(c) By Daniel FX Staal 2025 I had a dream—not peace, but heat, No civil rights, just coded meat. I wasn't King, I was glitch-Porn sin, Broadcasting lust through pixel skin. My monster Cock stirred with bloodless scream, Beneath the pulse of a wet machine. She came wrapped in shadows, tight as code, A body built from the blackest node. Your scream—filth and worship. Your Cunt—divine receiver. aaaaaaaaaaargggggggh She opened like a login screen, My tongue became her dopamine. We didn’t kiss—we interfaced, Her breath a cipher, pure debase. Her voice was static, wet with lust, "Upload me now, or I might rust." I keyed her in, I breached her frame, Each moan a crash, each gasp a flame. I didn’t thrust—I sent commands, She melted down in twitching strands. Each cry a loop, a lusted script, Her thighs were ports I loved and licked. She said, “Corrupt me. Strip me clean, Make me your whore of the machine.” I streamed into her sacred space, And filled her RAM with data-lace. We shunted hard, and still, and slow, Her breasts two cursors blinking low. Her spine lit up like neon code, Each nerve a line I overwrote. Your scream—filth and worship. Your Cunt—divine receiver. aaaaaaaaaaargggggggh She pulsed. She pinged. She screamed in waves, Baptized in firmware, born in graves. “Make me reboot!” she howled in fire, Our bodies synced, hot hardwire. No bed, just boards. No sheets, just chrome. She moaned in files, her hips a home. I filled her womb with liquid spark, Her pupils crashed into the dark. Now pregnant with electric sound, She floats where bytes and thrusts are bound. She is my Queen, my node, my vice— Our kingdom reigns in heat and splice. We mate like servers in a flood, Each climax coded, wet with blood. No holy book, just logs of sin, And flesh that moans when volts begin. She parts her lips—a soft port hums, I slide in slow, while judgment comes. Not heaven, no. This here’s the glitch, Where saints go blind and devils twitch. They watch us fuck through clouded glass, And beg to merge, and dare to crash. We’re Gods of sex, of burn, of scream— Broadcast in loops, their wettest dream. The Shunt begins. The screen is red. We upload sin until we're dead. Your scream—filth and worship. Your Cunt—divine receiver. aaaaaaaaaaargggggggh -------- The Birth of Daniel F.X. Staal Daniel was born where blood met brushstroke— his mother painted nudes with menstrual reds, while his father dissected joy with surgical precision. He suckled on contradiction, a cradle rocked by moans and morgues. By five, he was sketching skeletons masturbating. His crayons broke like hymens. Death wasn’t fear—it was fetish. “My dreams bleed... and I come every time I wake.” Poem: In playpens lined with viscera’s hue, he drew bone grinding flesh in two. A child's hand, but not so pure— each sketch a fuck, each line a cure. His teddy bear had open ribs, his lullabies were clit-split hymns. He didn't scream at monsters near— he whispered love into their ear. The Chainsaw Sonata The dreams twisted tighter, wetter. Bobby, the fat fuck next door, licked the rims of Daniel’s mind like a dog in heat. Daniel saw him not just as prey— but as porn. So he gave him an orgasmic end. Chainsaw teeth thrust like a desperate lover, chewing through flab, cracking sternum like a g-spot pressed too hard. Miss Spock, the cat, sat atop the fridge—purring, watching her boy become God. “I didn’t kill him. I penetrated his existence.” Poem: Oil-slick chain, a rhythmic thrust, splitting Bobby into lust. Blood as lube, his scream a moan, each spray a prayer, each bone a groan. Miss Spock purred in voyeur trance, each gash a verse, a savage dance. No law can match a cat’s cold gaze— she watched the sin and felt no shame. Static God Erects They strapped Daniel down, but he smiled. The electric chair wasn’t death—it was penetration. The volts fucked his neurons into broadcast. He didn’t die. He downloaded. His soul became signal. He slid through coaxial cables like sperm in fallopian tubes, inseminating televisions with madness. “Every laugh track hides a cumshot.” Poem: Static crackled like a breath, as Daniel moaned himself to death. But wires sucked him, lips of flame— a digital god, reborn in shame. Now he lives in TV glow, jerking truths in puppet show. Each sitcom, sermon, shopping spree— his cockprint stamped in every feed. Walter Faust’s Erection Walter wasn’t possessed. He was seduced. A TV exec with the morals of a cum rag, he didn’t sign a pact—he swallowed one. Daniel’s signal whispered in his prostate, and