Empty Unmarked Grave
rating: +237+x

>run fmc.exe -t
Foundation Mail Client (Text Only Mode)
You have 1 new message. You have 5739 old messages.
>readmsg new
Reading All New Messages…
1 new message found.

From: The Administrator (1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.nimda#1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.nimda)
To: O5 Primary Reroute Address (1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.5o#1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.5o)
Cc: Senior Staff Primary Reroute Address (1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.ss#1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.ss)
Subject: Now Cracks A Noble Heart
Over my many years as Administrator of the Foundation, I have found the job progressively less taxing.
My responsibilities grew at first, but with my institution of the O5 council, my job was functionally reduced to an optional veto on high level votes.
I have not used my veto power in the history of the Foundation. This speaks volumes of the competence of the elected personnel.
As I have grown older, my ability to continue my duties to the Foundation as a whole has drastically deteriorated.
My position does not continue to have any significance, or indeed, relevance, to this organisation.
As such, effective immediately, I am stepping down from my role, with no incumbent to take my place.
This will likely change nothing of your day-to-day operations, and I hope you will continue on with your work as normal.
Friends and colleagues, I leave the fate of the world in your capable hands.
Thank you for your service.
The Administrator

You have not accessed this terminal in ten minutes. Do you require assistance?
Does the black moon howl?
>logoff Override BaseCommand *1-0001
Goodnight, sweet prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Jeremy was a corgi of simple tastes. After having been gloriously liberated from his previous owner, Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Jeremy's job had been to collect the mail. His brothers, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, and Jeremy, all had substantially more exciting jobs, such as ice cream retrieval or orbital space station design. But he didn't mind. Jeremy liked collecting the mail anyway.

As he did every day, Jeremy brought the mail to his benevolent owner, Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V, PhD. Isabel had been spending her morning being astonishingly productive; she had been spinning in circles with her arms out while whistling for almost four hours straight. Jeremy dropped his mouthful of paper in front of her and gave a helpful, positive woof.

Dearest Isabel;

I hope this letter finds you well.
As you know, your mother and I have been hard at work on our own private projects.
Your position as Lead Toy Designer has been filled extraordinarily well. Sales have been up across the board.
Unfortunately, I have found myself particularly predisposed by current arrangements, that being the event of my demise.
Don't be sad about this! I was getting rather bored anyway. Out with the old, in with the new!

That being said, I will no longer be keeping the position of Key Creative Director And Big Boss Man, again, because I am dead.
Hence, I am elevating you to the position of Key Creative Director And Big Boss Man Lady! Congratulations!
I trust you will live up to the role as only my daughter can.

I have always been proud of you.

Dr. Reginald Philbert Lionel Archibald Westinghouse Wondertainment III, MD, PhD, DDS, Esq.

(P.S. Your mother sends her best regards!)

Jeremy looked at his owner expectantly, anticipating a pat on the head for expedience and a job well done. Isabel sat on the floor and read the letter, her grin slowly turning to a look of deep and profound confusion, then unspeakable sadness, with tears dripping down her cheeks, then excitement and elation. She reached over to Jeremy, flipped him upside-down, and rubbed his belly as he rolled around in bliss. Tears continued to stream down her face as she laughed happily. She shouted out towards the corridor:

"Jeremy and Jeremy! I need some celebratory ice-cream, stat!"

Isabel turned to the large, moustachioed painting of her father on the wall, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"Bye, Dad."

Lars Celarent, the Dean of Alexylva University's Interpretive Dance department, was returning to his office after a delicious breakfast of cheese that tasted like celery. Upon arrival, he noticed a small letter slipped halfway underneath his door. Lars leant down and picked it up; the red wax seal still warm to the touch. He tore it open with his fingers, and slipped the letter out into his hands. The cursive was curly to an almost unreadable degree, but Lars was able to make out the meaning behind the words.

To My Colleagues;

I regret to inform you that, effective this morning, I am tendering my resignation as Chancellor of Alexylva University.
As many of you know, I have been serving as Chancellor in-absentia more and more as of late.
With the event of my death last night, I am left with two options: resign, or serve in-absentia indefinitely.
Seeing as my time will now be heavily invested in no longer existing, my resignation is the more responsible path.
In accordance with official University policy, my successor will be elected this afternoon by popular vote.
Please act responsibly until that time.
Murdering your peers beforehand, while not technically against any rules, goes against the spirit of the election.
Similarly, negating the event of their birth should be looked down upon, though substantially less so.

Thank you for allowing me to serve you all as Chancellor over the past years.
I wish you all the best of luck with your future endeavours.

