PATHOGENESIS:VISUAL TREATMENT

PATHOGENESIS

WRITTEN BY

JAKE HANRAHAN

VISUALISED BY

SAM HALL

10pm is the time my life begins each night, and 6am is the time a die.

I have spawned. I wonder aimlessly into the pumping shed of industrial blood, a pollutant house of petroleum. I act like I’m not giddy with excitement as the sun dies behind me. The previous slave before me greets me as I take over, his name is John or Jim or Dave. He lets the last dregs of his engine drip all over me, he slowly stabs me in the neck, and the whole time he smiles an anxious grin. That grin wants a friend accept but I am definitely his enemy. He hacks away at my body and soul as I stand there nodding and blinking and nodding and blinking in time with his bullshit. Finally he stops for a moment to refuel, I take this opportunity.

“Jim” I say,

“What? No, my name is Peter” he is so awkward.

“Jim” I know he isn’t Jim, “You have just worked an eight hour shift... Today while others are landing million dollar bonuses on the stock market or deciding which shade of canary yellow

would match their yacht interior with their Sperry’s, you have been feeding termites their addiction of petrol and Reese’s Peanut-Buttercups for a wage that can only buy you nothing. What in your right mind convinced you that speaking to me would be a good idea? You hate me. You look at my drawn in face and coal coated eyes and die a little each time.”

“No, I-” I cut off his lips. I am Mendenhall. “Yes, my complete disregard for my own personal appearance is of great annoyance to you. If we hadn’t had to cross paths right now you would’ve gladly pretended not to see me. Is society’s unspoken rule of polite exchanges with colleges holding you to ransom Jim? Is it?”

Jim is thumper; he is caught in the headlights. His mouth twitches before he rushes past me and walks quickly to his necessity wagon. I make my way to the throne; I sit upon my chair of fulfilment and stare blankly into the ant farm.

10pm is the time my life begins each night, and 6am is the time a die.

I have spawned. I wonder aimlessly into the pumping shed of industrial blood, a pollutant house of petroleum. I act like I’m not giddy with excitement as the sun dies behind me. The previous slave before me greets me as I take over, his name is John or Jim or Dave. He lets the last dregs of his engine drip all over me, he slowly stabs me in the neck, and the whole time he smiles an anxious grin. That grin wants a friend accept but I am definitely his enemy. He hacks away at my body and soul as I stand there nodding and blinking and nodding and blinking in time with his bullshit. Finally he stops for a moment to refuel, I take this opportunity.

“Jim” I say,

“What? No, my name is Peter” he is so awkward.

“Jim” I know he isn’t Jim, “You have just worked an eight hour shift... Today while others are landing million dollar bonuses on the stock market or deciding which shade of

canary yellow would match their yacht interior with their Sperry’s, you have been feeding termites their addiction of petrol and Reese’s Peanut-Buttercups for a wage that can only buy you nothing. What in your right mind convinced you that speaking to me would be a good idea? You hate me. You look at my drawn in face and coal coated eyes and die a little each time.”

“No, I-” I cut off his lips. I am Mendenhall. “Yes, my complete disregard for my own personal appearance is of great annoyance to you. If we hadn’t had to cross paths right now you would’ve gladly pretended not to see me. Is society’s unspoken rule of polite exchanges with colleges holding you to ransom Jim? Is it?”

Jim is thumper; he is caught in the headlights. His mouth twitches before he rushes past me and walks quickly to his necessity wagon. I make my way to the throne; I sit upon my chair of fulfilment and stare blankly into the ant farm.

10:03

After assembling packets of poison

and preservatives in their rows I gaze

across the forecourt to see a female

approaching. She staggers to the

shutter; little does she know I never

lock the door. The kingdom is mine

but the peasants can view its interior,

perhaps someone will put me out of

their misery one day. Until that day I

am the ruler of the kingdom. The station

is mine.

The wench wanders through the door

after I signal for her to do so. She

has obeyed me; I may go mad with

power. Her drunken smile meets my

expressionless face, she stares as I stare,

and I manage to break down her jaw

before she asks for a packet of oxygen.

Clearly she is hanging; of course

tobacco will loosen the noose and save

her life. I watch her leave and open the

cigarettes, she lights one up, puffing

on the wonder stick. She is dependent

on the nicotine to ease the stress

that it has caused. As she inhales the

economy she transforms into a Lehman

brother, her disregard for the impending

doom around her simply confirms my

sighting. I watch the death stick linger

in her mouth, it slowly excretes its’

toxins and burns like embers in the

forest.

I imagine the destruction that would

ensue if a single ash flake touched a

perfect spot. Alas, the zombified female

staggers off back through the depths; I

see the firefly of cancer flutter distantly.