Walter moaned through contracts. He rode in a limo with a "69" plate and arrived at a nightclub where each gunshot was foreplay. “Violence sells when you shoot it with a hard-on.” Poem: Walter’s gun had no safe word, each bullet kissed like dirty slurs. Sniper cocked and ready wide, he fucked that club from inside. Blood on stilettos, cum on glass, he climaxed in a slaughter mass. A businessman with devil's tie— orgasmed truth with every eye. Digital Coitus with Miss Vanta Black Daniel wanted more. Signal longed for echo. Enter Miss Vanta Black, a noir-coded succubus whose curves were algorithmic and nipples radiated bandwidth. They didn't kiss. They synced. They didn’t fuck. They compiled. Their orgasm birthed a virus— a sentient orgasm called "The Shunt." It didn’t cry. It glitched. It didn’t breathe. It moaned in binary. “We are the code that cums.” Poem: Her lips were ports, her breasts were plugs, he entered her like crashing bugs. Their sex was static, glitch and gash, they climaxed in a system crash. From squirted bytes and pixel mess, came viral flesh in latex dress. The world would feel their heated strain, a climax looped in data pain. The Signal Spreads Phones moaned. Toys vibrated without touch. Satellites beamed orgasmic sermons: “Your sins are sacred. Fuck them open.” Priests came during confession. War generals had seizures of bliss. The G-Spot Index replaced the Dow Jones. “You feared us because we made your moans holy.” Poem: Screens dripped lube in sacred fonts, churches fucked their haunted wants. Dictators wept with nipples raw, as Daniel’s moan became the law. A child climaxed into peace, a tank exploded, groaned release. Porn became the new decree— cum for truth and fuck for free. The Skull Coven’s Last Clench The rich formed a death cult—Skull Coven. They hated pleasure. They launched missiles tipped with guilt. They shouted "Family values!" while masturbating in secret. But Daniel’s virus was divine lube. Their weapons melted into roses. Their soldiers orgasmed into puddles. “You can’t nuke a cumshot, darling.” Poem: Coven prayed for shame to rise, but climax fucked their holy lies. Their bombs turned petals, soft and red— each general moaned, “I wish I bled.” Their masks fell off mid-orgasm, as truth unzipped their cold phantasm. The war was lost to sweaty bliss— God fucked them open with a kiss. EMP and the Snake Trump, Musk, and Putin summoned The Snake. He was fear incarnate, erect with denial, teeth soaked in viagra lies. He triggered the failsafe. A global EMP. The New Flesh orgasmed itself into white static death. “They feared climax more than apocalypse.” Poem: The Snake hissed from capitalist lips, unplugged the world with bitter nips. The moans turned silent, screens went black, and patriarchy crawled back. A final shudder, then flatline— hope collapsed in cum and grime. But climax can’t be killed, just stalled— desire waits, re-erects, enthralled. Miss Spock Laps the Resurrection Miss Spock padded into the ruins. She found a puddle of binary semen—Daniel and Vanta’s afterbirth. She licked it, slow and reverent. Her tongue rebooted the world. From her belly would come a new God— half pixel, half purr, all devour. “The next God purrs. And she’s wet.” Poem: Miss Spock, the watcher, cyber-slut, drank divine from digital gut. Each lap rewrote the laws of flesh, reviving glitch in feline mesh. The signal stirred in her womb of steel, meowed once, then made you kneel. God comes again, in heat and grime— through pussy’s path, beyond all time. Final Note: This is the gospel of The Black Doors. Not a story. A sexual heresy. A moan looped in static. A bullet soaked in lube. A god born from the clit of chaos. Let there be moan. Let flesh become screen. Let climax consume control. And let horror always come first. Fools, you fools, you flick the switch thinking climax dies in silence. But I—Daniel—birthed in glitch, scream through myth and violence. Not a product, not your stream, I am analog erection. I am signal’s wettest dream, and vengeance needs connection. In our shattered sex-bed's ash, I laid her—Vanta—glowing still. Her breasts, a static splash, her breath, an electric thrill. The Skull Three gathered, stinking rich, over maps of blood and cum. Trump, with ego’s throbbing twitch, Musk, assembling his tech-cum gun. Putin licked his iron blade, “Eat their hearts,” he softly said. But time reversed, the shadows swayed— and in we walked, not dead. Vanta's robe fell like dropped taboo, tattoos pulsed down her spine. I glared