So America is over. The capitalization is now permanently skewered to exhibit the rank behavior at the top. The gilded hand of Eighties opulence has descended upon the historically-White house, and in four years it will resemble more closely the most ornate Mexican-baroque cathedrals, than the staid share-cropper’s plantation-house museum of local curios that it is now. When #TRUMP moves in, he will paint it over with his own personal brand of bland reliquary gawd.
But will he move in? For a man who considers himself “too big” for the presidency, residency seems inconsequential. He has expressed his desire to not live there, so close to the press pool and the actual machines of governance. This is in keeping with his refusal to accept a salary. Through the distance afforded him by the large bills he can afford to pay, he seeks an elevated power position free from the constraints usually physically incumbent on occupant of the real office. He wants to float at the top of the tree of life, on a petrol-dollar-insulated perch above the power vacuum. He intends, merely, to add America® to the United Brands of Trump®. He’ll most likely stay in the penthouse of his new hotel.
As his name is being torn off buildings across then nation and around the world, he is emblazoning it large across the face of the national character. Perhaps it’s best if we let him limit his furnishing to his private home, and entertain state guests in his own, massive ballrooms. Let’s turn the old residence into a museum, where the children of this new and nameless political philosophy of wanton Eighties excess can come and learn about the halcyon days of a believable representative democracy.
Hello. My name is Owen Ferguson, and if this is the first time you’ve read of me, well, you should know that I admitted to precrime and served time in jail for merely owning a legally-registered long gun. This occurred in the district of turtle island currently known as Canada, where no federal constitutional covenant protects the right of the citizenry to self-arm. That’s because there is no federation in that territory as of yet, but that’s a discussion for another screed.
In 2001 A romantic rival pointed out to police that I had legally received a Firearms Acquisition Certificate (FAC), and had used it to purchase a shotgun. This was used as justification for a warrant to search my apartment and arrest me, because three other men had killed women in romantic disputes in Toronto, with guns, that same summer. Ipso facto, that must have been my plan too, right? Anyway, I was jailed, and my apartment was searched, and they found nothing. Having no need of a shotgun in Toronto, I had locked it up a my parents home, in hunting country, 2 hours north.
Nevertheless, once you are engaged with the court system, it’s impossible to disengage with grace. There’s a common belief among freemen that standing on point of principle is the easiest thing to do, if you’re really right. That’s bullshit. Even if you know you’re innocent, you can’t ever prove it. Instead, I bargained away until I got out with only minimal time served. The gun, which I still hadn’t completely paid off, was duly surrendered to police, as was my FAC and registration card. I was banned from owning a gun for 10 years, and put on probation – after a year under house arrest during pretrial negotiation. We never actually got to a trial, because I didn’t want to martyr myself for 5 years over a cause I don’t really give a shit about.
You see, I didn’t buy that gun with killing anyone in particular in mind. Just anybody who I could. During my training for the FAC, I was required to manually load and unload a number of different firearms, a Remington 12-gauge pump-action shotgun among them. As soon as I picked it up, I experienced a moment of clarity. Specifically, I had a flashback to a specific scene in a specific movie:
I knew, in that moment, what guy I would buy when my FAC finally arrived, a year-and-a-half later. The shotgun seems the ideal weapon to represent the few noble virtues to which the NRA clings like a limpet mine. Close-quarters and low-skill for home defense, versatile for hunting, a real civil militia weapon. But I didn’t give a shit about that. I gave a shit about how it made me feel in my taint when I brandished it. How the fine nickel finish gleamed in the sun like a glint in the eye of a reaper in a Viagra rage. How the syncopation of its breach mechanic slammed open and shut with amoral precision, ruthlessness, military efficiency. Like bomb release interconnect, or a Vickers gun, or a German-engineered crematory door. It satiated my death fixation.
Now, in discussions with people at the time, I would, of course, tote out the old party lines, about wanting to learn to be the responsible head of a household, and hunting, and utility (I grew up in farm country, where guns are used to kill all sorts of different things, not just folk.) I would present the tyranny argument as well, despite that fact that it’s such utter bullshit to think that small arms mater, at all, in the face of the technocratic bureaucracy of overwhelming force. In short, I bought it because I could, and I had no intention of using it on anybody, although I immediately started hoping that people would give me that opportunity.
