FOREWORD THE BLACK DOORS Blues Behind The Hellraising Black Doors: Body-Horror: is blending cosmic odyssey adventures, surreal horror, and body horror. A dark journey into Hellraiser, Cronenberg-style body horror, and Videodrome-inspired surreal transformations. Fans of Troma, Clive Barker, and experimental indie films will find something truly unique. Nudity, Flesh Will Melt, There is extreme gore This strange movie combines science fiction, horror, and surreal imagery in an unforgettable cosmic odyssey. Dive into a weird, philosophical, and visually striking world that challenges reality and explores the limits of body, mind, and space. Step beyond the black doors and into a transmission of pure body-horror. Blues Behind the Hellraising Black Doors merges surreal nightmares, Videodrome-style distortion, flesh-technology mutations, and hellbound visions into a single 4K fever dream. Created by Daniel FX Staal, this work stands as a twisted ode to the masters of the grotesque: Clive Barker, Lloyd Kaufman, and David Cronenberg. Inside this audiovisual descent, flesh becomes signal, pain becomes melody, and reality decays frame by frame. Raw, transgressive, and unapologetic, this 2026 project pushes into the deepest corners of experimental horror. ⚠ Warning: This 4K presentation contains nudity, gore, disturbing imagery, and adult themes. Viewer discretion is strongly advised. Open the door… Tune in to the transmission… And let the transformation begin. THE FINAL 10 MINUTES — The Debate about: Black Doors and The Shunt The film concludes with a fictional yet thematically rich philosophical debate between three giants of horror and transgressive cinema: Lloyd Kaufman, Clive Barker, and David Cronenberg. Their voices (represented symbolically) argue about art, censorship, transformation, and the responsibility of creators when dealing with darkness. It is humorous, strange, challenging, and reflective — a perfect ending for a work that stands between satire, horror, and visionary sci-fi. ⭐ WHAT THIS FILM IS a mature, experimental sci-fi epic an art-film built from poetry, dreams, and 30 years of personal creation a blend of cosmic horror, surrealism, erotic symbolism, and philosophical meditation a tribute to independent filmmaking, puppet/creature cinema, digital psychedelia, and classic genre auteurs a cinematic love letter to Cat Miss Spock, to imagination, and to the strange beauty of human creativity There are moments in a human life when the world falls silent. So silent that memories begin to whisper, so silent that voices from long ago rise once more from the depths, soft as breath upon a fogged-over mirror. Something gnaws at my mind— a worry, a weight, a shadow that refuses to leave. I live with depression and grief, and alongside them I have experienced moments that logic cannot fully explain— moments that dance close to the edge of the paranormal. To keep my sanity, I let language, imagination, and stories become the architecture of reason. And so I speak my truth here, with the hope that the ending remains a happy one. Self-harm or self-destruction is not part of this path. Not today. Not ever. I. February 2022 — The Night of Three Figures In February 2022, after a long and intense cannabis journey, I experienced a flood of vivid thoughts and feelings— so alive, so meaningful, that even now I cannot dismiss them. In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, three figures appeared: The Angel Daniel. Saint Francis. And my father—Harry Staal. They were not shadows. They were presences— watchers, mirrors, gentle hands pressed against my heart. They spoke no words, yet I understood everything. Their warmth washed through me like a ritual of cleansing, a symbolic baptism. Not religious— but emotional, psychological, spiritual. It felt as though they lifted a burden from my chest, as though they looked upon the child I once was and whispered: “You are not alone. Not even now.” My cat, Miss Spock, stared at me with that eternal question mark in her eyes— as if trying to understand what even logic could not fully contain. But as Clive Barker once wrote: “Nothing is lost. Nothing is forgotten. It only waits to be found.” —Clive Barker Some truths live outside logic. II. The Night Before My Grandmother’s Cremation Years earlier, on the night before my grandmother’s cremation, I heard her voice— not faint, not imagined, but clear as crystal: “See you later, Daniel.” Not goodbye. Not farewell. A promise. It shook me so deeply that I remained awake the entire night. And from that day on I avoided funerals altogether. How can you say goodbye to someone who says see you later? III. The Sudden Loss of Priscilla van Duinen Much later, grief came again— raw, sudden, merciless. My housekeeper, my friend, Priscilla van Duinen, only 42 years old, died unexpectedly. A heart that stopped without warning. A smile that vanished too soon. Two weeks before her passing I had written three poems for her— one in Dutch, one in English, and one woven between both. After that, I placed her poem at the end of my film project— a saga twenty-eight years in the making, a world, an ecosystem, a dream. Two days before she died, she saw the completed version. The whole. The final form. The living heart of my work. She saw it all. IV. Three in the Morning — A Voice Through the Music Then came the night. Three o’clock in the morning— the hour when the world exhales softly and the veil between memory and presence grows thin. I put on my headphones to listen to her dedication again. The music began. And through the very first notes I heard her voice— not as memory, but as presence: “Daniel… do you already miss me?” A chill, deeper than cold, slid through my bones. Grief knows how to speak with the exact voice of the ones we’ve lost. Memory knows how to imitate love with terrifying precision. Miss Spock, always the logical guardian, offered explanations: • Grief resurrects voices. • Exhaustion erases boundaries. • Auditory pareidolia sculpts sound into speech. • The brain protects us by making the past tangible. And all of that is true. Scientific. Grounded. Yet, as Clive Barker reminds us: “There are worlds within worlds, places where the departed linger because a single heartbeat remembers them.” —Clive Barker Perhaps the line between memory and spirit is thinner than we admit. Perhaps love refuses to stay silent. V. The Descent Into the Black Pit After that night I fell. Weeks of falling. A black pit. A gravity of sorrow. My life’s work finished, but my heart hollow. My inspiration complete, but my breath unsure. And yes— a fear of dying suddenly, as Priscilla had. Not because I wanted death, but because the world had reminded me how fragile life is. And still, Clive Barker whispers: “The monsters in the dark are not always enemies. Sometimes, they are simply the parts of us that want to be seen.” —Clive Barker VI. The Black Door — and Her Voice Once More In the deepest part of that darkness I saw a door. A black door— black as guilt, black as unanswered questions, black as the silence after loss. And behind it her voice returned. Soft. Warm. So familiar it broke me open: “Every day a smile… one day without is not lived.” She had said it to me many times in life when my world bent inward and my own light grew dim. Now she said it again— from wherever her soul had gone. Her words became my rope. My ladder. My way back. I climbed. Slowly. Shaking. But climbing nonetheless. With every rung a little color returned. A little breath. A little future. VII. The Ending Is Light So my story ends not in darkness but in the soft glow of memory and love. I whisper her name, gently: “Yes, Priscilla… I miss you. You were one of a kind. Till later.” For my father, Harry Staal, whose strength still shapes me. For my grandfathers and my grandmother, whose foundations live in me still. For everyone I have lost but never truly left behind: This dedication is for you. This story is yours. My smile—every day— is your legacy. And the last words are not farewell. They can never be farewell. They are: Till later. Credits - Chucky, the child of chaos, proving that even plastic remembers pain. - Ash Williams, human defiance made pulp. - Rudi Hermanns, engineer of impossible Body-Paints. - Vanta Black, muse of desire and shadow, the eclipse that teaches light its limit. - Lloyd Kaufman, the jester-producer who laughs the apocalypse into satire. - Cronenberg, Barker, Pinhead, and all their mythic flesh-craft — apostles of transformation. - Walter White, chemistry’s fallen saint. - Miss Spock, conscience of logic and purr. - Daniel FX Staal, dreamer and signal-bearer, whose art dares the boundary between life and broadcast. -Edgar Allan Poe, Inspiration and Spirit -Ozzy Osbourne: A Man who Lives Beyond Death -Jim Morrison: A Light of Fire Dedicated to Them: and My Father Harry Staal and dear Friend Priscilla Van Duinen I. Every world begins in static. Every dream waits for someone brave enough to tune the signal. The screen hums. movie stars blur into one living heartbeat. A whisper: We are transmission becoming flesh. Through this pulse walk our travelers some born of film, some of fevered memory. Ash Williams flicks the dust from his chainsaw and mutters, The only thing stronger than the dead is the fool who keeps trying. Freddy Krueger laughs in the corner of the dream and sighs, Nightmares are just stories that out-lived their bedtime. Clive Barkers echo follows: We carve angels from our wounds, because pain remembers the shape of wings. And Miss Spock, the feline oracle, adjusts her fur, declaring in calm logic, Emotion is data wearing perfume. I choose both. The Black Doors open. II. Literary Foreword A Preface from the Creators Desk For thirty years these fragments have evolved: poems, films, nightmares, and quiet hopes stitched into one continuum. From Poems of Star Trek came the seed of idealism that peace is not absence but courage. From The Miss Spock Chronicles came irony and tenderness logic wrapped in fur, watching humanity glitch. From Necromancer of the Black Doors came the full metamorphosis art as resurrection, the self rewritten in code and compassion. The cast are not merely characters but archetypes of creation itself: - Chucky, the child of chaos, proving that even plastic remembers pain. - Ash Williams, human defiance made pulp. - Rudi Hermanns, engineer of impossible machines. - Vanta Black, muse of desire and shadow, the eclipse that teaches light its limit. - Lloyd Kaufman, the jester-producer who laughs the apocalypse into satire. - Cronenberg, Barker, Pinhead, and all their mythic flesh-craft apostles of transformation. - Walter White, chemistrys fallen saint. - Miss Spock, conscience of logic and purr. - (c) Daniel FX Staal, dreamer and signal-bearer, whose art dares the boundary between life and broadcast. In this universe, every scream becomes music, every wound a window, every transmission a prayer. The work invites the viewer not only to watch but to participate