someone that talented, but I try.”, the blogger answers monotonously. “I never let my love of art get in the way of my ethics. It’s hard sometimes, but I try, I do my best.”. Unexpectedly she jumps up and lands right in the middle of the charcoaled body. She continues to stomp up and down until there is nothing left but a small pile of ashes and a huge cloud of dust which will follow the blogger around everywhere she goes for the rest of her life.

She makes a paper cone out of an old newspaper center-fold, gathers the ashes, buys herself an old NASA spacerocket at Depression Era knockdown prices and shoots the ashes into space. “Now you are stardust, just as you were before, όλα τα έργα που δεν έγιναν αλλά θεάθηκαν εκστατικά μέσα στην έκρηξη της Ύπαρξης.”, says the blogger quoting Τορνέ, the part of his manifesto that was curiously not quoted on the wall of the Thessaloniki Cinema Museum, as she watches the rocket with his ashes disappear past the strattosphere.

“What are you going to do next?”, she asks το Γρύλισμα.
“Same as before. There’s always a frustrated film-maker somewhere with no pop in his life waiting for me to pop up. I will be with him soon, wherever he is. Soon soon soon all my painful and miserable men, smiling while you’re sleeping. Are you occupied tonight, blogger?”
“Pretty please!”. The blogger rolls her eyes. “I am always preoccupied. According to Fox News at any given time I am stalking 15 people simultaneously I didn’t even know I was stalking. I am even more preoccupied and occupied than I myself can perceive myself to be.”.
“You stalk 15 people? That’s nothing. I once kept 15 million people wide awake through the night.” brags το Γρύλισμα.
“You did?!”, the blogger sounds genuinely surprised now. “When did that happen?”
“When they were dropping bombs on the Netherlands. It was a long time ago but I remember it like was yesterday. No one got any sleep that night.”.
The blogger turns around to face το Γρύλισμα. “I meant to ask you, what did you do with the Cronenbergian flies buzzing around you? Those things are huge. How did you manage the situation?”
“Oh, I just kept my mouth open for a while and they flew right inside.”. The blogger turns the other way and throws up.
“I must say, το Γρύλισμα,”, says the blogger, wiping her mouth from having just vomitted her breakfast, “you’re really good at playing dead only to shut your stinking fly-trap. Did he ever cast you in one of his movies?”
“And you are really good at playing the bitch, blogger.”, says το Γρύλισμα. The b-word raises the hair in the back of her neck. Το Γρύλισμα notices and laughs. She blushes, or does she go red with anger? Hard to tell with the blogger. “But to answer your question: no, he never did.”.
“Why not?”.
“He said I was invisible. He said I could not be captured onto film.”. The blogger blinks, twice. She can see το Γρύλισμα clearly and vividly standing there before her and hence doesn’t understand how something so obvious could ever be invisible to virtually everyone else.
“I wish I was invisible.” says the blogger wistfully. “Imagine all the work I could get done if I were.”.

“What were those dead girls hanging from the ceiling that I saw?”, she asks. “Was he making snuff movies?”.
“Nope. He was trying to develop a type of film made from human entrails, a film so sensitive it captures everything invisible, even ghosts and darkmatter. He gutted the girls you saw for their entrails to make the film roll.”.
Realizing now what she had been a witness to the blogger looks even more pale and anemic than usual. “He was wasting all those human lives just to capture things like you onto film? He was crazy enough to sacrifice actual human beings in his quest to make the invisible visible?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”, says το Γρύλισμα with barely concealed pride. “But it was of no use. It was always the wrong film.”
“Oh, there is certainly something very wrong with this picture.”, says the blogger, “I just don’t think it’s the film.”.

The blogger plunges her gauntlet inside her throat and pulls out her heart through her mouth. She lays it before το Γρύλισμα as a token of gratitude. The heart is hard as a rock and cold enough to burn anyone reaching out to touch it. Το Γρύλισμα, coated with teflon for the occasion, tries to pick up the heart but can’t; it’s heavier than anything it has ever had to lift before. “I never cared much about losing my innocence.”, says the blogger. “It’s the vital organs I’m worried about.”.
“À Propos,” says το Γρύλισμα, “you knew his wife and daughter were still inside when the stove went off, didn’t you?”
The blogger glares. “I will never have a husband or a child, do you think I give a flying fuck about a pedophile patriarch who, through nothing other than sheer stupidity all of his own, ended it all by blowing himself up together with his enabling Stockholm Syndrome suffering woman and their bastard offspring? It’s not my fault the dumbass porno creep ran inside the burning building in order to save them, knowing it was futile. I want to see anything that remotely reeks of content bourgeois domesticity serving as a front for unimaginable abuse destroyed exactly like this. All of these happy content government funded bourgie families, all these snotty hipster artists and their happy artsy fartsy families, they are all dancing on the corposes of dead brown children in the 3rd world. Do you know how many brown children have to die in the third world so these bastards can raise one of their precious little white children to grow up to be another pedophile childfucker, so they can perpetrate the cycle of abuse and greed?”.

The blogger casts her angry gaze down, turns around and walks away disappearing behind a huge cloud of dust trailing behind her. Το Γρύλισμα stays behind, vainly trying to disgest her chewy heart.

— the end.


Various songs, promos and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

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