I found that I suddenly wanted to be the victim of a home invasion, so that I would have a chance to fire my weapon in anger, legally, and thereby illustrate the value of my having purchased it in the first place. Maybe that’s a cop thing. I was an Ontario Provincial Police marine-forces cadet in high school, and while they didn’t let me carry a gun, I got to see, first hand, how the guns changed the character of the troops I served with. There was a callous brutishness, a sort of cynical sarcasm that existed there, among the ranks who are supposed to protect us, before it manifested in the popular gestalt. This was before tazers allowed Canadian cops the option of killing with impunity, of course.
Maybe I picked up the scent of death from those cops. Sharing all those cramped quarters out at sea, in the forecastles of different ship. Maybe it’s something innate. Regardless, the Justice of the Peace obviously saw something when I was dragged before her, sleepless and unshaven, with only a novice public defender, after 48 hours in rough police custody. “You look like a murder about to happen,” she said, and she was right. If I’d had my shotgun then, I would have painted the portrait of Queen Elizabeth The Second with her not-even-a-real-judge brains. But I didn’t, of course, and her body shame was enough to get me 3 weeks in jail before I could even secure a bail hearing, because she decided I was worthy of a “dangerous offender” designation, the Canadian court system’s scarlet letter. Because, you know, guns are dangerous.
So I did some jail time and saw and experienced the type of horrendous shit that you don’t talk about, and then I did a much longer period of house arrest while on bail, which is melancholic and debilitating but not the abject horror show of incarceration, and then I spent some years on probation, which basically means you can’t have any job that doesn’t involve mopping. Eventually it was over, and the two lingering effects on my life are that I was never able to join the Navy – even as a gun-free chaplain – and that I will never have credit good enough to actually live in Canada. I haven’t sought out guns since, because, ultimately, the’re some stupid bullshit that will more likely fuck up your life than save it, and who needs that?
Did my arrest prevent a specific, identifiable threat? No. Did it help prevent the occurrence of broad, general tragedy? Possibly. I honestly don’t know what my breaking point would have been, if I had been allowed to keep a gun, and if anything could have triggered me enough to set me on the path of using that Gun to do the things it was designed to do. Maybe it saved someone else’s life. Maybe it saved mine. Maybe not.
When even the best rappers are calling for gun control, I think maybe I’ve been wrong all these years, and the system that disarmed me was right.
Yesterday a 14-year-old student entered Dunbarton High School in Pickering, Ontario, and attacked 9 people with a knife. The student identifies as “gender-fluid,” and so we have attempted to avoid the error made by most other news sources, which by-and-large refer to the attacker using female nouns and pronouns.
Prior to the attack, the attacker made a number of posts to a tumblr account explicitly foreshadowing the attack. Although these posts have since been redacted from the feed by whomever now has custody of the account, the internet never forgets.
As your primary source for uncensored national news about teen angst on the internet, Obscene Works has secured a clean scrape of the attacker’s front page as it appeared prior to the attacks.
The posts from the feed drop a litany of obvious clues as to the attacker’s intentions. They also paint a picture of a child who experiences zero support from their own parents, even when openly contemplating assault with a deadly weapon.
I’m kinda shaking and freaking out right now because I really want to go to school tomorrow with knives and just hurt and kill as many people as I can. That’s not normal and I don’t know what to do. I’m pretty panicked.
Why can’t I just be normal?
I hate not knowing what to do anymore. My mom thinks calling the police is too over the top for my problem. Like, I’m literally planning to go on a stabbing spree at school tomorrow. The hell am I meant to do? Just casually wait for it to happen? I’m not so sure that will go over too well with the police.
Based on my research the best I can hope for is getting sent to jail for years and hoping for parole. Probably won’t happen. What I’d REALLY love is to die. But Canada apparently doesn’t have death sentences. Maybe I can get the police to shoot and kill me at the school when they show up. That would be nice.
It feels strange to think of myself as a soon-to-be school stabber. I’d heard of school shooters, and always thought “that would never be me!”. Well, I’m not a shooter, but a stabber isn’t much better. I’ll continue to suffer until I can die. I’ll never be okay, I’m too far gone. All I want is to kill now. I’d actually like to have a gun to shoot. It would be easier to kill people with. But I guess a knife will do.
I’ve tried to kill myself in the past to prevent this. I knew this would happen. I just knew something would go wrong. But I think it’s too late to prevent now. There’s nothing I can do. I’ll be hated for the rest of my life, by others and by myself. Nobody likes those who try to kill people. I wonder if this is what insanity is like. But insane people don’t know they’re insane, right? So I can’t be insane. Just frustrated and depressed.