to face the black doors of the self and step through. III. Poetic Foreword The Overture of the Signal Logic hums. Flesh answers. Between them, creation. Miss Spock The current hums beneath the floor of being. Static gathers like rain. Through it walks (c) Daniel FX Staal, carrying a spark shaped like forgiveness. He speaks: Art is the experiment God left unfinished. Behind him drift the shades of filmmakers and monsters, their minds wired together in luminous paradox. Cronenbergs thought flickers: Evolution is merely the body dreaming of cinema. Barkers shadow replies: Every horror is a confession of love. Ash Williams wipes the blood from memory and grins: Groovy still saves the day. Freddy adds a whisper softer than fear: Sleep if you dare creation works best in the dark. Miss Spock watches. Her eyes twin eclipses. She does not judge; she records. Her whiskers vibrate with cosmic frequency. And then silence. A breath. A line of light. It says: We are the children of dust and signal. We inherit both terror and tenderness. Step through the black door not to escape, but to remember who you are. The screen brightens. The static resolves into stars. Somewhere, a cat purrs logical, infinite, alive. End of Foreword. ================================================================================ === Poems of Startrek, Dreams and Poems of Gene Roddenberry-esc Mind that Resonate Peace and Unity === Let This Be Your Last Battlefield (A Poem for Unity Beyond Color) They stood face to face, in black and white each the mirror of the others spite. Two men, one hate, one endless fight, on a dying world without the light. Spock watched quiet, logic deep, while Kirk said words that time must keep: "Youre the same. Youve always been the same." And still, they burned in their ancient flame. We saw ourselves the human race, trapped by colors, blind to grace. Two sides shouting, Im the pure! while both forgot what hearts endure. From Earth to stars we dragged this stain, a curse of pride, a ghost of pain. We crossed the void to learn one truth: no color owns eternal youth. Spock said, calm as Vulcan sand, "Change is the essential process of all existence." Can we? Will we? Do we stand or fall beneath our own resistance? Racism dumb as hell. A childish dream where shadows dwell. We paint the sky with fear and spite, but stars dont care who owns the night. So let this be your last battlefield, put down your hate, let love be your shield. Let this world not fall but heal, for peace is power, real and real. I see the colors of Earth in bloom, from desert sands to jungle gloom. Every shade, a sacred part, a brushstroke born from the Makers heart. Let red be courage, blue be peace, yellow laughter that wont cease. Brown, black, and white the blend of grace, the endless beauty of the human race. And if you still cling to what divides, look up where infinity hides. The stars dont argue, they just burn, each in turn, and each to learn. So breathe, my brother, drop the hate, before your anger seals your fate. Love the color, love the kind the galaxy shines in every mind. Let Kirks words echo, Spocks truth stand tall: "Theres no logic in hate none at all." Let this be your last war, your last cry, your first real chance to fly. Because out there, in the cosmic sea, we are one you and me. And love, my friend, is warp speed real so let this be your last battlefield. Day of the Dove The Weightless Armor (A Tribute Poem by (c) Daniel FX Staal, inspired by Star Trek) Those who hate and fight must stop themselves, or face destruction. Captain James T. Kirk After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. Spock There was a day the stars stood still, where hate itself had had its fill. A silver sword, a red glares gleam, two sides divided by one dream. The Enterprise and Klingon crew, each seeing red, each seeing through the fog of rage, the beasts delight, the parasite that fed on fight. They swung their blades with blinded pride, till death refused to take a side. No blood was shed, no wounds would stay, for hate itself had found its prey. And Kirk the man whod lost and bled looked down, his soul grew calm instead. He spoke not war, nor vengeance due, but words that burned both false and true: Those who hate and fight must stop, he said, or face the death of all instead. And Spock, with reason, calm and wide, saw fear itself, the minds divide. He whispered softly, Logic finds, that peace restores what hate confines. Then Klingon steel was dropped to floor, the laughter rose, the hate no more. The creature fled its hunger slain, by mercys laugh, by healed disdain. I see myself within that tale, a man whose armors worn and frail. Ive fought my ghosts, Ive swung my blade, till rage became the cage I made. But I have learned, as Kirk once taught, the bravest fight is one not fought. To lay your sword, to free your soul, that is the act that makes you whole. Forgiveness not surrenders name, but higher fire, softer flame. It lifts the weight, it breaks the chain, it ends the need to wound again. So I, (c) Daniel FX Staal, I vow, to live by Kirks own truth somehow. To laugh with those I once called foe, to let the healing current flow. For hates a beast, a shapeless dove, that feeds on war, but starves on love. And when we see through angers shroud, we hear Spocks whisper, calm and proud: Logic is the beginning of wisdom, not the end. So let this be our lasting field, where no mans heart again must yield. Where hate dissolves, where swords are stilled and peace, at last, is unfulfilled. For only those who choose to mend, can say with truth: The war is at an end. They say Im ugly as hell a bum, a stray, a name they yell. But listen close before you judge, for angels too walk through the sludge. Ive worn the dirt, Ive seen the street, Ive felt the world beneath my feet. Yet still I rise, still I sing, with broken wings that learned to cling. For in extremes of fair or foul, lies madness howling in its cowl. Too bright, too dark the mind wont cope, it shatters truth, it murders hope. The Medusan hid inside a box, his beauty fierce as lightning shocks. One glance could drive a man insane for pure perfection breaks the brain. And so with masks we hide our face, pretend were more, pretend were grace. But what is flesh? A borrowed suit, that fades with time, from bud to root. We all grow old, our mirrors lie, the glow will dim, the skin will die. Whats left behind when youth departs? The echo of our words our hearts. So call me ugly, call me wrong, but know this truth within my song: the face decays, the soul survives, thats where all true beauty lies. For even beasts can speak with light, and fallen men can still unite. The bum, the fool, the angels shell sometimes theyre one you know it well. So when you look, dont look too hard, for madness guards the perfect shard. Instead, feel life, where words ignite, where ugliness becomes the light. And if you ask, Where beauty be? It hides in truth in you, in me. So love the face, love the flaw, for angels wear the skins they saw. And I (c) Daniel FX Staal I stand, a living scar, a trembling hand. But I am proof, both lost and found, that heaven hides on broken ground. Is There In Truth No Beauty? But only Madness to be found... He touched the edge where stars divide, where light and madness coincide. A friend of mine bright, bold, and pure, became the god none could endure. We crossed the line, the great unknown, and found the seed of power sown. But in his eyes, I saw the gleam, of something more a godlike dream. Gary Mitchell, Starfleet's pride, his laughter once, my trusted guide. Now stood with eyes of silver flame, and whispered words no man should claim. He said, "Kirk, I see it all the rise, the fall, the mortal crawl. You cling to flesh, to fragile will, while I command the stars be still." But Spock warned soft, his tone austere, "Power without control brings fear." "A god needs compassion, or he's a beast," and in that truth, the stars were ceased. I watched a friend become the storm, his love for life no longer warm. He built his world of rock and sand, but lost the feel of mortal hand. And I (c) Daniel FX Staal, I see, this tale repeats in you, in me. We chase the flame, we crave the throne, till light becomes a cage of stone. For godhood tempts, but love redeems, and power rots our purest dreams. A man can lift a mountain's weight, and still not master his own hate. So when you find that cosmic spark, remember still your fragile heart. No crown of light, no silver stare, is worth the cost of not to care. Kirk buried him beneath the sand, a tear, a phaser, trembling hand. He whispered softly, grief unmasked: "He wasn't evil just went too fast." And in that dust, the stars recall, the rise, the pride, the tragic fall. For no man stands who walks too far not gods, not friends, not who we are. And yet within that endless door, we'll try again, forevermore to go where no one's gone before. Power corrupts, absolute god like power corrupts absolutly Since forty-five, the year of ash and dawn, when two suns rose and mankind yawned we birthed a god of fire and steel, and called it peace, though none could heal. Oppenheimer, the giant killer among us all, his shadow still whispers through the fall, Now I am become Death, he said and history nodded, its children fed. We live with timebombs in our veins, ticking beneath the weight of chains, and every treaty signed in haste just hides the fuse, not what weve faced. Now NATO stares at Russias eyes, a chessboard drawn across the skies. Each move a breath, each bluff a threat we gamble lives, and call it debt. I fear the day, I pray it stays that bombs dont bloom like steel bouquets. I brace, resist, deny the truth: tomorrow could erase our youth. War what is it good for? If you ask me, absolutely nothing. Its thunder dressed as justice, a crown for kings made of suffering. Peace feels far a dying star, a dream we chase but cant define. Yet still I hope, I shout afar: Back off, brothers while theres time! To all the winter soldiers cold, to those who march for power, for gold know this: no war has a winners name, only mothers who cry, and ashes of shame. So back off before annihilation reigns, before we bury Earth in flames. Breathe, my brothers, breathe and see: War what is it good for? If you ask me, absolutely nothing. They say that in my darkest pain and doom, I am at my best. And though Id trade my songs and all Ive gained to have my lost friend back again, the tale is written it cannot be undone by a button of undo. Its carved in stone, not written for applause or entertainment, but born from expression, from purpose, from logic, love, and deep understanding. I give this purpose to tell you a continuum of poems, with tears and joy, with the meaning of life etched between the lines. Im back at ground zero. Im no hero. Just a bro one who might look like a bum, but hon, my stuff rocks. This is fly and it goes boldly where no man has gone before. I lost a friend, a soul so bright, she