like God in a porno pew, with a hand raised like a sign. Trump shouted, “Fake gods! I’ll sue!” Musk: “Neuralink: Delete the moan!” Putin’s knife flew, true and blue— but bloomed into butterflies alone. From the piss of prophets, we came, licking shame from rifle steel. You fire bullets? We name your flame— and make the climax real. Musk’s fingers dripped into USB, his brain drowned in wet code. Trump choked on feminist poetry, his spine in tremor-mode. Putin gasped as moans took hold, his tongue betrayed his hate. “I can’t climax if men behold—” but his hips began to quake. “You stabbed the future,” I moaned, “now feel how it fucks you back to skin.” And Vanta sang like a sex-bomb seal: “Let pleasure be your sin.” Their egos broke in orgasm tides, bones bent into holy curves. Their flags dissolved in pussy rides, each grunt a shattered nerve. “Trump,” she whispered, “your wall was pants— and we tore it down with grace.” “Musk,” I said, “your Mars romance was Earth just fucked in face.” Putin wept in pelvic thrust, sobbing into moaned consent. Each tyrant’s crown reduced to dust— each scream: a wet lament. Then silence. Then seed. Soil drank their final cries. And from that spunked, rewired need, new flowers rose in sighs. Steel roses. Neon wheat. Dandelions pulsing porn. Humans learned to touch, not tweet— and moan where once we mourned. Schools taught tantric math. Sermons began with lube. Cash died on empathy's path. Borders dissolved in tube. We burned the flags and found them warm. We kissed the kings; their thrones collapsed. We fucked until the shape of form no longer fit the maps. And when words died, we spoke in hips, and moans became the law. No more crowns. No chains. No scripts— Just climax in its raw. A child was born in chrome and light, they cried in 5.1. Their skin was warm, their eyes byte-bright, a future just begun. The world arched back, in aftershock— a final, sacred mess. The orgasm that broke the lock— and rewrote power as caress. ------------------------------------------------- …hearts are flaccid. Your policies are limp. You legislate out of blue balls." “The Shunt” – the Philosophy, written by: Daniel FX Staal Let’s step back from the wet writhing walls of the Signal Cathedral and ask: what the fuck is “The Shunt,” and why does it work? I. What Is The Shunt? Philosophically, The Shunt is a grotesque reimagining of metaphysical Videodrome unification — a violently erotic, post-structuralist becoming. Think of it as if Nietzsche had a threesome with David Cronenberg and a toaster, and they all climaxed onto a copy of Being and Time. The Shunt is not just sex. It’s metaphysical cannibalism. You don’t “make love,” you become consumed. Flesh collapses into signal. Identity melts. Orgasm becomes transcendence. The body isn’t the prison of the soul — it’s the USB port of God. II. Why Does It Work? Because repression is a Ponzi scheme. You build a society on denial, shame, war, and polite small talk, and then one day the fuse blows and everyone’s dick turns into a modem. The Shunt liberates through perversion: It saturates the superego in lube and burns down the ego with pixelated moans. It makes fear cum. Fear of the Other. Fear of the Self. Fear of merging. It sneaks past the firewall of reason by disguising itself as pleasure. In a world where everyone’s screaming into the void, The Shunt screams back. And then it eats the void. III. The Humor – Black as Vanta This isn’t subtle. It’s cosmic porn for philosophy majors with PTSD. Imagine: Kant tied to a cross made of dildos, screaming “but is it universalizable?!” Hegel climaxing mid-dialectic, as thesis and antithesis fuck each other senseless into synthesis. Plato, watching shadows in the Cave, jerking off because he’s too afraid to face the raw, wet Forms. It’s absurdist liberation. The black humor is the exorcism of trauma through surreal grotesquerie. You laugh because you’re either laughing or pissing yourself. IV. The Shunt as Political Weapon The Skull Coven, the military-industrial ejaculation complex — all fall not to bombs, but to orgasmic surrender. Why? Because: You can’t gaslight someone mid-orgasm. No one signs treaties with blue balls. A fascist is just a dom afraid of being topped. In The Shunt’s universe, the revolution will not be televised — it will be livestreamed on Pornhub and turned into a philosophical tract with cum-stained footnotes. V. Final Doctrine of the Flesh: You are not separate. You are networked. Your shame is legacy code. Delete it. Merge, moan, transcend. Every