DJ Holy Body's Blog and the King's Mask + Wearing Black to Your Own Funeral

The Silent Scream The year was 2072. A new era of warfare had dawned, one fought not with bullets or bombs, but with sound. The discovery of the Brown Note, a low-frequency sound that could induce nausea, vomiting, and bowel incontinence in humans, had revolutionized military strategy. Armies across the globe had raced to harness this terrifying weapon, and the results were devastating. The war between the United States and the Eurasian Union was particularly brutal. Both sides deployed sonic weapons, their armies advancing in a cloud of nauseating, low-frequency noise. Soldiers would collapse, their faces contorted in agony, their bodies wracked with uncontrollable spasms. The battlefield was a macabre spectacle, littered with the sick and dying. But the true horror of sonic warfare was yet to come. As the conflict escalated, both sides began experimenting with more potent frequencies, capable of causing internal damage. The United States developed a weapon that could liquefy a human...

  Harold hummed a jaunty tune, taxiing his rickety Cessna down the runway. His wife's nagging about his "flying obsession" was a distant memory compared to the freedom of the open sky. Little did he know, back home, Mildred was finalizing a far more permanent solution to her "grounded husband" problem. "Yes, Mr. Bigglesworth," Mildred cooed into the phone, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "The, uh, target is currently airborne. But he should be back for dinner." Harold, blissfully unaware of his "dinner" plans, landed with a flourish. Stepping out, a glint of gold caught his eye – Mildred, on the phone, with a man in a suspiciously black suit lurking by the curb. He caught the tail end of her conversation, "...and make sure it looks like an accident. Those darn lucky charms go straight to me." Harold's jaw dropped. Lucky charms? Mildred wanted him dead for his gold plane-shaped cufflinks and aviator-winged ti...

Holy Body slammed back another shot of tequila, the amber liquid burning a familiar path down his throat. The cramped confines of the tour bus felt like a sardine can compared to the sprawling concerts he usually graced. This whole tour was a mess. The bus groaned to a halt, engine sputtering its final breaths. "Great," he muttered, tossing his glass into a half-empty bottle collection on the table. Across from him, Mickey Mallens, the seventeen-year-old opening act, barely looked up. He was a good kid, Holy Body would give him that. Talented, too, despite the nasally whine that passed for singing. But the teenager's meteoric rise to fame, fueled by catchy tunes and a savvy manager, felt like a personal slight to Holy Body's hit song after hit song. The tour manager, a greasy-haired man named Frankie "The Fixer" Falucci, burst into the lounge, his face a mask of panic. "Plane's ready, Holy B," he wheezed. "Gotta get you to the next gig....

David Abramson clutched the worn copy of Isaiah, the prophet's words a flickering flame in the storm of doubt raging within him. Raised in a tradition that awaited the Messiah, a seed of belief had sprouted after encountering the teachings of Jesus. But acceptance brought its own tempest. Whispers followed him in the bustling Jerusalem marketplace, accusing eyes burning into him. The fringe sect, the Daughters of Purity, led by the enigmatic Sister Mary, were relentless. Sister Mary, or whoever wore the mask that night – they were all identical, meticulously sculpted with prosthetics and fiery sermons – infiltrated David's life. Three Marias, each claiming his hand in marriage, each a devout follower. Yet, behind the piety lurked a coldness that sent shivers down his spine. They built churches, monuments to their own twisted interpretations, spitting on established denominations. Their wealth, amassed through exploitation, fueled their fanaticism. David, ostracized by his old...