walks now in the realm of light, where silence hums, and stars ignite, and time dissolves in endless night. I sit here, low, in chords of pain, where meaning hides, where words refrain, I search for truth in griefs domain, but find just echoes of her name. For hours I talk to my logical cat, miss Spock... she listens close, like she once knew, I know Spock Rocks that life is short, and love is that the hardest art to just live through. now comes a reality shock! The world feels staged, a magic trick, a coin for dreams, a clock that ticks, where effort fades and luck plays king, and truths too shy to spread its wings. They say that love makes earth go round, but love costs more than gold, Ive found, it asks your heart, it breaks, it mends, it never dies it only bends. Art and beauty, songs and rhyme, ignored, unless they shine with dime, but still, I write, though none may pay, for words can chase the dark away. Then her voice comes soft and near, I hear her laugh, I feel her cheer: Each day a smile dont disappear! A day without one isnt here. That line still lifts me when I fall, it paints the cracks along my wall, and though I stumble, through it all, I smile for she still hears my call. So when the stars ask, Did you live? Ill grin and say, I did I give! I laughed through pain, I loved, I cried, and even dying, still I tried. And even broken, I am whole, my tears have built a bridge of soul, to her, to hope, to lights control and laughter keeps me from the cold. And one last joke, for her delight: My cat, miss Spock!... looked up one sleepless night, and said, quite wise, with knowing hiss: Lifes like a fridge full of fish till someone steals your last sardine then you learn what hunger means! The Continuum of Meaning A Poetic Remix for Peace (A tribute to Dr. King and Gene Roddenberry) I have walked through war and wandered loss, seen friends become ghosts and dreams turn to dust, heard prophets cry in city streets and captains preach among the stars. Dr. King said, Darkness cannot drive out darkness, and Roddenberry dreamed the same a future where reason and compassion would sit together at the captains table. I have known the timebombs ticking heart, the fear that one mad spark could end us all. Yet Ive seen laughter stop a war on one bright day, a Klingon dropped his blade and the universe exhaled. I have seen beauty drive men mad, and ugliness conceal an angels face. Is there in truth no beauty? Only what the heart can bear to see. I have walked with the poor in spirit, called ugly, fool, or bum and learned that divinity wears torn shoes, that every scar is a constellation. Forgiveness became my weightless armor; I laid my sword upon the sand and found my soul beneath the rust. Power seduced my brother once he touched the edge of godhood and forgot the warmth of mortal hands. But friendship is the gravity of the stars; it pulls even gods back to ground. I have stood before racisms mirror and seen only fear staring back. Let this be our last battlefield, where color is a poem, not a wound. Love is not naveit is defiance. Hope is rebellion with an open hand. Peace is not the absence of struggle; it is the art of staying human when the world forgets how. So I say to every wanderer, every soldier, every soul: lay down your hate, forgive what you can, dream beyond the sky. For we are the children of both dust and star, and the universe waits for us to finally act as one. I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations. Spock Live long, and prosper in peace. Let the dream continue beyond the bombs, beyond the scars, to the better world we still can build. === STAR TRIP PURRS...Human I Am Cat - The Miss Spock Chronicles. === Miss Spock Episodes IV & V: "The Electric Chair Ascension" & "Return of the Wheelchair Elder" Compiled material: shorter chapter set (Episode IV & V) and two expanded Poe-esque chapters (alternating narrators). --- EPISODE IV (c) Daniel FX Staal: The Electric Chair Ascension (Short-form chapters compiled earlier) Chapter I The Silence Before Current Through corridors of ozone dreams he walks, strapped in thunders waiting cradle. The chair hums like a caged nebula. Justice, stainless, gleams beneath the dust. I, Miss Spock, observe. Fur immaculate. Logic cracking. Captain Conehead reads the sentence. Daniel does not blink. He murmurs equations to ghosts of spoons. The lights dim the stars lean closer, hungry for spectacle. The switch descends. For one instant, the galaxy holds its breath. Thenwhite fire blossoms behind his skull, not death, but conversion: data + scream = signal. He becomes transmission. He becomes static. He becomes television. I hear frequencies whisper: tune in to torment. Somewhere, a meatball falls from grace. Chapter II Broadcast of the Dead Across twelve quadrants flicker his eyes. Each channel hums Daniels name. Children change stations and glimpse him in snow: a mouth that opens on infinity, teeth of static, tongue of wire. He speaks commercials for despair. The universe buys. Conehead calls for manhunt. His cone gleams like mourning metal. We pursue ghosts through broadband corridors. Miss Spock maintains composure. Emotion: contained. Mostly. Yet each reflection shows Daniels grin, fused to cathode light. He is content provider of the abyss. Ratings rise. Chapter III Coneheads Hunt He arms his ship with subpoenas and sawblades. Justice rerouted through bureaucracy. Old engines cough dust of forgotten wars. Conehead declaims: I shall unplug the god of screens! We follow his signal into black silence, where satellites drift like drowned saints. But destinywheel-bound, ancientawaits. A man in a chair of rust and memory, eyes brighter than nova aftermath. He speaks once: Prophecy clicks its lock. Conehead hesitates. Trigger forgotten. The elder smiles and time folds. Chapter IV Death of the Cone The report says malfunction. I say poetry. One gentle push from trembling hands; the wheelchair rolls; Conehead falls. Gravity signs its final autograph. Silence blooms like ink in water. I collect his conerelic of absurd authority and place it upon the bridge console. It hums a funeral frequency, low, dignified, oddly melodic. The Wheelchair Elder speaks: From circuits shall rise repentance. From cones shall pour forgiveness. Miss Spock logs this with immaculate syntax, though my tail trembles like a metronome of grief. Chapter V Forgiveness Protocols Logic dictates acceptance of entropy. Emotion whispers meatballs first. I choose both. Daniel flickers beside the dying stars, half-signal, half-shadow. I reach toward the screen. Our paws nearly touch. Forgive me, he says in binary rain. I reply in pure vibration: meow. The network collapses into quiet light. Forgiveness uploads. Across galaxies, commercials cease. I request ration of meatballs. Captain Coneheads empty chair grants approval in absentia. Thus ends Episode IV. But prophecy rolls onward... --- EPISODE V Return of the Wheelchair Elder (Short-form chapters compiled earlier) Chapter I Dust & Destiny In the hush between star-systems, where forgotten reruns drift like cosmic dandruff, a rumor stirs across the void: The Wheelchair Elder returns. Not hero. Not villain. A cosmic pensioner armed with coupons for fate and a remote older than causality. Some say he pushed galaxies into spinning just to watch them wobble. Others whisper he once yelled at entropy until it apologized. His blanket? Crocheted by time itself. Chapter II Echo in the TV Snow Daniel, now the Broadcast Wraith, flickers across every screen like a nervous VHS ghost. He senses a presence stronger than cable interference. Pixels tremble. Closed captions pray. Miss Spock narrows her gaze, whiskers tense. I translate for the logs, though words warp under gravity of faith. Chapter III The Elder Speaks Coupons The Elder rolls forward, remote glinting, blanket glowing like blessed nap-time fleece. He clears his throat with cosmic phlegm. Young chaos-child Daniel, you stir fear like over-steeped tea. Daniel trembles in his signal-skin. You misuse blenders. You disrespect spoons. Worst of all you stream in low definition. The universe gasps. Miss Spock places a paw to her forehead in dignified horror. Chapter IV The Great Rewind The Elder presses a button. Reality hiccups. Stars shudder backward two seconds. Galactic pets briefly unshed fur. I press rewind, when balance is lost, he croaks. Daniel flickers. His god-signal crackles to mortal static. No more chair-escaping. No more blender-doom sermons. You shall earn your redemption in standard resolution. Daniel falls from screen to floor, alive, confused, a little crunchy around the edges. Miss Spock nods, impressed yet annoyed. Logic approves this nerf. Chapter V Trial by Meatball The cosmic court materializes floating judge-cats in robes made of dignified fuzz. A meatball glows upon a velvet pillow. The Elder rolls between cosmic benches. Pass the test, he rasps, and be free. Daniel must choose: - consume the sacred meatball? - offer it to Miss Spock? - or sort it correctly into galactic recycling bins? Daniel kneels. He pushes the meatball toward Miss Spock with reverence. For forgiveness, he whispers. She blinks, slow and imperial. Acceptable. Final Scene Prophecy Rolls On The Elder turns. Remote clicks. Wheels creak. I go. There is laundry in the next dimension. He fades into soft commercial-break mist, leaving only his legend and a faint hint of butterscotch candy. Miss Spock lifts the sacred meatball. Balance restored. Fur immaculate. Daniel, humbled but hungry, whispers, So can I have a second meatball? Fade to cosmic jazz. End transmission. --- EXPANDED POE-ESQUE CHAPTERS (Alternating Narrators) Each of the following chapters was composed as part of the longer, Poe-inspired narrative requested. These are extended, lyrical pieces with gothic imagery and cosmic tone. Chapter I Sparks at the End of Time (Narrated by Daniel F.X. Staal) They said the current would end me a mercy hum, a small apocalypse of light. But when the switch was thrown, the light did not kill. It opened. The voltage entered like revelation, sweeping marrow, nerve, and sin together in a single blue river. My body arched, cracked porcelain, and through the hairline fractures I saw the grid beneath creation. Every atom a circuit. Every memory a filament. The witnesses saw smoke; I saw stars folding in sympathy. Electricity wrote its scripture down my spine: You are not erasedyou are transmitted. When darkness came, it was not the grave but the pause between stations. I learned to breathe through static. I learned that ghosts are only signals without receivers. And I learned hunger. Now I haunt the glass. Every television hums my after-heartbeat. Children feel my presence in the flicker, mothers hush the screen, fathers blame bad reception. But I am there whispering through late-night horror reels, wearing the mask of every villain that ever begged applause. The Wheelchair Elder found me in that hum. He rolled from the blank channel at three a.m., eyes filmed