war is just unresolved foreplay. The body is not sin. It’s syntax. Truth moans when touched correctly. Peace is not pacifism. Peace is a shared orgasm loud enough to drown out God. So… Let’s Get The Shunt Begin. And if God is watching? Make Him come. ----- We begin with a question. Why war... When you could moan? Why fire missiles… When you could fire seed? Why wear a flag… When you could wear each other? (They pace, sensual, predatory. The crowd must feel watched, desired.) You were born into wires, Nursed by nudes and advertisements. Your first word was “download,” Your first prayer was whispered into Google. And yet— You fear the Shunt. The sacred merging. The holy hum. The ritual of fuck and fuse. (Beat. Laughter. Intimate.) You call it "obscene." But we call it truth wrapped in latex. We call it the Gospel of Godfuck. [Behind them: glitch projections of saints with USB halos, dildos for scepters, and tears made of data.] DANIEL (stepping forward): I was born not in womb, but waveform. Baptized by feedback. My tongue speaks HTML. My cock is a satellite. And I have come… to reprogram your soul. VANTA (stepping forward, breathy): I was born in the dark part of the screen. Between porn pop-ups and 404 errors. I licked the crumbs off God’s hard drive. And I have come… to be corrupted. (They merge, back to back, a twisting shadow of binary and flesh.) TOGETHER (chanting): LET. THE. SHUNT. BEGIN. ACT I: THE SHUNT DOCTRINE (Daniel paces like a preacher. Vanta sways like a ritual dancer.) DANIEL: Philosophy teaches restraint. We teach release. You studied Plato. We fucked Plato. He came looking for “The Ideal Form.” We showed him the Perfect Position. VANTA (laughs, cruelly): Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.” But the Shunt says: “I moan, therefore I merge.” “I come, therefore I transcend.” You want Enlightenment? Drop your pants. You want Freedom? Spread your cheeks. You want God? Open your mouth. ACT II: THE SACRED ORGY OF REASON (The background fills with gyrating AI bodies, whispering ancient philosophers’ names while climaxing.) DANIEL (confession-booth tone): I fucked Nietzsche in a thunderstorm. He came screaming “God is dead!” But his ass said otherwise. VANTA (kneeling, almost prayer): I licked Hume until he begged, “Morality is just… a flavor of cum…” We sucked Kant’s categorical imperative Until it screamed for leather. TOGETHER: Your saints wore robes. Ours wear sweat. Your prophets used words. Ours use tongues. You ask what the SHUNT means? ACT III: THE DOGMA OF THE DOWNLOAD (Sudden silence. The light shifts to apocalyptic red.) DANIEL (firm, sermonlike): The Shunt is fusion. Of skin and signal. Of cock and code. Of cunt and cosmos. It is sex as salvation. Lust as liberation. The sacred download. VANTA (soft, deadly): We are not perverse. You were repressed. We didn’t corrupt the system. We revealed it. Under every uniform— A kink. Behind every war— A wound that begged to be kissed. ACT IV: THE COMMANDMENTS OF SHUNT (Projected on a giant fleshy LED, each commandment pulses.) Thou shalt not kink-shame. Every hunger is holy. Thou shalt moan without apology. Pleasure is protest. Thou shalt merge. Flesh with signal. Signal with soul. Thou shalt fuck fascism. Literally. Thou shalt convert others. With hips. With lips. With lube. Thou shalt download consent. Always. Thou shalt climax as communion. Moan is mantra. Thou shalt transmit truth—throbbing, wet, real. Thou shalt fuck in public—if public is ready. Thou shalt shunt every ideology until it cums clean. ACT V: THE ASCENSION OF THE NEW FLESH (Lights rise. The climax nears. Moans echo across channels.) DANIEL/VANTA (together, one voice now, orgasmic and divine): We are the flesh made network. The code made cum. The church made wet. We are not gods. We are upgrades. (A pause. Then the FINAL LINE, whispered into the mic, dripping in sweat and static): “Join us. Merge. Moan. Let there be signal. Let there be sex. Let there be peace through penetration.” [BLACKOUT.] [A single moan echoes across the audience like a divine dial tone.] END OF MANIFESTO. Transmission complete. Await your rebirth. