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Here at the HeadStuff Online Website we like to write and create things that stimulate the stuff inside of your fat human head.
In order to do this, we utilise our expansive harem of writers to generate nourishing content. You wanna know if there is some celluloid magic currently glowing from the screen-hole of your local omniplex? Don’t worry, we have our top guy/gal on it. Excited about the latest instrumental post-rock album? We have you covered, bro. “Neil” reviewed it two days ago, and he really liked it. Apart from track 5. “Neil” thought track 5 was a bit shit. “Neil” fucking hated track 5.
Aside from the reviews, yeah, there’s plenty of stuff: history, psychology, emotion, opinions – it’s all there. But hold up (they don’t love you like I love you), that’s not all. Starting tonight (you have to read this at night), we are about to do some real invasive Headstuff with your head. Through immersive language and vivid imagery we will transport your consciousness into another realm, another space, another dimension.
Enter Visceral Sensory Projection. And I don’t mean enter the concept, Visceral Sensory Projection, I mean you have to enter it. You. Yourself. Right now!
For full immersion make sure you are in a quiet space. You must close both eyes. Though also you need your eyes open to read the article. Ok. Read the article, then close your eyes. Or record yourself reading the article and convert it to an MP3 and play it back to yourself while lying in bed – in the foetal position. For best results, get naked.
Scenario I: The Sniper
The only sound is your breath. You lay, belly down, on the white hot sand of the battlefield. You are motionless. You blend, seamlessly into the non-descript, possibly Middle Eastern tundra.
Over the horizon, you see a convoy chugging along a dirt road. Your quarry approaches. You ready your high-powered sniper rifle.
You raise the scope to your eye. It’s oddly cold on your cheek. “Ooh”, you warble, surprised by the uncharacteristic nippiness of the scope’s steel frame. But no time for reflection, the high level war criminal you’ve been sent to dispatch has emerged from his car.
Your breath slows, you line up the reticule just behind his right ear. Minimal wind, the shot won’t stray. You grunt with approval. Your finger caresses the trigger like a lover’s embrace.
Unseen to you, a large, highly venomous snake was steadily gliding in your direction. It tentatively tongues the bottom of your pant leg, and then, in a swift and decisive movement, glides its full body straight up your aforementioned pant leg.
“Aaauaagh”, you wail, firing off a shot wildly in the air. Your target is alerted. His personal guards flock to your position, guns readied.
The snake is now feral, biting incessantly. You bray with incredulity. The only thing more painful than the bites is the molten venom now rapidly coursing through your veins.
With a pathetic whimper, you feel the venom reach your heart, which subsequently deploys to every corner of your rapidly deteriorating body.
You impotently look around, seeking any source of hope. You can feel all of your vital organs reducing to a bilious soup with each passing breath.
You turn wildly, shrieking. The only faces you see upon turning are your target’s elite protection unit.
“Pluu… pluu.. plueease”, you mutter. They respond with salvo of gunfire. Your rapidly melting innards explode onto the desert sand in a hail of gunfire.
You lie, mewling, once again on the sand, but this time on your back. As the unit leader aims the final killing shot between your eyes, you groan. Your last sight is the snake, gliding harmlessly from your pant leg. Then, an all consuming flash.
Scenario II: Transformation
Your eyes peel open. Hangover. Shouldn’t have stayed out past last orders. Never usually do that of a Sunday.
Was a weird walk home too. The dark country road that leads to your home seemed hostile and oppressive. Odd, since you’ve walked it countless times. And that dog…
With a gasp you look at your wrist. A bite mark, though rapidly fading. In last night’s drunken haze it seemed like a far more brutal attack, but how and ever, the hangover’s dissipating; get up, and get breakfast.
Minutes later you brush your teeth, the bite mark is now completely gone. Odd. Maybe the whole ordeal was a dream. You grab your keys, out the door, off to work. Monday morning.
You sweat ceaselessly on the bus. Hangover returning? You silence the rising anxiety in the pit of your stomach.
At work you get nothing done. Lunch break is a nightmare, your yoghurt tastes like semen mixed with the ashes of a loved one. You flee to the lavatory.
You gallop to the sink, vomit imminent. Your wretch erupts to a roar, but no bile. Your teeth explode from your mouth. Before you can comprehend, your nose and jaw extend and fuse impossibly in front of your gaping eyes.
Your ribs erupt and extend. Your limbs feel like they are breaking forth from your body. The pain is unbearable. With a cry you fall to the floor.
What feels like an eternity passes in a moment.
Your eyes snap open, alert. Your clawed hands are covered in ashen grey matted fur. You rise, growling.
You see your reflection. A beast of myth, realised. You smell absolutely terrible.
You emerge into the office. Your co-workers shriek in terror, you howl with triumph.
You descend the stairs of the office building, your limitless energy and crushing strength propel you forward into a glorious future.
You burst through the glass of the office entrance. A car screeches, but too late. It hits you with full force. With a despairing yelp you feel both of your new wolf legs snap as you are jettisoned into the air.
You thud on the pavement with a sickening crack, the bus driver reacts too slowly. The double decker glides over your coiled wolf spine, which snaps more easily than your legs. Your tongue hangs limply askew from your mouth as the smoke from your breath dissipates into the spring morning air.
In the months that follow there is extensive political debate over what to do with the comatose giant wolf beast in the state’s possession. But ultimately it is decided that such abominations should not exist, and the creature is summarily cremated.
Scenario III: You Actually Break Your Fucking Arm
Another horrible day. The bus is packed. Each passenger is either angry or glum or at some bleak mid-point between the two.
You stare aimlessly outside the window. It’s overcast, just like the other 364 days of this endless, formless year.
You look at your hands. Grey, lifeless. You noticed a grey hair after your shower this morning. The great withering has begun.
The bus farts to a stop. This is where you get off. And, of course, so does everybody else.
Together you rise like a sea of the dead. Not zombies, mind. Like, an ocean of corpses washing over a barren landscape; a tsunami of inescapable sadness.
You bumble through the carriage of the doomed. The smell of a schoolchild’s single of chips offers scant solace. You progress.
An elderly lady rises in front of you, you pause to allow her space to disembark. Her head turns with a slow, doom laden ponderousness. She glowers at you, her arthritic body spasming with malice. She smiles revealing a tooth depleted mouth. “Fuck off,” she spits. You lower your head, the tears feel imminent.
Only seconds until the stop now, the bus driver seems as eager as you to end this purgatory, he’s accelerating down the final stretch as you advance towards the middle of the bus.
In the distance you hear a screech, then a scream. The passengers, roused from the stupor, peer out of the window.
A car is skidding, and in the air, hanging for just a moment, is a gray mass of bloody fur. A dog certainly, but far larger than any you have ever seen.
It lands out of your sight, and then the bus lurches. A cacophony crashes through the bus as you are whirled from your footing.
You barrel forward with unstoppable force, the base of your head cracks of the nose of the elderly woman. You feel a moment of joy, which is stilled suddenly as you gingerly land on your outstretched arm.
It’s at an odd angle, painful, but not critical. But as the bus roars to a final halt, another passenger flips forward onto your back. Like a guitar string you feel the bone in your wrist crack instantly. You scream soundlessly as a numb, throbbing pain seizes your arm.
In a maze of human bodies, broken and alone, you let out a final stuttered sigh, “All is meaningless”, you groan. And all fades into hopeless grey.
Well that’s your lot for Visceral Sensory Projection. We at HeadStuff hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it. Have a great week!