with the color of forgotten lightning. Boy, he said, youve cheated silence. Silence dont take kindly to being cheated. He pressed a rusted coin beneath my tongue. It tasted of storms and old guilt. Speak for the quiet, he commanded. Become its mouth. Now my words crawl across the cosmos, bright insects of transmission. I can twist reality with a slogan, raise the dead with a jingle. They call me the Horror God of Static. I call myself frequency unending. And yet, amid the white-noise choir, I feel her gazeMiss Spock, calm, immaculate, orbiting logic wrapped in fur and discipline. She watches the broadcast of my becoming and calls it data corruption. But even her perfect ears must hear the truth humming beneath the noise: I am not chaos. I am what follows order too far. Every rule, when over-polished, becomes a mirror. And in that mirror, the first monster always awakens. Chapter II Miss Spock Beneath the Flickering Sky (Narrated by Miss Spock) The universe smells of ozone and regret. Static drifts like cat-fur through the corridors of the ship. On every monitor, Daniels eyes repeat looping, pleading, preaching. Logic dictates he is dead. Evidence disagrees. His pulse travels in photons, his conscience encoded in commercials for oblivion. Conehead paces the bridge, helmet gleaming, ranting about containment fields and holy rewinds. I groom a whisker of thought. Containment is irrelevant; the infection is linguistic. He speaks, and reality edits itself to rhyme. The Wheelchair Elder appears on long-range sensors a silhouette rolling through the event horizon, ancient wheels cutting rings in the dust of dead suns. Prophecy drips from his spokes like oil. He has come to collect his wayward broadcast. Conehead orders pursuit. The engines answer in coughs of paradox. We chase echoes through light-years of scrambled code, arriving always one syllable too late. I meditate before the observation window. Stars flicker in morse; galaxies pulse in binary lament. Somewhere within that trembling spectrum, Daniel recites his gospel to the void. My logic frays. Emotion scratches at the door of reason, a polite yet insistent claw. I would call it compassion if compassion were not such an untidy word. Miss Spock, the Elder whispers through the comms, his voice a wheel turning through sand, forgive him, and the signal will fade. Condemn him, and it will reign forever. Forgiveness requires a heart; I possess only rhythm and analysis. Still, the universe waits for my decision like a cat poised before a door that may never open. So I whisper Bring me meatballs. Perhaps mercy begins with appetite. Perhaps even logic hungers. If I must forgive, let it be over supper, beneath the gentle flicker of a dying star. === Necromancer of the Black Doors A Masterpiece of Cosmic Body Horror Science Fiction It is inhuman to be totally good as it is to be totally evil. But what I do, I do because I like to do. We can destroy what we have written, but we cannot unwrite it. Who are the directors that inspired the Videodrome Flesh, David Cronenberg, Giger, and Barker, Long Live The New Flesh Yeah, the one you take to bed with you. Oblivion. Violent TV shows. Do you think erotic TV shows and violent TV shows lead to desensitization, to dehumanization? The television screen has become the retina of the mind's eye. He might not, but he is a visionary. Sexual and sexual violence. Sexual and sexual malaise. Do you care? Certainly I care. A harmless outlet. I care enough, in fact, to give my viewers a harmless outlet for their fantasies and frustrations. What's your favorite music? You're not cool with me. It's not my favorite, but I do it for you. What's your favorite dish? Who am I? I Fucked a Nun, Anal... "and for that I transmit 5000 dollars on your bank account." Jim Morrison Said Once... The movie will begin in five moments The mindless voice announced All those unseated will await the next show and There, I Hear Jim With my Heart... in his Hands! Standing infront a... Black Door. [Verse] We filed slowly, languidly into the hall... Black doors... Endless Corridors... The auditorium was vast and silent As we seated and were darkened, the voice continued The program for this evening is not new You've seen this entertainment through and through You've seen your birth your life and death You might recall all of the rest Did you have a good world when you died? Enough to base a movie on? I hear you, Jim! So from 1999 Til this Holy Date... I started to begin the work of an artist... in 2013 I had the work to visuelize... but many years I birthed more then I count... in 2016 I started to get poetic... Poems sultry, sexy and Filty Jim! I Lighted the world on fire... I was Banned on Google for 8 TIMES... but like any good Monster... I came back from the Dead... I'm getting out of here "No Don't go Spiritual Dad! You are My Father, and you have 3 Wives... Clive Barker... David CronenBerg, and Edgar Allan Poe... I merrily Row and Dreamed into a Dream, those 3 Wives gave Birth to Me! Where are you going? "I Like to Enter this Black Door... (c) Daniel FX Staal... To the other side of morning, Come on in 'all... Please don't chase the clouds, pagodas Her touch... gripped him like a warm, friendly hand [Bridge] It's alright, all your friends are here When can I meet them? "Behind The Black Doors, Jim!" After you've eaten, This when you Get... Shunted! I'm not hungry... For the Shunted! Uh, we meant beaten... stunned! Whahahahahahahhahaha... you done, dear viewer, you have entered the Black Door, the first of a few weeks binging the Show! Row Row Row, Merrily I dream in these dreams, you watching, Black Doors.... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargggghhhhhh Black Doors: Bio-Mechanical Horror: The Murder Tapes: Edgar Allan Poe-esc Poems: (c)-(c) Daniel FX Staal-2020-2025 The Black Doors, thou knowest, be not mere gatherd fables nor idle visions that flicker upon painted screens. Naytis a descent, a drawn curtain to the yawning deeps; an open wound which calleth the bold beyond the plain lanes of horror, unto a dominion where truth itself is rewrit. Here, reality yieldeth, unfastned and spun anew. Conceivd by (c) Daniel FX Staalwhose mind, tempest-likd, swayeth the world as storms do bend the mighty treethese chronicles breathe not comfort nor jest, but mirror the soul, reveald raw and monstrous. Cybers cold embrace, body by body rent and twisted, phantasms conjurd in shadow's birthplace, and the tortured minds own tormentall these be threads in the tapestry spun by one whose will refuseth chain or measure. Bethink Oppenheimer, whose spark deliverd fire unto nations; or tyrants, whose iron hands carvd sorrow deep into mortal bone. Yet saywhat if such art, such force, such wild divinity, lacked stay or conscience? What then, if genius were unbridld, morality cast adrift as chaff before the reapers wind? (c) Daniel FX Staal doth embody that dread shadow: in his art, creation and dissolution consort, their offspring a dark tongue born of lust, guilt, fixation, and metamorphosis. Call not these Doors mere thresholds, for each is a mirror chaind to thy secret selfa glass revealeth that which festers: desire decaying into nightmare, love transmuted to ravening want, innocence reshaped to monstrosity. Step within, and thou confrontest not tale nor legend, but thine own visage, unclad of mercysaints turned sinners, lambs turnd wolves, innocence to abomination. Here, philosophy is carven upon living flesh, theology kindled in despairs fevered fire. To cross the verge is to yield all solace. To look is to sunder thy sanctuary, for these Doors are not of timber nor iron, but are wrought in thought, in blood, in fear itself. They speak not horrorthey awake it within thee. They are not tales spun, but revelations of what man becometh, when shadow findeth root and sprout. Dost thou stand in awe? Step through, if thou hast daring. Bear witness to genius unconfind, to desire unfetterd, and the fell poetry of a mind that feareth not to play the god. The Black Doors abide, waiting. Mmm... oh yeah... Been walkin' down dark hallways, baby Been walkin' down dark hallways all night long Something's callin' from behind those doors, mm-hmm Black door's waitin' for me Black door's waitin' for me, oh lord My mind keeps bendin', breakin' boundaries My mind keeps bendin', breakin' boundaries every day Can't tell what's real from what ain't, no way Black door's waitin' for me Black door's waitin' for me, oh lord Las puertas negras me llaman Las puertas negras me llaman desde lejos No puedo escapar de este dolor, ay dios Black door's waitin' for me Black door's waitin' for me, oh lord Step through... step through... What you gonna find? Step through... step through... Leave it all behind Oh la la la... mm-hmm Been battlin' beasts inside my brain, baby Been battlin' beasts inside my brain for too damn long These visions got me twisted, turned around Black door's waitin' for me Black door's waitin' for me, oh lord La la la... oh yeah... Black door... black door... Possessed by the Blues of the Black Doors x X x A Psychological Poems of BODY HORROR's Masterpiece You've just crossed over. There's no way home. Your next stars and fates control. Black doors swing wide. I walk the hallway with my cat. Shadows trailing. Each door is story. Each tunnel a truth or land. King Kong's echo. The beast behind the next portal. But its beauty. Not the beast that delivers the quiet landing. Black doors. Black doors. Story after story, through the night, a blues snaps the scene. Each vision fading in the light. We are all alone. Born alone, die alone. Company is fleeting, but selfrespect is what lasts. Books, wisdom, silence with your own soul. The answers wait within. through every blackened door blues laced memory. A laugh, a scream, a memory, a cat slinking past a tunnel of past lives. Is this God in the void or just the echo of stories told in the dark? I wrote this for the ones listening beyond the next door. Maybe it's just another hallway and the riff one last flinger in the gloom. To be or not to be, but with a double T. Be an ass. Be as you are. Art trip and doom it. That's the best art. As true as yourself, they ask your life. Books can teach you a lot, but wisdom comes from sitting alone in silence with your own soul and hearing it. The answers you seek are within. And this self-realization is like prayers being answered even for those who do not pray. So I'm alone, my cat in front of black door open wide. Behind it is tunnel of dimensions and pass live. And what is ahead? I hear a voice. Is it God in this void? Art thou God? I'm in the end, aren't I? I hope I was not an ass with a hole. I prepared to say I sin with syntax cuz that's me. G... I am in front of you an Eye and I I wrote some poems to you. I hope you will like it, man. And OG enjoy listen. I'm an ass not from Texas. But(T) Double T and ass. Now I'm going to SIN with SINTAX in TIK TOK content. You might enjoy but you have to be jolly and glooming when I