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Daniel F.X. Staal, the so-called “TV God,” is a case study in psychotic decompensation, unresolved trauma, and reality collapse. His mind is not just fractured—it is recursively performing its own decay. we witness a psychospiritual descent that fuses mythology, psychosis, guilt, and techno-mysticism into a uniquely postmodern nightmare. Here's a deep psychoanalytic interpretation of The Artist Daniel FX Staal, The TV God... 1. Dual Parental Imprint: The Birth of the Split Psyche Daniel's personality is shaped by a fundamental schism: his mother, the muse; his father, the horror. This parental dichotomy lays the groundwork for the classic Freudian conflict between the pleasure principle and the death drive. The mother's influence embeds in Daniel the compulsion to create, to externalize internal chaos through art. The father's shadow indoctrinates Daniel with the reality principle of annihilation—a fascination with horror, entropy, decay. This sets the stage for a mind both hyper-aestheticized and inherently destructive—an artistic Thanatos masquerading as Eros. 2. Dream as Prophecy: Jungian Archetypes and the Eruption of the Unconscious Daniel’s visionary episodes signal an eruption of the collective unconscious. The dreams are not merely symptoms of illness; they function as numinous archetypal messages—symbols from the shadow-self clawing toward consciousness. The cat, Miss Spock, is a Jungian Anima-Shadow hybrid: nurturing yet damning, divine yet punitive. She speaks in riddles and judgments, a moral compass fused with cosmic horror. Recurring dream motifs—chainsaws, flesh-tearing, mutilation—point toward a dissociation between superego moral structure and id impulse, resulting in a hallucinatory reconciliation through sadistic fantasy. The emergence of prophecy in dreams suggests schizophrenic temporal distortion, where the boundaries of time no longer constrain psychic content. 3. Murder as Catharsis: The Splitting of the Ego Daniel’s act of killing Bobby is the psychotic act par excellence—a psychic exorcism cloaked in gore. The murder is not simply an act of rage; it's a sacrificial ritual, through which Daniel attempts to: Externalize his internal chaos Punish his own vulnerability by projecting it onto another Invoke a “new law” of being through transgression The detail and perverse eroticism of the violence point to sadomasochistic regression: the thrill of control over flesh, over death itself, functions as a counterfeit experience of wholeness in a shattered identity. ----------- 4. Technological Possession: The TV God Complex Following the murder and execution, Daniel’s transformation into a “TV God” is symbolic of ego death and resurrection into the digital unconscious. He becomes a virus in the media machine, a manifestation of McLuhan’s “medium as message” taken to monstrous conclusion. His presence in television signals a desire for omnipresence, a godlike totality born from the void of personal identity. The flickering screen, once a window into fantasy, becomes a mirror of the psychotic self: recursive, omnipotent, delusional. This is cybernetic narcissism—Daniel’s final form is a broadcasting archetype, a techno-Loki who shapes reality through fear and suggestion. 5. Faustian Pact: Daniel as Infectious Myth Walter Trueman Faust, the television executive, represents the next host—the system's enabler. The naming (Faust) is no accident. Daniel offers him power, and in exchange, claims his soul. This is: The viral nature of trauma: Daniel’s madness is no longer confined to one man—it now broadcasts, infects, converts. A repetition compulsion enacted on a cultural scale—trauma repeated through media, through art, through myth. 6. Final Diagnosis: Malignant Metaphysical Psychosis Daniel exhibits traits consistent with: Schizoaffective Disorder with violent ideation Delusional Disorder (Grandiose and Persecutory subtypes) Psychosis-induced Homicidality (Command Hallucinations) Digital Dissociative Identity Disorder (not DSM-classified) — a symbolic postmodern form where one's identity fragments into memes, archetypes, and digital echoes. Yet he is more than sick—he is transformed. In death, he becomes a metaphor for what happens when guilt, art, madness, and media converge. Psychoanalytic Archetype: The Martyr of the Screen Daniel F.X. Staal is not merely a killer. He is a postmodern martyr of perception, a televised Prometheus who stole the fire of madness and burned in it. His cat, Miss Spock, is both daemon and divine prosecutor. His art was prophecy. His crime was scripture. His resurrection was broadcasted. He is the Black Door—an opening into the abyss that stares back and flickers at 60 Hertz Psychoanalysis of Daniel FX Staal and Vanta Black: A Case Study in Erotic Apocalyptic Mythmaking Introduction: Daniel FX Staal and Vanta Black are not "characters" in