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Tycho / on Mon, Dec 19 2016 at 9:45 am

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Twitchcraft

We watched some Twitch IRL and then immediately - as in, like, a minute later - wrote this comic.  What is Twitch IRL?  Twitch IRL is not the other channels. That’s what I was able to derive from the FAQ.  I just play games on there, man; this shit is all new to me.  I watched a stream where a silent woman ate soup for about fifteen minutes.  There’s a channel for it.  But apparently if you were there, alone, and you didn’t have soup, then you’re the Mayor of Trouble Town.  I’m still learning how to writhe in public; roll through the Hearthstone stream at 2pm PST to see what kind of hairy plum Josh makes me eat this time.

‘Tis a simple matter to make what is read by a man become what is written upon him; what is more, a weak man is like a leaf of white paper upon which much may be written.  Bloodless, vain, but always curious; the young men of this time are particularly amenable to my art.  It flatters them to think they have discovered some seam in the universe whose errant thread may be tugged.  From my lexicrypt, it is like the ringing of a dinner bell.

Once they turn the first page, all is lost to them.  I drape myself o’er them like a shroud, trick their minds, so that they imagine themselves men of destiny; I invent subterranean cloisters, and grim mentors, and every manner of convenient dross, placing them at the still center of a world that whirls with cosmic intrigue.  And how could they resist?  My purpose has a need for them, and they fit so well.  They are the hero of the story, for a time, like Christmas ham.

How many times has my hoard been sold? I have lost count; there is never a shortage of those who believe themselves to be the Sorceror of the Age, save for a mystickal heritage or the odd, cursed tome.  But I have tomes; I am tomes.  And when they open one, any one of them, they open my mouth.

In the end, this body’s previous occupant raged at noone for a time - noone he could see.  He saw food he did not remember eating; he would wake in the middle of a meal.  He turned to a poster vendor of some renown to paper over his windows, which he was able to do affordably, because they had a sale going where you could buy any three posters for fifteen percent off.  But even this prodigious bargain could provide no succor, for my black nest was already wreathed within him.  By then, I had already devoured twelve of his birthdays and his first memory of winter.

So, by all means: do take a look at what I have styled the Codex Coupons, for it is the glowing lure, and I am the anglerfish, all teeth and dead eyes.

Sincerely,

Ubel Eberhard

(CW)TB out.


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