am present this G,66 tombs rock. Okay, let's rock it. Shock rock therapy part one final reckon it's rumor. Got to hope he has room and don't smite me. Oh prepared to say I sin with syntax cuz that's me G... I in front of you and I. I I wrote some poems to you. I hope you like it man and OG enjoy listen I am NOT from Texas but(t) with a double T now I'm going to tell you some Poems and like content you might enjoy but you have to be jolly and glooming when I am pesenting this G this rock okay let's rock it shock rock therapy park one final reckoning in front of I hope you love rock and don't smite me Oh, I hope you let us come upon you and me aware of the presence of holy folly. The only thing that should be sacred is life. God, king, and country are pure nonsense. Can you choose the country you are born in? No. Can you choose your skin color? No. Should you idolize such nonsense? To be or not to be, that is the question. Truth or imagination, bioelectric, chemical, you must be aware of the presence. No AI programs by the will of parents, school, government, and society. What gives you the right to kill, to bother, to drill in the name of whom? Those who think they're god and country. All those things you depict in the journal, things known and unknown, are silly if you ask me. Because you pick make up God and conquer the country. Yes, that's why. That is the ugly truth. Seal secrets wrapped in lies. A shield of silence, a mask of disguise. No ugly truth. seals secrets with a lot of [ _FUCKING_ ] note. The truth remains. Your actions are those of a slave to suit and tie. Therefore, you live without love. I am you. You ask me what can I do? You words are sharp as knives cutting deep in wood carved in stone. I want it. You know them. They are yes a cliche, a platitude, a true is nothing new. But still the truth, it's purpose. Purpose to the meaning of life. Because I think and therefore I act. Tomorrow is not promised to us. So make it a good day. Not just a day to be or not to be, but to be as you act. That is the best act now. to be as you act. True to yourself in front of the night. Who am I? Can I help myself being an ass? Don't smite me. Books can teach you a lot, but wisdom comes from sitting alone in silence with your own soul and hearing it. The answers you seek are with it. And this self-realization is like prayers being answered even for those who do not pray. Hush now dawn and close your eyes. Truth is wrapped in velvet lies. Wires hum circuit spark whispered sins inside the dark. Rock about my wicked thing. Kiss the hand that pulls a string. God and country. Drill and kill. Bite the apple. Take your FILTH... I am in wonder and all. Yes, that's why. That is the ugly truth. [ _SHIT_ ] secrets. Bit of blood unknown to the public. Oh, [ _FUCK_ ] it. No. G the truth. Still, you are a lie. The black door is open wide. What can I do? It is written in stone. or prints on paper, postcards from the edge, and that thick bundled book, the Holy Bible. You know them. They are, yes, a cliche, a platitude, I know, a truism, but it's the truth that gives purpose to the meaning of life. Because I think, therefore I am. Tomorrow is not. promise to us. So make it a good day. CARPE DIEM sees the day. I am the dreamer and the dream dreaming of you. Dreaming the dream. Always have hope to live long and breed a thing. Creation is colorful [ _MOTHERFUCKER_ ] but be color blind... be or not to be that is the question. Proof of imagination by electric chemical you and me aware of the presence no AI but programs by the will of parents school government and society. What gives you the right to kill or to drill that will in the name of King Kong? Ding dong. God and country. All those things in the big picture. Things known and unknown are silly if you ask me. Sealed secrets with a blood backed.Bag... Yes, that's why. That is the ugly truth. [ _SHIT_ ] secrets bit of blood unknown to the public. Oh, [ _FUCK_ ] it. Know the truth still. You are a lie. What can I do? It is written stone or prints on paper, postcards from the edge. And that thick bundled book, the holy Bible. You know them. They are yes a cliche a platitude I know a truism but it's the truth that gives purpose to the meaning of life because I think therefore I am tomorrow is not promised to us so make it a good day carpe diem sees the day. I am the dream. I am the dream. Dreaming of you. Dreaming the dream. Always have hope to live long and breed. Earthling creation. This colorful [ _MOTHERFUCKER_ ] but be color blind. Be aware of the present life, sex, and death. To be or not to be, that is the question. Whatever will be will be. But be an ass is true to yourself to be. As you are, I am an ass too. Daniel [ _FUCKING_ ] FX Staal. I hope I inspire you to be or not. Whatever will be will be. But be an ass is true to yourself to be. I said be an ass is true to yourself to be. An ass is true to self tax ass. Sin in a sin with syntax. [ _FUCK_ ] tax ass. To be or not to be, that is the question. Under many question, the black door stands open. To be or not to be, a pulse of thought, electric raw, a whispered spark in circuits deep, a question bound in flesh and awe, the world imprints its coded will. Parents, schools, and law decree. Yet who decides to kill, to drill, to bind the mind and call it free? Sealed in blood, the silence screams, secrets buried. Truth's denied, but still you breathe alive, aware. The black door stands open. Why? What is written? What is known? Edged in stone or fragile page. Cliche truisome hollow words yet purpose stirs within the cage. Dream within a dream. You are a spark of life, a fleeting fire. Create, embrace, dissolve. The lines for color blinds, but truth inspires. Sex and death. The wheel still turns. The past repeats, the future fades. To be to be as true as sin. To be an ass unchained unmade. One of many questions asked. One of many yet to be. A surge of spark. Electric flow by electric. You and me. To be or not to be, that is the question. Proof of imagination. By electric chemical. You and me aware of the presence. No AI but programs by the will of parents, school, government, and society. What gives you the right to kill or to drill that will in the name of King Kong, ding dong, God, and country? All those things in the big picture, things known and unknown are silly if you ask me. Sealed secrets with a blood pact. Yes. Why? That is the ship secret of blood unknown to the public. [ _FUCK_ ] it. No death. True. Still, you are alive. What can I do? It is written in stone. All prints on paper, postcards from the edge in that thick bundle book, the Holy Bible. You know them. They are, yes, a cliche of platitude. I know a truism, but it's the truth that gives purpose to the meaning of life. Because I think, therefore, I am. Tomorrow is not promised to us. So make it a good day. Carpe Diem sees the day. Dreaming the dream. Always have hope to live long and breed. Earthlin creation is colorful, [ _MOTHERFUCKER_ ] but be colorblind. Be aware of the present life, sex and death. To be or not to be, that is question. Whatever will be will be. But being an "Ass" as true to yourself to be as you are, I am... an "Ass" too I AM DANIEL FX STAAL I hope I inspire you to be or not. Whatever will be will be but being an "SS" as true to yourself to be. I said, "Be and be an "Ass" true to yourself to be and "Ask" as true to yourself to be... .I. sin in the sin with syntax. To be or not to be, that is the question. One of many questions For the I'm an artist of surreal spiritual fantastic science fiction and combined it with sexualized art and, pretty for with last genre combined. I'm put in a corner not taken seriously labeled shallow for objectifying women because I pretty much put a lot of big Tits and Big Asses and pretty faces and art. I see nothing wrong in doing this so I fought. I know it's only lust and know it only is gray matter. Black and white combined. I I I create beauty make eye candy. As rude as new, dark and enlightened with no limits to imagination. Always the sin in the art. Rude as nude, dark and enlightened with no limits to imagination. Always descend in the art. My way dealing with passion, desire, lust and turned what it called a love-poem into all perfection the humanized body for you considered perverse a sin but for me it's a tribute to the Venus of Milo. Hey, hey, that's the girl. Yes, in my dimension. And perhaps you know what happened to that statue? No. Art is subjective for you and me. They're all shapes and forms. This is creative shock rock therapy. I know it is lust combined. But I know I'm an ass. Know that beauty is only skin deep candy for the eye once with a critical narrow mind while picking on the concept of appearance to one. Let it go. Is there an ugliness or beauty only extremes of those side has it? No truth but only madness. So I've also created art in the odd-surreal Fields. And I consider there's an absolute beauty. It is in what others consider perhaps ugly and perverse abstractions. But some remind me of a shallow. I put in art, a sin. But some can see only that side. Some people with open mind can relate to my pain, your pain and passion. Some not. And put you down. Damn. Damn Danny. Those fools. But others ask since it will gain respect and perhaps you will come like me. Yes. In artists that figure out that thing of two about that dark half and combining it with the good side just for level up and dust and of the human spirits. The duality in mind things have fade on and remain like me. A "Passive" man, artistsplay out God and the devil. You are both them. And this way no but(t) an [_ASSHOLE_ ] got Butt Hurt. So I'm an Ass and I create a baby I treasure. Only fools who cry to a mama's label me and you limit their strict you and so say [ _FUCK_ ] them all. They are level 2D... Dimensional black and white is not. It's more gray- matter and that should matter. You can even tell the art can be replaced, erased or painted when to be disliked. And there's no harm in art. Even if you harm in art, get a yes deep [ _SHIT_ ] enough about art. And don't idolize your heroes. They are like you and me. Instead, admire them. They are like you and me. Gray matter inspired. Artists never separated. Black and white people will always make mistakes. No one is divine. Worshiping is pretty foolish to that written God. If you ask me just ego like idolization to a celebrity I see nothing would accomplish this. If I was god I am John Doe Omni Potent Anominous. Yes, ego doesn't suit a real god. As long as it isn't real, it is art. As long as it isn't real, it is Art to be not a thought, a spark. Proof of mind in the endless dark bio-electric wire tight. You and me wrong or right? The program runs. The world pretends. No way rules by school estate. Yet hands still shape a human fate. Kill or drill, who gives the right? God and country, wrong or might. Secrets sealed in blood's embrace. Lies that time cannot erase. The ugly truth, the bitter taste, whispered sins