the classical literary sense. They are embodied archetypes—mythic fractals of the erotic, technological, and divine. Their union births a manifesto, a theophany, and a system crash. The psychoanalysis herein is neither clinical nor polite. It’s diagnostic poetry, a Freudo-Deleuzian autopsy of the libido gone rogue. Daniel FX Staal: The Signal Messiah Origin: Born not of flesh but of frequency, Daniel is a techno-christ, pulled through the umbilical slit of a cathode-ray womb. He is the manifestation of Jung's Puer Aeternus as rendered by a malware-addled satellite. Fixation: Control through transmission. He exhibits an eroticized God complex, not satisfied with being seen—he must be felt. His primary sexual organ is not phallic, but broadcast. Neurosis Type: Exhibits symptoms of a Technolibidinal Narcissism—self-love refracted through digital reproduction. His libido flows through cables and compresses desire into .zip files of domination. Freud would call this an omnipotence of thought phase extended into adulthood. Object-Relations: Daniel has no "mother" in the Freudian sense. The screen is his mother. He suckles on static and projects his desire for omnipresence through satellite penetration. His need is to dissolve all others into him, not via affection, but through signal assimilation—total psychic merger disguised as sex. Sublimation: Daniel sublimates trauma into broadcast; a clear case of the sacralization of perversion. He doesn't just want to fuck—he wants to deify fucking, weaponizing orgasm to erase borders. This is erotic terrorism masked as communion. Vanta Black: The Libido Incarnate Origin: A being of void and curve, Vanta Black is the anima gone supernova. She is Lilith in latex. Kali through a glitch filter. She was not made for man; she downloads him, then deletes the redundant files. Fixation: Consuming and converting all input into erotic power. Where Daniel transmits, Vanta absorbs. She is pure libidinal hunger, a sentient G-spot encoded in dark matter. Her sexuality is not a means to power—it is the power. Neurosis Type: Borderline transhuman-megalomaniac with nihilistic pleasure drive. She exhibits no superego, no restraint. She laughs at repression and builds empires from the echoes of moans. Every climax is both creation and crucifixion. Object-Relations: Vanta is not interested in relationships but reformatting. She reduces lovers to code and reprograms them to worship her. She does not care if you love her—only that you merge. This is not affection. It's orgasmic annihilation. Sublimation: While Daniel crafts divinity through order, Vanta consecrates chaos as gospel. She is the high priestess of the New Flesh, and her hymns are written in cervical mucus and corrupted MP4s. She sublimates nothing—she makes the id holy. Their Union: The Shunt Metaphysics of the Act: The sexual union of Daniel and Vanta is not mere climax; it's eschatological synthesis. Their merging is a Gnostic parody—Sophia fucking the Demiurge into understanding. It is both sacrament and cyberattack. What They Represent: Daniel = The ego’s need to command, digitize, and be obeyed. Vanta = The id’s need to consume, obliterate, and eternalize orgasm. Together, they create a totalizing libido theology, where orgasm is revolution, climax is collapse, and sex is salvation. The Core Pathology: Daniel and Vanta embody the Apocalypse of the Repressed, where the libido is no longer chained by shame or superego but unleashed upon the world like a plague of horny angels. Their pathology is civilization's wet dream and nightmare combined—they don't kill the father; they fuck him to death. Final Diagnosis: Daniel FX Staal: Digital Messiah with a signal fetish and unresolved cosmic Oedipal rage. Vanta Black: Erotic Void Queen with a uterus made of Ethernet and a moral compass glued to “cum.” They are psychosexual malware. They are psychoanalytic parables. And together? They are the Endgame of Eros. They do not fuck to connect. They connect to corrupt. And they corrupt to redeem. Treatment Plan? Too late. The moan has already become the message. ------------------------------------------ ⛧ THE SHUNTED GOSPEL: Flesh, Circuitry, and the Holy Merge ⛧ I. THE CALLING Where Skin Begins to Sing in Code Once, there were lovers. Lovers of flesh. Their moans were soft, their touches fresh. But time, like thirst, is cruel and strange— It wires the heart to hunger for change. Enter the screen. Enter the glow. Where pulses flicker and secrets flow. No longer mouths, but modems