12:07After assembling packets of poison

and preservatives in their rows I

gaze across the forecourt to see a

female approaching. She staggers

to the shutter; little does she know

I never lock the door. The kingdom

is mine but the peasants can view

its interior, perhaps someone will

put me out of their misery one day.

Until that day I am the ruler of the

kingdom. The station is mine.

The wench wanders through the

door after I signal for her to do so.

She has obeyed me; I may go mad

with power. Her drunken smile

meets my expressionless face, she

stares as I stare, and I manage

to break down her jaw before she

asks for a packet of oxygen. Clearly

she is hanging; of course tobacco

will loosen the noose and save her

life. I watch her leave and open

the cigarettes, she lights one up,

puffing on the wonder stick. She is

dependent on the nicotine to ease

the stress that it has caused. As she

inhales the economy she transforms

into a Lehman brother, her disregard

for the impending doom around her

simply confirms my sighting. I watch

the death stick linger in her mouth, it

slowly excretes its’ toxins and burns

like embers in the forest.

I imagine the destruction that would

ensue if a single ash flake touched

a perfect spot. Alas, the zombified

female staggers off back through

the depths; I see the firefly of cancer

flutter distantly.

By now I’ve watched the minions

stroll in and out of the royal kingdom,

I begin to despise them. My hopeless

stare of emptiness simply reflects

their inner self; I am the cocaine cola

covered mirror of broken dreams and

corporate identities, they dared not

look. I have accepted my fate as one of

many different yet identical bacteria’s

in the cess-pool of the gargoyle zoo.

I embrace the diabolical content of

this fiction that we call earth, perhaps

I’m Aoi, but it’s not funny, I’m not

laughing, man, I’m just dying slowly

each day like the rest of you.

I take the mop and slide it across the

floor, the stench of bleach rises through

my nostrils and descends down the back

of my throat. It is the Bear Grylls of the

olfactic world, unnecessarily scaling

another inanimate object, in this case

my trachea.

As I stare at my reflection in the shiny

tiles a foot slides across it, a filthy

foot followed by a body. A monstrous

body, no father or mother; he was

genetically forged out of oxymetholone

and anavar. His name is Syntholosees,

he has a withering female companion

named Polysiloxanne; she is chained to

his side. Polysiloxanne is the lost rat,

distant memories of her sweet sewer

linger as she realises that her present

reality is far worse than anything she’d

previously left behind. This is why

the grass is always yellow and dying.

She is a genetic cyborg, half human,

half silicone. Syntholosees however

is neither a cyborg nor a sewer rat, he

is simply rat. Rage and vanity rule his

world.

He is a regular, as he enters the

kingdom it becomes the pit of turmoil

that it once was before my rule, I

despise him. He sees through me, I am

Dr. Jack Griffin.

After collecting his usual feast of

hydrogenation he approaches my

throne, it suddenly becomes a simple

chair behind a counter; I’m melting.

His Rubik’s cube head grins at me; he

is immune to my powers, for his self

acceptance and awareness of his own

personal falseness makes him realer

than corruption. Syntholosees could

destroy my world at any moment, if

only he cared.

I speak only to inform the roaches that

they owe me money in exchange for

the goods that I’m allowing them to

take. I notice my hand starts to bleed as

I frantically clutch at any straw that I

can find. Syntholosees gives me a stare

that penetrates my pituitary gland; he

drains me of DMT before giving mercy.

As soon as the tank disappears over

the horizon I shakily lock the door and

return to my chair and counter. I am

Mohammed Ali’s single weakness.

01:39

By now I’ve watched the minions

stroll in and out of the royal

kingdom, I begin to despise them.

My hopeless stare of emptiness

simply reflects their inner self; I am

the cocaine cola covered mirror

of broken dreams and corporate

identities, they dared not look. I

have accepted my fate as one

of many different yet identical

bacteria’s in the cess-pool of

the gargoyle zoo. I embrace the

diabolical content of this fiction that

we call earth, perhaps I’m Aoi, but

it’s not funny, I’m not laughing, man,

I’m just dying slowly each day like

the rest of you.

I take the mop and slide it across

the floor, the stench of bleach rises

through my nostrils and descends

down the back of my throat. It is

the Bear Grylls of the olfactic world,

unnecessarily scaling another

inanimate object, in this case my

trachea.

I am Mohammed Ali’s single

weakness.

It hits dead on 3 o’clock and I feel

the need to rearrange all the Gatorade

awkwardly, not too crazy, nothing

psychotic; I just take the most popular

flavour and put every bottle to the

back. Someone’s going to commit mass

murder over this.