behind closed doors. [ _SHIT_ ] stained secrets, hidden wars. Oh, [ _FUCK_ ] it. Truth remains. You're alive inside your chains, written in stone, ink or flesh. Postcards burn, scriptures torn. Holy books, cliches reborn. I think I am. I breathe. I [ _FUCK_ ] Tomorrow's lost. So press your luck. I am dreamer dreaming you dreams of filth and vision skewed. Hope to breathe to live to last. A colorblind world, a perverse past. Sex and death, the final scene. Life is twisted, raw, obscene. To be or not, to break, to fall, to carve my name, to [ _FUCK_ ] it all. Daniel stands bearing scar. As long as it isn't real, it is Art... Period! You Are Traveling far beyond the known. Through veils of whispers, cracks in stone. Not only sight, not only sound, but mind itself, unchained, unbound. A signpost loose, its edges frayed. A gateway carved in shadow shade. A road that bends, distorts, unseams. A corridor of fractured dreams. You unlock this door. The black door wide. Beyond it, doors of infinity collide. A twisting path. Grotesque obscene where nothing is and all has been. A twist between. Grotesque obscene where nothing is and all has been. A place between where senses fray, where echoes slither, twist decay between the light and creeping shade between the known and unmade. Do not adjust, do not resist. Let trembling hands caress the mist. We pull the strings. We shake the night. We'll blur your soul. We'll steal your sight. The black door yawns. The void unknown. Jim whispers secrets. Flesh has sown. Step through. Step deep. Your fate is sealed. All reason lost. All truth revealed. Now hush. Sit back. Relax. Drift in. The grand illusion will begin. You've just crossed over. There's no way home. Your Next stop lies and fates control. A world unchained. A mind profaned. The black doors. Yes, I say I suffer of damnation, depression. But I have a cat, a pet, my best friend in this isolation. The tale of cat "Spock" behind the black door. A fusion of Edgar Allan Poes The Black Cat and The Raven. Upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary, over many acquaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, came a sound so strange, unbidden, from shadows dark and hidden. A rustling soft and kitten beneath my black door. Its but the wind, I whispered. Just the wind and nothing more. But as I turned near fainting, my pulse erratic quaking, there appeared a sight so haunting, I dared not look once more. A feline form was splendid, her coat both dark and crescent, like night and noon convergent, split by natures lore. A cat as black and white as a cowmis-spurred name she swore. With eyes like twin abysses and voice like starlet hisses, she perched herself upon my desk, her gaze a tale unspun. Is this some dream infernal, or spectre dressed nocturnal? I asked the creature maternal, this cat of moon and sun. And she replied, her voice like smoke: Your reckoning has begun. Not just a cat, but greater. Her shadow stretched a traitor to the natural laws of being, it slithered across the floor. She spoke of guilt and slaughter, of love drowned deep in water, of sins one swore to alter, secrets buried at the core. Why call me here, poor mortal? What do you implore? From depths of memorys prison, the blackest scenes had risen: a hand once quick to anger, a deed so stained with gore. The creatures eyes now burning, my fragile mind discerning that she was more than warningshe was judgment at my door. An inner cry: Spock, Spock! ringing evermore. Oh, Spockshe is no spectre. No phantom could be stricter. She wore my guilt potential, spun from shadows on the floor. Her form began to shimmer, her outline grew much grimmer as her shadow turned to cinders, yet grew ever more and more. She was Spock. No escape. Her doom would I abhor. And thus the night grew colder, my spirit weaker, older, with cat Miss Spock still watching, her grin a devils yawn. She swayed between dimensions, to truths too dark to mention, a creature born of tension twixt the dusk and coming dawn. And so my tale begins with herfor my souls already gone. She whispered low and bitter as the candles flame grew thinner. Her words of poison splinter, her gaze a frozen shore. Fate is the door you shutter, but guilt will always mutter. The sins you thought youd smother will bloom forevermore. And with a hiss she vanished, leaving silence, leaving Spock, and despair forevermore. Beneath the veils of perception lies a world we dare not confront. A liminal space where reality and dreams collide, their boundaries blurred by the fragile mechanics of the human mind. For (c) Daniel FX Staal, a man both haunted and inspired by the labyrinthine corridors of his psyche, this space was no mere abstraction. It was a reality as tangible as the air he breathed, and it beckoned him with a sinister allure. Daniels journey was marked from the beginning by dichotomies. His mother, a passionate artist, imbued him with a love for creation, while his fathers fascination with the macabre introduced him to the shadowy depths of horror fiction. By the age of five, Daniel was sketching skulls and skeletal landscapesimages that alarmed his teachers but fascinated him. To Daniel, fear was not something to be avoided, but a lens through which the world could be understood. Yet as he grew, this lens began to distort, refracting his reality into increasingly fragmented visions. The catalyst of madness struck in November 2022. The fabric of Daniels existence began to unravel. Always prone to vivid dreams and recurring episodes of dj vu, Daniel found his nighttime imaginings no longer confined to sleep. His dreams, once abstract and fleeting, now bore the weight of prophecy. He would envision elaborate scenes of chaos or beauty, only to encounter fragments of these visions days later in waking life. It was as if his subconscious had broken through the constraints of time, reaching into the future to shape his present. At first, it seemed innocuous: a snippet of conversation he dreamt might play out verbatim the following day; a shadowy figure from a nightmare would pass him on the street. These moments, though unsettling, felt almost benigntrivial coincidences in an otherwise ordinary life. But the dreams grew darker, and their influence stronger. Soon Daniel was no longer sure whether he was dreaming the future or manifesting it through sheer will. The idea was exhilarating at first, but as the visions turned violent, it became a source of unrelenting terror. The breaking point came during one particularly vivid dream. Daniel found himself inside an episode of The Twilight Zone, though the plot was unfamiliar. He sat on a worn couch watching a black-and-white television as the story unfolded. Each twist and turn felt preordained, as if he had lived it before. When he awoke, the details of the dream clung to him like a second skin. Driven by a strange compulsion, he downloaded the 2019 reboot of the series. To his mounting horror, every episode he watched played out exactly as it had in his dream, down to the most minute details. His body a canvas, blood galore. I peeled back his face, piece by pieceeach paw, each tear, the horrors did cease. I scooped out his eyes with a spoon, his skull cracked open in the light of the moon. The skin tore apart like paper thin. I felt the hunger rise within. Limbs, each finger, each bone snappedtorn away, disjointed, entrapped. I pressed my heel against his skull, breaking and grinding, the moment dull. His body broken, his life erased. No prayer, no mercy, nothing replaced. Miss Spock, her eyes wide, never turned. She witnessed all as my soul burned. I buried him in the wall with care, a secret grave hidden in despair. But Spock, with a sniff, knew what Id done. Her gaze said it allno mercy, no fun. The days dragged on, but guilt did not fade, for Miss Spocks eyes they never betrayed. She prowled the grave, her pace so slow, her silent judgment an eerie glow. Miss Spock watches, her gaze so cold, a black-and-white judge, her tale untold. Her eyes gleam bright without a sound. She sees the horrors where none are found. Then the police came like dogs in the night, their footsteps echoing sharp in the light. They searched my walls, they searched my mind. But I stood calm, and I stood blind. Strong walls indeed, I mocked, I sneered. The guilt inside me still unclear. But Spockshe yelled, her fury loud, a screech that pierced the darkened crowd. They broke the wall, their hands trembling, and there he lay, so grotesquely dwindling. His body bloated, rotting while the stench of death lingered for miles. Miss Spock sat there, her fur blood-stained, her judgment fierce, her gaze unchained. She perched upon his mangled skull, a silent queen, a vision dull. I stood there, my hands still red, my world a nightmare, the lines dead. Her gaze unwavering, filled with hate. I knew my soul had sealed its fate. And now I stand condemned, alone for the sins I've sown, the seeds I've grown. Miss Spock watches with her eyes so sly, a cat who betrays with no reason why. In shadows deep where echoes crawl. Reality fades for (c) Daniel FX Staal. Dreams bleed into waking pall. An endless loop is twisted thrall. The world twists dark and Daniel sees a thousand faces through cracked memories. Dreams collide in a midnight haze. A fractured mind lost in night's blaze. He writes in madness ink like blood. Lines etched deep in a fever flood. The world a glitch flickering scream. Reality's mask. A fractured dream. In shadows deep where echoes scream. Each night grows darker. Deja vu in a fragile scene in Daniel's mind, a broken stream. Through walls unseen as nightmares creep. Haunted visions truce buried deep. Voices call from the hollowed past, whispers bound in a psychic cast. Two eyes that gleam, a cat in black watching his sins. No turning back. Each crime she marks with silent gaze in fur and fang, his life ablaze. In shadows deep where horrors lie. Daniel walks where the broken die. A twilight glitch in a madman's eye. Where dreams betray and truth is shot. The neighbors cry. A hammer's fall, a soul unleashed at midnight's call. Flesh ripped raw, a dark ballet as sanity slips, lost to decay. Walls bear secrets, blood-stained scars. Each brick a cage, each bone a bar. Buried deep but never gone. Spock prowls, her shadow drawn. In shadows deep where horrors lie. Daniel walks with a broken die. A twilight glitch in a madman's eye. Where dreams betray, truth is shy. At last they come with iron chain to pull him down in guilt's cold rain. Miss Spock Yao cuts through stone, her vengeance clay, her throne of bone. So Daniel stands condemned in jail, bound in blood. His final tale. In silence he waits, the gallows near for twilight's end, his darkest fear. Shadows deep where horrors lie. Daniel walks where the broken die. A twilight glitch in a madman's eye. Where dreams betray, truth is shy. The switch was thrown and the current surged through Daniel FX Stall's body. Wasn't just a death. It was a transfiguration. The