I never wanted this. I just wanted to be normal. But I don’t think I’ll get the chance now.
There’s a train track near where I live. Just something for me to consider if I don’t go through with the school stabbing on Tuesday (assuming I even go to school Tuesday)
I’m going to commit a high school stabbing today. I’m not coming back.
As usual, we provide the digital source material for your download here. It is available as a pay-what-you-want-or-nothing-at-all DRM-free digital download.
While the identity of the attacker remains something of an intentional mystery, the associated Tumblr account does give some tantalizing clues, including a number of photos, which have, at the time of our publication, not been redacted.
Obscene Works has a reputation for exposing rapists. Since no other medium is reporting that US Presidential Candidate Hillary Clinton faces un-investigated rape allegations, we find it our duty to do so here.
The allegations occur mid-way through the book TRANCE: Formation of America, a memoir by US citizen and CIA abuse victim Cathy O’Brien. In the book, which documents years of abuse O’Brien suffered as a child born into a highly-placed family with a history of sexual abuse, we learn how she was psychologically and physically abused, including “artistic” genital mutilation designed to increase her market value as a sexually trafficked individual. When she was sixteen she was introduced to Bill Clinton, who raped her on a number of occasions, before eventually discovering that Hillary had done the same. This incident took place well before the first Clinton presidency.
[Bill] Clinton responded, “I don’t care. Get her the fuck out of here.” Hall’s wife led me away and locked me in a back bedroom. After an indeterminate period of time, I heard her telephone Hillary at the guest villa. She then drove me up the mountain through the dark to meet with Hillary.
Although I had previously met Hillary we had very little to say to each other – particularity since I was still dazed and tranced from the tortures I had endured at the CIA Near Death Trauma Center in Lampe. Hillary knew I was a mind-controlled slave, and, like Bill Clinton, just took it in stride as a “normal” part of life in politics.
Hillary was fully clothed and stretched out on the bed sleeping when Hall’s wife and I arrived.
“Hillary, I brought you something you’ll really enjoy. Kind of an unexpected surprise. Bill ordered her out of the meeting and I look her to my bedroom and made an interesting discovery. She is literally a two- faced (referring to my vaginal mutilation carving) bitch.”
“Hmm?” Hillary opened her eyes and sleepily roused herself “Show me.”
Hall’s wife ordered me to take my clothes off while Hillary watched. “Is she clean?” Hillary asked, meaning disease free.
“Of course, she’s Byrd’s,” she responded, continuing the conversation as though I were not there, “Plus, I heard Houston say something about her being a Presidential Model, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”
“It means she’s clean,” Hillary said matter-of-factually as she stood up. I was not capable of giving thought to such things back then, but I am aware in retrospect that all Presidential Model slaves I knew seemed to have an immunity to social diseases. It was a well known fact in the circles I was sexually passed around in that government level mind-controlled sex slaves were “clean” to the degree that none of my abusers took precautions such as wearing condoms.
Hall’s wife patted the bed and instructed me to display the mutilation. Hillary exclaimed, “God!” and immediately began performing oral sex on me. Apparently aroused by the carving in my vagina, Hillary stood up and quickly peeled out of her matronly nylon panties and pantyhose. Uninhibited despite a long day in the hot sun, she gasped, “Eat me, oh, god, eat me now.” I had no choice but to comply with her orders, and Bill Hall’s wife made no move to join me in my distasteful task. Hillary had resumed examining my hideous mutilation and performing oral sex on me when Bill Clinton walked in. Hillary lifted her head to ask, “How’d it go?”
None of the parties involved were ever investigated or charged in the matter, despite that fact that Ms. O’Brien’s full testimony (which mentions several other establishment figures as well) was entered into evidence as a submission to the August 3rd First Session of the 1977 Joint Hearing before the Select Committee on Intelligence and the Subcommittee on Health and Scientific Research of the Committee On Human Resources, United States Senate, in the Ninety-Fifth Congress. Though such a submission is made under the same weight of perjury as any courtroom legal accusation, the committee did not act on it, but instead classified it as a national security secret. This failure of action mimics that often experienced by rape victims who are sidelined by the legal process which supposedly exists to protect them, and was, for OBrien, impetus to publish her testimony publicly.
However, in the years since, no media outlet has been willing to speak up for her, while her abusers have continued to ascend to greater and greater heights.