I finish my carbonated chaos. A group

of teenage morons enter; they reek of

Abercrombie, Ivy League and all things

consumable. The only fruit they know is

Blackberry and Apple, neither of which

can aide ones physical well being.

Most of them giggle and stumble into

each other, the females are worst. Both

genders congregate together in a small

pack staring through the refrigerator

window, steaming it up like an orgy in

a cab. I move from the sandwiches to

the throne, I sit there, watching, I stare,

I stare till my eyes eject themselves

from their kamikaze vessel. I see one

of the parasites - perhaps his name is

Ed Hardy, it seems to be emblazoned

across his chest - he grasps the handle

to the refrigerator door. He opens it.

Touch the Gatorade. I fucking dare you,

take a bottle. He did as I told him, he

reaches for orange, but he wants berry,

berry would cure all of his drunken

problems, berry would stop his scum

father indulging in his polycarbonate

secretary while his foetal Foamex

mother plays the unhappy cut out, her

smile as empty as JFK’s cranium.

In the process of his drunken quivering

paws climbing through the labyrinth

of bottles, Ed manages to destroy the

carbonated empire of awkwardness.

Gatorade orange rains from the skies.

The vapour pressure of my blood equals

the environmental pressure around me,

I am in hell. Inside my head a thousand

drums crash and bang, St. Anger beats

through my ears and into my soul. I

am rage. I stand up and stare at the

pathogenic crowd of the congregated,

they don’t even notice, high pitched

laughter guffawing and giggles fill the

room.

I reach for the bat underneath the

counter, Jim or Dave must’ve left

it there for so called protection,

presumably from himself.

I stare at the torrent of bile that is

bathing in the glory of ruining my anti-

social assembly. I could call the cops on

them, but I’m no Robert Pickton.

I contemplate my next move carefully,

this is the perfect chance I’ve been

waiting for, time to break free from

the shackles that will forever hold me

to rational thinking. If I were a serious

serial killer, not just a minor one, I

mean I’ve never murdered someone per

say, but I’ve watched a few exteriors

wither and die in my presence. But if I

were a serious serial killer, or perhaps

just a maniac, here is my murderous

manifesto of spontaneous teenage

assassination.

First I would take the bat in my

hand, the firm familiar grasp of

power, I would leave the throne with

urgency, I can see it in my minds

eye; as I power walk toward the

crowd I shout something like “Hey!”

or “You think this is funny!?” or

maybe an amalgamation of the two.

That would have me running in the

ranks of the egotistical submarines

that drown in their own airlocks, the

“men” we know as “tough guys”, so

sickening.

I approach the crowd with my

shoulders arched, I’m a lion about

to maim a whole pack of zebra.

I approach the whores first, say

nothing, smash. A cheekbone is

pounded into dust; a mandible is

dilapidated beyond all recognition.

I have fed the bat of power into the

face of intoxication and promiscuity.

I do this three times, three whores

drop, teeth are scattered, blood is

seeping and screams are roaring

throughout the kingdom, I am

Goliath or perhaps Cuchulain.

Two male zebra leap upon me but

naturally I smite them with a few

deathly blows. Three remaining

crossing horses are cowering,

crying and sniffling, no courage

about them, where is the brashness

you used to destroy the Gatorade

society now?

One of the remaining beta males

gains an ounce of courage, he

starts screaming and ranting and

bubbling as he attempts to strike

me. Futile, I duck and dig the bat

into his intestines; he drops as any

oxygen he’d stolen is dumped into

the ocean.

I move forward but only before

turning my back on the quivering

mice, I flog three dead horses, why

not? My attention is then turned

back to the mice, one looks so

scared he’d probably trade places

with his own mother.

I take the tram into the city on this

guy.

His “friend”, Ed, goddamn Ed...

remember Ed? He is the so called

conqueror of Gatorarcadia; I had left

him till last on purpose of course,

partly because he had fled to hiding

in the corner at the start of the

show. His body is athletic yet his

heart so frail, I take out the legs,

he recognises me for a moment;

he looks at me almost as if I’m his

father.

As he lays there I simply let him

go, the room is filled with harrowing

death that will scar him deeper than

any physical wound ever could.

The scar of his murdered friends

hurts, the scar of his broken scapula

irritates, but the scar of his failure

to intervene or act bleeds as it is

always the deepest.

03:00

I am a minor serial killer though, in

reality I simply watch, tight lipped

and seething. The zebra live to waste

another day; they trot out of the

kingdom without even tasting its fruits.

They came, they sabotaged; they won.

Pathogenesispath·o·gen·e·sis [path-uh-jen-uh-sis]— nthe origin, development, and resultant effects of a disease