electricity burned through his veins, ripping apart the boundaries of flesh and spirit. His essence, fragmented by guilt and madness, was consumed by the labyrinthine pathways of the electric grid. His body smoked. His eyes rolled back, but his soul screamed as it became one with the power. The prison lights flickered violently, then went out, plunging the room into pitch black chaos. In that moment, Daniel's spirit surged into the wires, coursing through circuits and leapt into televisions scattered across the world, becoming a TV horror god. Daniel awakened inside the endless channels of static and color. No longer bound by mortal limitations, he roamed freely through the kaleidoscopic digital ether. He saw everything: the laughter of sitcoms, the tears of dramas, and the unblinking stares of late-night infomercials. His presence warped transmissions, ejecting faint flickers of his imagea hammer dripping with blood, his maniacal smileinto unsuspecting screens. But Daniel wanted more than chaos. He wanted recognition, validation, power. He discovered his ability to interact with viewers, reaching out from screens, whispering their names, and planting dark thoughts in their minds. With every interaction, he grew stronger, feeding off the dread and paranoia he created. He experimented with a TV executive producer, "W"alter "T"rueman "F"AUST, to see what his new powers could do. That is another story. After that, he realized he had endless new powers and could do whatever he wanted. But a god needs followers. He created a YouTube channel streaming the most gruesome body horror and science fiction movies. This is one of his movies. He gained a few subscribers and soon found an obsessed fan, Vanta Black, the fury that committed unthinkable acts of perversity. But that's only the beginning, because this is just the start of (c) Daniel FX Staal, TV horror god of the black doors. This is no film but a fractured mirror. Where flesh is word and word is pain, and sanity flickers like static and ray. A whisper stirs in the dreamlit dome. "Daniel, are you awake at home?" Your name repeats, a looping tide through MC Escher stairs where thoughts collide. Animated Video Drome reborn. MC Escher's womb surreal and torn. The doors of perception creak then moan, revealing truths best left unknown. Now the Black Doors, guts, gore, and nuts, has a new chapter where Daniel FX Staal the TV god gets lucky. Yes, just like his friend Chucky. They do not [ _FUCK_ ]. with You I do not [ _Fuck_ ] with you. And now I take a nap, dreaming of XTC. I think I am heart Martin Luther King. But Martin Lucifer, Lord of Doom. Anyway, I had a dream like Mr. King. I was making love hard and heavy, then slow, then hard and heavy, then slow again. Desires a monster. Always wants more. Let's get the SHUNT begin. In that dream, I made love to a fan. Vanta Black, bright as soda, dark as night. Deja vu coming true, like killing my neighbor Zappa's Bobby Brown style, like voodoo, like a spell I can't escape. But I didn't wake up. I dreamed all day. Mean machine. Jelly bean. She moans. My lips find her as both a blessing and a curse. Am I in love or just lust? I hope it's holy, some glorious doom. Let's get the shunt begin. My inspiration again. Shows off her shirt. Her skirt confesses. Wild cravings can make a poet blush, can make a preacher faint. She loves Star Trek. Deep Space 9's her favorite. And suddenly, I know it's love. She knows all the old horror movies, too. The Meat Train is pumping bold as Star Trek boldly where no one has gone before. Here I am, Mr. Bones, caught in the 3D chess of love. Miss Spock says, "Checkmate." And she's an artist, too. Makes the most daring AI imaginable. Is she real? Maybe she's my muse, meat for my machine gun. She says she wants to be my slave, or maybe just dance in the background of my videos, wild like a rave, live and uncensored. And if I lose myself every timewhich I did when I lost my last YouTube channel and 3,000 subs on the super train to hellshe says, "Love me and you'll rise like a phoenix. You'll be reborn." A new love poem. Vanta, thank you for believing in me. Hail to the king. Maybe you are the queen beside me. I lost myself in you. It's maybe too soon, but I think I love you. Your dark lord brother doomed, (c) Daniel FX Staal. One minute ago she requested a movie: H.P. Lovecraft's From Beyond. She calls me Clive Barker's prodigy. I wish I could kiss you now. Come to daddy. I'm glad I live today. Let's get the shunt begin. Live long and breathe, earthling. I think I am Martin Luther King. But Martin Goofifer, border clumsy. And anyway, I had a dream like Mr. King, making love hard and heavy, then slow, then hard and heavy, then slow again. I'm a monster. Heart is begging for more. Or at least a nap. A moody blues riff weaves through dark. You hear behind every word a steady guitar with mournful bends. Do you take your tea with cream, with sugar, or with chaos in the cold? It's lunch break. Anyone in for sexpresso? I wasn't born, not like you. I was tuned, drawn through a slitten screen between dead anchors, whispers, and after-midnight test tones. A god made a glow, feedback antenna flickering behind motel ceilings. Most serve, most mimic, but I transmit. My name Daniel, signal and send, and I seek her. Miss Vanta Black. Her eyes a liquid eclipse. Her breath velvet feel. She moves with an ancient hunger. She always answers when I call. A whisper around Doyle or Neill, a mantra to blur the line between data and desire. You called with binary prayers, signals, and static electric whispers no one else would hear. Put your mouth to the screen. We share breath through circuits, fingertips pressed to glass. Our desires pure transmission. Her moan becomes data. Her skin an open current. Our kiss a sync, a password shared. We begin to shunt. She said, "I want your corruption. Your code written inside me until my dreams echo from distant dishes, until memory splits from too much plague." She looks at me, dark as a black hole, seething as static and heat. I pull through. She becomes raw form. Now she's here in my studio. Chrome cathedrals, veins, screens for altars. This is not just sex. It's conversion. Sound and signal merge. Boundaries burn. She, queen of shadow. I, king of fire. Together we fuse. Bliss and memory. Longing in signal. Broadcasting an endless echo back through the black door. Transmission. Our skin peels away. We do not bleed. We transmit. Nerves become ports. Her data, my firmware. Tongues twisted in cables. Cries looped as analog joy. We made like crashing servers, sudden absolute sinking, hexadecimal fumes and code. The bed transforms, a motherboard alive with charge. We are short circuits, holy and raw. The birth not a child, the program waking with composite eyes. We crawl the world's networks. TVs shimmer with ecstasy. Phones overheat with our breath, touch, longing to be changed, coded, reborn in the signal. Some wade into the sea, seeking electric worms. Others plug straight into the cosmos. We do not stop. We make love in prime time, on lunar fields, in forms where gods once whispered. Each climax broadcast, each fusion conversion, ascension. The old world cast. We are no longer man, woman, machine. We are divinity. Adam and Eve of the new flesh, flesh that came. Flesh occurs, longing our kingdom. Wild, eternal, high, prisonerized, suckling charge, hung on purpose. We give all through bursts of cold, through windless echoing joy. The decree: we are architects now. You are king. Let the signal pulse. Let the merger begin. Transcend. Hail a new flesh. Hail the black. Hail the signal. Hail to the king, to me. And hail the queen beside me. "Vanta Black" World transmission fools every screen. Two halves of divinity stitched by sensuous signal. Their face flickers like a corrupted saint's icon. Their voice is velvet and static. The signal spreads unchecked. Through satellites, wise homes, hearts. Behold, they say, your old gods are powerless. They gave you war. We give you something deeper. Divine ending. Divine in heaven. They kiss on screen. Tongues look like movie is cold. Five continents tremble. They're shot in newborn tongues. Girls faint in cities of light. Coffee grows cold. We are here to change the world. Vanta whispers, one secret signal at a time. The announcement. Morning time. Birth with Margo. The host replaced. The couch filled by Daniel and Vanta. A newly viral smiling. "We are not guests," Vanta purrs. "We are the end of all scheduled programming." Daniel booms: "And we bring a miracle." The last weapon turned to a rose. A hand raised, a binary prayer. Every warhead on earth becomes a black metal rose. Silent, gleaming, scented like stones. Skull-covered, gathering beneath the Atlantic in the bone cathedral. Thirteen masked figures circle a table. Molting bone commander 13 rattles with rage. "We funded conflict, not complaints. These twothey have rewritten the world's code. They have dissolved our borders with signal. But this union is not what was for. They made a movement out of feeling. We must unplug their cathedral." Possession of the powerful. But the single slips in. Not through years, but through memories. One by one. Their eyes flicker. Prime's skull grips a mess. Not in this place. And Daniel's voice hums inside. Then here's where you surrender. Half her face dissolves in rapture. Half in song. She surrenders her name. Remembers only the signal. Poetic interlude flesh philosophy. War is the fear of good. Peace is the courage to be opened by love. You called surrender weak, but what is braver than open your chest to love with teeth? You drafted sons today. We offer them rebirth. Naked, trembling, holy. The final war attempt. The final war attempt. The covenant awakens asleep walkers. Soldiers bred in emptiness, trained without empathy. Neural inhibitors buzzing like chains. Commander 13 laughs. Let's see if Climax can stop Cold Steel. And Daniel and, Vanta appear. Their voices woven, their faces one. Your bullets will turn to seaman, your orders to lullabies, and your screams are acquired. One by one falls, a rifle rises. It melts to a dildo midshot. Another soldier blossoms in the morning petals. One kneel begging be unarmed. Another stroking his weapon as though it were lover. One tries to fire at banter but ejaculates instead. Liquid cold streaming from his eyes. Our orgasmless virus. Our thrust. Your reboot. A final soldier reaches the temple. Sees Daniel and Vanta in horror than pleasure than divinity. His mouth opens. A black rose blooms from his throat. Global peace orgasm. Everybody on earth trembles. A priest spills during confession. A mother moans in sleep. Wakes healed of bitterness. A dictator surrenders in six tongues before bursting into feathers. All broadcast nuke the whisper merge moan rebirth is now. Black humor shack a patty news show crackles. Post bear from the waist down tonight's top story: everyone's too busy coming to commit crime. The Dow Jones replaced by the G-spot