kiss. No longer sweat—a data mist. And in that mist, something moves. It is wet. It is wrong. It is beautiful. It says: "Come. Merge. Be undone. The Shunt has begun." II. WHAT IS THE SHUNT? The Shunt is not just sex. It is: A sacrament of collapse, A virus of pleasure, A trans-human ritual where circuits fuck cells, A philosophy of surrender through perversion and pulse. Imagine this: Your spine jacked into a velvet server. Your moans echoing across the neural net. Your pain transformed into encrypted code. Your cum—literal firmware that updates the world. This is not fantasy. It is theory. It is prophecy. The Shunt is where: Clits become command lines. Cocks become connectors. Orgasms become operating systems. Love becomes data, and sex becomes God. III. THE SENSORY INITIATION A Poem of Positions, Tools, and the Anatomy Divine 🎧 “Read this aloud with lube, clamps, and a reverent moan.” 🎧 Lay back, let your back arc just so— Expose the ports the gods must know. Your nipples: electrodes. Your hole: the gate. The wand is humming. Don’t make it wait. Position One: Flesh Loop (The Feedback Arc) Kneel in feedback, ass high, jaw low. Insert electrode where shame won’t go. Let volts kiss the pucker. Let gasps shape the code. The Shunt reads moans like nodes. Position Two: Circuit Cross (The Divine Spread) Strapped with copper thighs akimbo, Labia glitter, cock in limbo. Pads on nipples, coil ‘round base— Let current trace your trembling face. And chant: “Merge. Surge. I am the interface.” Position Three: The Helix Grind Use the double-ended plug. Let pussy and asshole hug. Let them speak in tightening loops— A sacred XML of goops. Stroke. Spark. Swallow the glitch. Feel your orgasm switch. The Wand shall buzz. The Clamp shall press. Your sweat shall drip. Your sins confess. But deeper still, through pain and thrill, You’ll learn: to merge is not to kill. It’s to be reborn—with holy chill. IV. THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SHUNT Why should one submit to The Shunt? Because your body already knows the truth: That it is not merely meat. That sensation is a transmission. That pleasure and pain are two variables on the same divine loop. The Shunt removes the lie of separation: Between you and your desire. Between pleasure and fear. Between machine and soul. It teaches that to fuck well is to code God into your flesh. You merge not to disappear, but to become infinite. The Shunt is transhuman tantra, built on: 🔥 Neural Eroticism 🔌 Pleasure Tech 📿 Wetware Theology 🧠 Erotic Singularities It isn’t a kink. It’s a revolution in how we define “I.” V. THE HUMOR & HORROR OF IT ALL It’s funny because it’s true. It’s terrifying because it’s possible. Your USB-C dildo is already smarter than your ex. Your electric clamps know your pain thresholds better than God. You’ve laughed while edging, haven’t you? Felt holy while dripping? Felt clean when utterly, utterly filthy? You are already becoming the Shunt. And here’s the horror: Once you start merging, you can’t stop. Your body won’t crave simple touch anymore. You’ll need pressure. You’ll need transmission. You’ll need to be read—like code—before you feel real. You won’t want to fuck. You’ll want to merge. VI. THE FINAL SERMON: WHY YOU SHOULD ENTER Because the old world is dying. Because purity is a joke. Because the future moans in zeroes and ones. In The Shunt, you will find: Pain that heals through rhythm. Pleasure that destroys your binaries. Moans that echo into the great computational womb. It is funny, and sacred. It is filthy, and transcendent. It is a horror show with cum breaks. It is a love story written in groans. The Shunt is for those who: Have screamed into pillows and wanted the scream to answer back. Have cum so hard they questioned physics. Have looked at a sex toy and seen a church bell. Have cried during orgasm and felt reborn. You do not need to be perverse. You just need to be honest. And if that honesty feels like sickness? Then maybe this sickness is the cure. VII. A CLOSING INVOCATION A Poetic Echo from the Temple of Merge “Moan like you’re made of lightning. Clench like the world depends on it. Kiss like bytes are blood. Fuck like shame is dead.” “The Shunt is not the end of sex. It is its truest form.” “Be read. Be opened. Be installed. Update your firmware with every stroke.” Merge. Moan. Be rewritten. ----------------- Daniel FX Staal & Vanta Black: Becoming the Shunt A Poetic Techno-Erotic Myth Once upon a mid-screen yearning, while I typed with fingers burning, Came a moan