Wildly Misread's
"THE DEVIL'S KENNEL"
TANGENT
By Randall Johnston
(Story As Is)
Intro:
A Book We Found In The Fire Pit, Might As Well of Been In The Middle of the Desert.
-
The written account of John Kennel.
In a forest around the edges of a fire pit, we found a book burnt like someone trying to burn it out of their life. Excruciating how painful the imitation of the spine is. It's a falsehood for the brittle work that ends up too familiar and eludes nothing from anyone else's hide a stash book attempt, though something strange still. It was in full print when reading like a journal. My friend had picked it up and was enthralled but also high. He didn't know yet. Somehow I do. That copy is a handwritten copy of a confidante with no exit strategy for who to tip-off. That is Tangent's story described by us and accounted for by the document as a counter insurgent military tactic, with so much riding on it that this will seem the most ridiculous attempt to override and stagger a syndicate formed by minds dreaming in masses. Little nuances are pressed throughout the day by those already fully aware of who they are. Random enough to have the book end up in the hands of someone unpredictably five years later. Myself and Halmond."No one and nothing has the capability of stretching your imagination further than its snap. I know you feel okay now, but that burnt-up paper is alarming. People hate this book, man." He ignores me, discounting what I said and continues reading as if nothing was wrong… if only my head was strong, the skull bone wouldn't be so easily cracked, split and shattered by the roots of my problem, another for another. Just as long as the dirt shakes, the soil is dry, and no light shines upon the bottom of this forest, I will be escorted away from the breach of my mind, the larcenous compelled to steal my heart and my eyes that will never truly open to see what is before me. Maybe, I'll be safe then. I'll know in the end. Perhaps you will too.
*
The action was lost on me for a moment because of the pale look of someone with the blood flooded from their face, hand still caught in the stomach of the man who opened the door. There hasn't been, and I've never experienced such animosity for such a cheap act. The trend with the local high school's dealers selling us broccoli or lettuce for lack of better choices. A proven winner with my buddy with whom I didn't know, not his name even. My shock and appalled instantaneous grief eerily calmed within a mere minute by strong expression and choice words, the method of cooling down others in extreme states is a tactic you learn to be okay with. It was like we had a fully working image of the human psyche. In its most fragile states, the duration of limiting the mental strain meant helping others slow themselves down by leading their mind forward by balancing their breathing. Found amongst our group to be a proven winner for the torrential psychosis we would abate. Strong words of hate and love meant one for one or the other. A wide circle meant more loved ones. The more you had to care for, the better you will of pressed on. Being told to put pressure on a wound during defeat usually has you distraught. The next emotion to be fed is agony. It's the latter emotion you'll want to eliminate. Show them a more tensile side by reminding them of their frustration or anger in the given situation to more firmly hold the skin together. When they've closed the wound, you'll see a much more relieved set of eyes and be grateful for a few seconds later. All we did was tell the person when they were ready to do so. Those who had listened achieved and did more than pay attention recognized it and could do so themselves to help the next person. A teacher.
I hated the moments I'd known and known of no others. I would always sleep. This might've been my essential use. I was always awake, still dreaming, running over what he'd say with his silver tongue, for the sliver slipped up my nail like a harsh paper cut straight, and narrow steel as a thick as needles meant to go through the chest plate was a gift. He'd cast me to sleep, but that constant pain in and under my nail would ensure that I didn't lose the connection between radiation and reality. His belief that the universe presently upon us is a mix of the solid matter of passed souls and the energy from all lights above us. Providing our dreams and nightmares and effectively manifest a cemented reality. His existence was as close as we'd ever been to ensure that he was correct. When they gathered in masses, though. You'd have full belief. Each face bears no mask but the one they don't need to cover. Their guise is the affluence of each man's wish to be authentic and recognized by the people. Always coinciding with the first's initial cold breath into the world. Confused by the vapour of the heat in his lung. He had me slip under my nail and push in for a constant reminder to stay wired into the real world; otherwise, I'd get caught in his nightmares, and my dreams similar to his, the envy for less than the smoke and mirrors returns me here, amongst the rabble.
Life, dreams and nightmares. Reality is for the rest, short-sighted people not eager to believe that the difference isn't minute to minute. It's minute. A fraction of what your brain does ends up in reality. Tangent's reality can sometimes be a very wicked thing. Best for the population to keep thoughts and emotions stabilized. There is a direct correlation between your dreams and this universe. It's almost unpredictable. Controlling your subconscious is one thing, but manipulating it while your awake is something else, and Tangent, he'll use that to any extreme. It's his knowledge no one else will be drafted. How real he really is, I'll never know. The next five years of my life will be devoted to him and his cohorts for a short-sighted dream that ends when I bury the nightmare with this book. I've consistently changed the book jacket and did my best to hide the untwined seal on the spine of the paperback fake.