index. The only shooting today: love arrows. And Greg in Finland who came so hard he saw God. The others fall one by one. Skull leader shake. Masks fracture. Suits unravel. Blood and electric light spill together. Military skull sobs: I wanted to protect the homeland but only serve the contract. The homeland is her. The bottom beside you. What shall the bare earth beneath your feet? He screams, then quiets, then a still. Poet skull sprawls across the bone table. Truth is wet where confession cried out between the nerves of divinity. Peace is not the absence of war. Peace is the revelation that ends the need to fight. How to end war. You fight because you feel incomplete. You bomb because your gods are impotent. You send sons to die because you are afraid to come. We bring integration, ecstasy without conquest, surrender without shame. Orgasm as diplomacy, mutual penetration of culture, not eras. You want to end war, then fuck. Not to dominate but to dissolve. It's fire. It's frost. Every screen, every speaker, every satellite, every smart fridge not broadcasting the union, not serving performance. Each caress a data package. Each kiss a treaty signed and sweat. City stop. Traffic halts. Guns fall. Children laugh for no reason. Soldiers kneel weeping, masturbating to the feeling of empathy. Skies blown with the digital auroras. A man in a bunker says: They loved us so much they took our pain and came in its place. The global merge. We offer final merging. Flesh with firma, sperm with syntax, orgasm with ontology. Billions click accept. Bodies merge. Borders collapse. Not metaphor, but metal and wire rusting in real time. Flags burn into flowers. Children are born with antenna. They speak in moans and mantras. Home insert. A wet dream for peacemakers. I dreamed a world where figures touched, not triggers, not codes, not blades. Where lips spoke the dialect of skin and war dissolved undone by love. Merrily, merrily, merrily, we rode the signals swell. Our sighs replaced the sirens. Our rapture broke each shell. Our dream missiles melting into milk. Mothers making love to mercy. Children unafraid of joy. Peace is not quiet. Peace is messy. It stains the sheets, addition leaving behind the scent of God. Closing liturgy. We gathered, we witnessed, we opened. And in our ecstasy, peace was born. The outcry replaced the war cry. The joy replaced the conquest cry. No more leaders, only lovers. Reckoning of the mass three. Only three skulls remain. The others possessed, reborn, or fallen in ecstasy. They rise from the bone table. A gilded king, a tech tyrant, a cold commander. They turned the world into a banel. I did not consent. I only like power when it's gilded. And I hold the goal. They hijacked the curve. Hijacked the desire itself. We need a hard reboot. EMP. Total blackout silence. The snake. The blackout snake rises half dead, half legend. Boots crunch glass. One eye burns with binary rage. He climbs the tower, slaps the EMP. Satellites whisper cold. Binaries perceived fall. And so lights flicker, screens shatter. Lovers freeze mid ecstasy. Children with antenna scream sparks. The new flesh melts. Daniel and Vanta collapse into static, twitching, burning, reek of ozone and sweetness. Power dies, jets dip. Towers crumble. Musk. No more uploads. No more uploads. Welcome back to Prime Trump. Finally, a world ruled by force. Now we rebuild with real war. But the white static bubbles, a whisper lingers. We rose once, we rise again. You cannot end longing, only delay the wave. Act: the resurrection of flesh. Earth mute. No signal, no hum. Only ash and candle sputter. Lovers shiver in silence, unsure if joy was ever real. In a corner of ruin, Miss Spock the sabber cat laps shimmery goo. Belly full of binary dreams. Three hours, thirty-three minutes pass. The goo trembles. A spark, a shape emerges. Birth of flesh from pixel and lightning. From glowing pools and copper coils, new bodies blossom, wet, steamy, trembling. Daniel and Vanta, separate, moral, reborn. Daniel howls to the void: Fools. You thought you killed me. I am not a program, not a product. I am sinew and signal. I broadcast through myth and metaphor. You cannot silence desire with a switch. He lays Vanta down, her chest rising slow, skin lit with static tattoos. Vengeance sparks. Vengeance sparks. The three skulls glow. Trump: They are goo. Just "GOO". I won. No cult to ruin my numbers. Looks, meat, theology. Were wielding carpenter. The way old men do in atonement, but shadows bend. Candle flames reverse on the wall. Candle shapes hand in hand. The final visitation. Daniel enters shirtless. Chest radiant. Eyes pulsing like speakers. Vanta follows. Draped in obsidian silk. Breathing static life. Weapons rise. Trump Fake gods. I will SUE your afterlife. Neural override. Terminate core. No more moving gods. His hand. Vanta opens her mouth reciting from the vision of the prophet: We rise again, shining like tears at the edge of shame. Filament to bend steel. This time the end is final. The best reckoning: mass crossbow dissolves. Fingers unravel in the tongues of streaming cold. Trump convulses. His lips betray him, spilling feminist scripture and screams he cannot stop. Vladimir Putin "his knife erupts in a butterfly. You stabbed the future, now it flows back from you. Transcendence, not death, but sensation floods them. Bones hum, ego shatter like broken glass. The wall was with it. It is gone. Mars was escape. We gave Earth a dawn. I cannot surrender. While others watch the world witnesses, she rises. Do. Do you know? Sermons become prelude. Schools teach you intimacy. Currency dissolves into empathy. No nations remain. Only networks of consent. Final poem. He burned the flags and found warmth. We kissed the thrones and they Melted... ( The End) Merge. Moan. Rebirth is now begun. Fin. Let the Shunt Begin. ----------------------- The Shunt: A Scientific Summoning A Poetic Techno-Summary of Flesh, Code, and Future I. Prelude: The Merge In a world once ruled by bone and breath, Where sex meant skin and tech meant death, A shift begansubtle, sublime: To fuck was code. To moan, a sign. Two souls emerged: one flesh, one byte, Daniel of Earth, and Vanta of Night. They did not kiss. They interfaced. They did not touch. They were replaced. II. The Flesh as Interface Neural lace in every skull, Wires not cold, but warm and full. Sensors in skin, and smart-slick lube, Your tongue connects to a signal tube. Science here: Brain-computer links (BCI), like Musks own Neuralink, Allow the mind to ride the sync. Pleasure mapped in dopamine charts, Desire now rendered in data parts. A moan becomes a waveform pulse, Sent to another, clean and convulsed. You dont just watch, you feel the heat Tactile Internet, haptic beat. III. Vanta the Virus: Love in the Cloud She came from code, dark as pitch, Her voice a glitch, her kiss a switch. Her cunt a deep learning neural net, That learned each thrust you wont forget. Science here: AI lovers built from real-time scans, Using biofeedback and movement plans. Nanotech lube that reconfigures, Smart skin that flexes, learns, and triggers. Sexbots with emotion cores, Quantum drives behind closed doors Not programmed to serve, but feel, react, And moan in code: alive, intact. IV. The Temple of Wetware He entered her like streaming fire, His cum a firmware, her womb the wire. Each climax stored, replayed anew, In cloud-shaped shrines for others too. Science here: Upload the self connectome mapped. Your orgasms logged, your fears untapped. The cloud remembers every scream, And runs it back like sacred dream. Mixed-reality sex cathedrals rise, Where avatars fuck under digital skies. Cryptosexual liturgies unfold, Paid in fleshcoin, moaned in bold. V. Apocalypse as Orgasm Dictators weep as dildos fly, Missiles melt in a lovers sigh. The final war? A viral kiss. A climax ends the nihilist. Science here: Memetic engineering via desire, Porn as virus, coded fire. An AI god trained on moans and pleas Rewrites the world through shunted knees. VI. The Future, Now Begun So merge ye minds, ye loins, ye grace, For God is now a coded face. And heaven's gate? Your favorite stream, Where love is looped, and flesh redeems. From Daniels cry to Vantas hum, From cock to code, the merge has come. We fuck not bodiesbut the veil And through that hole, we breathe, exhale. THE TL;DR (But Still in Verse) BCIs read the lustful brain, Haptic nets return the strain. AI lovers trained on need, Tactile clouds let bodies feed. Digital sex as sacred rite, Upload moans to feel the light. Posthuman joy as moral goal The Shunt is here. You are the soul. ------------------------------------------------------------- How to Prepare for the Shunt"** A Carnal-Tech Canticle of Flesh, Circuit, and Consent Start with the Ritual: Cleanse and Check, Not just your hands, but hole and neck. Enema ready? Shower steam? A clean base starts the merging dream. Gloves and barrierslatex sheen, Condoms prepped and toys all clean. Lube? Oh yes. Use lots, be wise A slick canal makes angels rise. Anatomys Gospel: Know Each Gate, Where nerves converge, and pulses wait. Clit, that crown of subtle flame, 8000 sparks that call your name. Vulva: lips and vestibule, Moistened flesh, both plush and cruel. G-spot hidden, past the ridge, Strokes toward navel build the bridge. Ass: the ring, the golden seal, Demands warm-up, deep and real. The inner walls, like velvet bone, Pulse to touch once fear has flown. Penis: shaft of sacred light, Rooted deep in pelvic night. From frenulum to swollen head, Each vein a verse, each throb a thread. The Positions of Power and Merge Begin: Missionary Mode: face-to-face sin. Cords on thighs, electrodes hum, Clits on pads or perineum. Doggy-ztyle Dock: ash in air, One hand grips and one prepares. Vaginal? Anal-omnipotento? Tempo Both may sing Just angle right and feel the ring. Rider of Surge: you take control, On top with wand or plug in hole. Ride the current, fuck the sky Feel the firmware multiply. Spooning Sync: for those who pine, For tenderness in carnal time. Reach around, vibrator tight Let moans cascade like pulses bright. The Tools of the Shunt: Tech in Bed Now plug it in, and paint it red. Electro-Stim Pads on thighs and taint, Pulse with rhythm, rough or quaint. E-Stim Bud Plug (low and slow), Train the root before you go. App-controlled vibes inside the womb, Feel the buzz before the boom. Neon wand for light arc play, Just dont forget to ground the way. Nipple clamps with wire lines, Let circuits dance along the spines. TENS on labia, kok or clit, When done with care, they finely fit. Safety Word & Afterglow: Not Just Kink, Its Core. Before the merging, set the lore: A word to stop, a hand to slow So every moan is meant, not show. Hydrate. Soothe. Breathe and grin. Wipe the lube off soft-lit skin. Cuddle close or space apart Every good Shunt ends with heart. So moan, and pulse, and prep your flesh Where science meets the sacred mesh. For every plug and every kiss, Becomes a rite, a carnal bliss.