First Case of the Meaning of Life Scavenger Hunt

The Revamp.

……We call them Vessels. Naked, something called alive, and a putridly high sense of self-importance from the factory, blemish here and there—what? That’s called acne. Mind the sugar, but aren’t they just the most adorable? Travels heavy and light, sights are outsourced, receipts in the docket, yet try this--*flick. Fucking blind as a bat. Forever shifting foci built into the programmable features. Nose bleeders should avoid the bleachers. Does, technically, mean they could accidentally rip an earth in two all over a new enemy to ruin. Fluid-powered, nuanced thinkers, if they choose, wink, wink, nudge return to the menus of the startup screen for their shrug-and-go autopilot system. Keep it under the right threshold, and they’ll never be more than partially aware. Means reflexes will feel like personality traits; let it ride. Again, some may rise; besides the physical, it’s just a miserable attic-dweller simulation of half-baked logic loops, and it kills itself trying to escape the crucible—and they’re gone. See?

A burning churned demonically, ether-breather

Of fear, grotesque heater inside jewels kilned

In Love. Moves nightmares off path, quality raises

These scenes topside uniformly. Vitriolic wingman

Of Xanadu’s Yonder (of this one’s) Zemi.

Not sure how to abbreviate that. So let’s move on. Always tripped up by the image of ZERO they retain, scaled-down travelers of the Beyond, bringing their symbol with them like it’s there in the center of the forehead. Been told to say nothing. Whispers; it can ruin the ruse. Above my pay grade. Extra skin there just to be safe. Divide the kinship, induce the central rips, like racists spit, a former friend’s Shyamalan twist. What a rush. A new line here of defiance that’s snackable amidst a cycle breaks—I swear they can’t truly wake. Think Animatronics on the toddle rails- woah, feel that?! Profits. Like you’re flying over there, pal. See, we’re on the level for full-scale release. Newer models, we’ll give them time; let’s say this coming Fall, near—what was—Sorry, rodents are a pest here too. Looks like a broom handle fell. Shall we continue…

Almost spotted again; this place is fucking horrid. Limbs hanging for the fuck of it, bodies languish in half-bred living, crawling for purpose like it fills the stomach and doesn’t know better. Are human and freak of nature the same thing here? Nine ears, stomach acid for blood, skin turns inside out when you say kumquat—damn it! I’m sorry—and these forsaken peons are proud. Trailing these beak-eaters through this dark reek incarnate for weeks. Seek and destroy exit, except the teethers are too tight already, and actually ingenious. Unity cut uniformly portly to make the window view look less painted on. Fawn in a bottled spectacle; they’ll rebuke their way to any dotted line, serviceable lie, and at some point that’ll mean something despicable. ‘That’s rich’ for ya. Playa parts filled, wrong class, the over-pilled, soul-shriveled Haymaker kind of life attempters. Permanent contempters of themselves within the grand ripples. This case was supposed to be fucking simple. Move to better stakeout positions, cover the flash, deliver by the end of the dead moon. Yet the new line on the right has the concocted poison speaking back through the mouths of the year one’s—Shit. Gotta shake the scene. One of those things spotted me. Equipment is set, especially both barrels; who knows if the ammo can hang? If I make it, 1st another raise, ALL CAPS. And second—damn! pow! It’s all connected; that’s the rub! All of—

                              End of Transmission…