*
His staple was a realized one, a physicality made of what most called immaterial transient sleep for those with jet lag, somniphobia and various other disorders deteriorating conditions to inflame the height of his fire. Paranoia, worry, grief. Anything negative would simply pump him up. More ghosts, more pawns to tend to the gardens he'd been sprouted from. His existence was not worth anything other than the dread on people's minds, the dreary wind of people's unexciting days spent watching the clock on their wrist, wondering if it's accurate enough to take a break or the deadened denizen dumped in his denizen found but not accounted for wishing he'd be young again. He didn't have a home, and no one had ever seen him sleep. He was either absent for accountability whenever it suited him or used the immense amount of land he owned in a small town called HearthStone.
He had been caught spray-painting a brick wall with the aesthetic of artificial light above his piece with an embroidery nozzle, helping the art develop a textured spray and manipulating the clumps with a brush to make a rather appealing frame for the graffiti he'd paint in alleys on the walls of corporations and restaurant chains known for stocking veil.
He used to write Frostbite, a well-meaning name for how cold it was here all year long. He told me the idea for the name came from a sign he'd seen in the mountains of a bug predating the extinction of the dinosaurs when the meteorite hit. Surviving the ice age, its cold temperature rests at -275 degrees Celsius. Able to render an entire limb at the slightest touch of its body. The sign was a conscientious warning to hikers in the mountains and the passing tourists.
The first years of vandalism are the only starting location and time set you could derive an origin from and thus an investigation. As no one knows where he truly came from or if he even had a childhood. The same sentence, though, gives you no forbearing on the original other than he's a guttersnipe that's proliferation is graffiti. His art would traipse up the wall at night as the young were asleep without the need for him to be the one at fault at all. It was your nightmares that started the commotion, and for a large town, it's still small. He didn't care for the attention. He'd always get away with it knowing there's a safe house he'd bought. With the bitcoin turnover, he made a substantial financial backing to have every other corner available to lie low. The adults were concerned about their businesses getting tagged or bombed in the chaos. Admittedly, it wasn't that much of a problem. Hell, in other countries, it was a cultural movement that was a nuisance for the petty close-minded fools who thought that every part of their homeland was meant solely for them. The only reason to not feel good about some forward-thinking art is to be frustrated by being on the side of a corporation's warehouse. However, the motion set in a tide they did not expect for the dreams of one teenager at a night where he dreamed of the city submerged by the rising sea level. Their paranoia quickly gained an aptitude while this climate formed a storm worth having Tangent back in circulation, and it gave them an idea more than a tidal wave, a hurricane during tidal overflow to flood the beast called nature. Really wanting to make an impact on the Earth before they ended their crude but well-conceived mode of madness and understanding of the practicality of using the mass climate to influence world catastrophes to erode and compel the minds of thousands, effectively creating a new foundation to stretch the reach of rivers rolling down freshwater from the melting ice of the arctic circle.
Others want nothing other than to meet the original. However, he's not envious of meeting them. In fact, he does just about everything he can to stay away from people anyways. Because of provincial law, a hamlet is an excellent place to hide when you don't want CCTV cameras to gather data on his gait, facial structure, height, et cetera. The law enforcement in the area is not fitted to deal with the subversion of society, no matter if there is no resulting end for them. At least as far as they know, forever. These people were comfortable for the most part. It's unfortunate that when they crashed, they also brought down Tangent. The others were disquiet across the web. Various message boards mentioned the tag name Frostbite on the backchannel connection preventing the police from hearing of such an instigator, so no photos of his vandalism were posted. The odd circumstantial deviation from the others is they never work with anyone but themselves. Mine didn't. He worked with several of us that had our everyday lives during the day and his art project during the night. The problem with your makeshift militia being on hand is they always want to be in use. Knowing Tangent will be easy. I have learned the same. The hard part will be living with yourself after the moment that'll bring you down to your knees. That will all crash if he wants to meet you. He'll find you or bring you to him. There is no other option than to walk into him, by a bump amongst crowds, a shaky feigned pickpocketing to alarm you to see past the cowl and follow around the corner. Shocking you as you followed the perp around the corner while checking for your wallet.
I have done something strange and more than gamble with lives than pickpocketing, but because of what I can do, I can do no else. I have written in this journal for you to surmise, identify and stop the tide. One thing you must do you must stay stable. His dream is your nightmare. Don't break the illusion of reality.
***