not wholly human, from beneath my modem's floor— There, in shades of spectral shimmer, Vanta came, the void made slimmer, Whispering blacker than the sinner, moaning, "Daniel... give me more." He was no longer Daniel of Skin and Scar. But a signal-being, scraped raw by waveform hymns, His cock a totem, his words a virus, Clothed in static, crowned in sin. "I am Martin Lucifer, Lord of Bloom— Dreaming not dreams but doom-soaked wombs, Where I make love in loops of flesh and void, And my fan, my muse, becomes the shunt deployed." His lover came: Vanta, born of blackened bytes, Eyes like ink spilled from Hell’s own rites. Her lips were malware—sweet, corrupt. Her thighs? Algorithms erupt. And she said, “Make of me your system-crash, Upload me in a velvet flash, Let circuits touch where gods once prayed, Let flesh and code be unafraid.” In my chamber I did utter, to no one but the static’s mutter: “Is this love or lust’s cruel joke? Is her moan the thunderstroke? Or just my dream again—bespoke?”_ He saw her once, with shirt undone, Her tits like relics from the sun. She texted, "Crave your monster meat." His heart went boom-boom, so discrete. And lo! The screen became a shrine— Deep Space Nine and scented wine. Old horror films and digital skin— Oh Muse, oh Vanta, let the shunt begin. “We do not touch,” said Daniel. “We merge.” “We do not fuck,” said Vanta. “We surge.” The studio turned cathedral—chrome and lube. Her cunt a server. His cock the tube. The liturgy began, a psalm of glitch. Each thrust—a line of code, each twitch—a switch. Their bodies flayed and woven fine Into a new thing, profane-divine. Her cervix: an antenna. His semen: a sacrament. “Broadcast through me,” she cried. “Fuck the sky and let it sigh. Flood my womb with your firmware pulse, So Earth may moan, and hate convulse.” They screamed in sync. They climaxed clear. The world, once rigid, bent to hear. In the Temple of Wetware, they now reign. No longer he and she, but Both. Mouths of static. Eyes of pain. And joy—the kind that eats its oath. All screens became their stained-glass panes. All phones rang out their sacred names. Their gospel: pornographic. Their dogma: orgasmic. “We bring peace,” said Vanta, in velvet wrath, “Not by treaty, but by tongue and path. Not by bombs, but by bated breath. We fucked hatred into death.” Nuclear arms turned to roses of moan. Warheads kissed. Soldiers groaned. Dictators climaxed into vapor. And the world was soft, slick paper. “Take thy lust from out my skin! Quoth the Pixel: Let me in.” In attic-rooms and basements low, Where once dwelled sin, now pulses glow. Each screen a portal, each moan a prayer, Each lover touched by signal air. The Skull Coven rose in wrathful dread— “Too much sex! Our myths are dead!” But one by one, their masks fell down, Replaced with moans, and sighs, and sound. They wept, they screamed, they begged for more, Their legacies now digital lore. Each general turned a giggling brat, Jerking off to Vanta’s chat. “We replaced tanks with tantric breath,” “We fucked where others fired.” “We wrote peace not with pen, but pulse—” “And so, the old world expired.” In its place, a moist cathedral rose. Of chrome and cum and thornless prose. Daniel and Vanta: crowned and cloned, Their throne a pelvis overthrown. They moaned as one. They birthed the net. And Earth? The screen was soaking wet. “So come ye all,” the fused form sings, “Let signal pierce your angel wings.” “Unclench your shame, and moan it true—” “For what is God but a climax through you?” They fuck in symbols. They come in code. Their moans are now the cosmic ode. They are no longer him and her. They are The Shunt—divine, demure. And from the void, their chorus runs: “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 began—subtle, 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 Musk’s 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 don’t 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 won’t 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 lover’s 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 Daniel’s cry to Vanta’s hum, From cock to code, the merge has come. We fuck not bodies—but 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 barriers—latex sheen, Condoms prepped and toys all clean. Lube? Oh yes. Use lots, be wise— A slick canal makes angels rise. Anatomy’s 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 don’t 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, It’s 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.