Gratefully yours,
Chancellor Westinghouse

Lars fetched his formal attire, bulletproof vest, and sniper rifle. A new chancellor had to be elected, and with any luck, it was going to be him.

James Seudon entered the tiny church. He'd driven for five long hours, twisting and turning his way through the mountains, leaf-covered roads leaning dangerously towards tipping his car off the side of a cliff. And here he was, not a human being for miles around. Which was odd, because he was supposed to be meeting a local Roman Catholic priest. James looked at the solid hardwood door. The lock was heavy and thick; James pulled out a pick gun and had it open within seconds. The church was clearly long abandoned, dust covered the rotting wooden seats. Every step James took on the stone floor echoed as though he were in a much larger space. He walked towards the stand at the front, then noticed a clean white envelope sitting on it, tied shut with thick red ribbon. James pulled the bow apart, opened the envelope, and began to read the letter inside.

Mister Seudon:

Well done on finding your way here. I apologise for the remote location, but it was necessary to isolate you.
I have selected you to be my successor in the field of religious artifact research.
Should you not desire this job, feel free to report this location to your superiors. I imagine they would reward you well, destroying decades of my notes and research in the process.
But of course, then you wouldn't be able to look at my collection for yourself, and I think we can both agree you wouldn't do that.
James, you're one of the few people who asks the right questions of the right people.
Unfortunately, the wrong people have taken notice. You need to go to ground, and trust me, there is nowhere safer than here.
Should you wish to continue, enter the confession booth, and loudly proclaim 'I Am Free Of Sin'.
You will know what to do from there.

Yours in the Lord,
Reverend Lionel Philbert

James read the page curiously. He looked up and noticed the small confession booth to the side. He walked to it and opened the door. James then pulled out various tools, scraping samples from the side of the box, the ground, the dust between the stones, and investigated them avidly. Satisfied, he entered, sitting huddled inside the box. He re-read the letter, reassured himself, then shouted the words to the booth's empty other side.

"I am free of sin!"

Eric Burke walked into his office. With the unannounced disappearance of the previous Acting Director of the Global Occult Coalition, it was necessary to elect a temporary stand-in. Burke had been moved up two levels of hierarchy, since all of the predecessor's immediate juniors had turned down the temporary position, preferring to maintain control over their various departments. Burke had leaped at the opportunity, applied, and after a single day he was given the job. He considered it unusual, but considering the way that the GOC operated, it was well within his weirdness parameters. He was shown to his (temporary) office by a secretary, who soon left the room to fetch him a cup of coffee. Burke noticed a folded sheet of paper on the top of the desk; he unfolded it and began to read.

To my Successor:

You likely believe you have been elected as a temporary substitute.
However, my notice of resignation can be found in the top drawer of this desk.
Let me be the first to congratulate you: consider yourself the new Acting Director.
You have been briefed by others on what the role entails; standard administrative tasks and so forth.
I trust that they have done their job, and that you now know yours.
However, there is one matter which they have not been briefed on.
Do not inform anyone of what I am about to tell you.

You will likely never meet your immediate superior, Madam al Fine. Without going into details, you should not want to.
You will likely receive weekly letters from Madam al Fine. Without going into details, you should not open these.
Burn them immediately upon receipt. Do not open them. Do not tell anyone you are doing this.
If anyone asks, all of your actions are in accordance her dictates.
Do not seek out Madam al Fine.
I trust you have been a member of this organisation long enough to understand that some orders should not be questioned.
This is one such order.
Please dispose of this letter as expediently, untraceably, and permanently as possible.

I wish you the best of luck with your new position.

Sergeant Reginald Ulysses Law
Acting Director, United Nations Global Occult Coalition

The secretary entered the room with a tall mug of dark brown coffee, placed it on Burke's (no longer temporary) desk, then left. Burke tore the paper to shreds as soon as she left the room, threw them into his coffee, stirred them twice with his finger, and downed the hot beverage in three gulps. Nothing's properly disposed of until it's been through a digestive system, he thought.

Bijou Dashwood heard a letter slide through the slot at her door. She had thought that the snow outside would have postponed the mail; then, she realised that the mail had come yesterday. Confused, Bijou left the kitchen, walked to the front door, tore the envelope open, then pulled out a folded letter and a small metal needle from inside. She read the letter, face slowly hardening, then scrunched it up into a ball. Bijou returned to her living room and threw the letter into the crackling fireplace. She slouched into a large armchair, fire warming her feet, as the edges of the paper glowed, then turned black and crumbled into ashes.

To the recipient of this letter, I apologise in advance.
This was sent by an automated system. I don't know you, and you don't know me.
Welcome to the Chaos Insurgency. You're the boss now.
You might be thinking, how the hell did I get this job? I didn't apply for it.
You almost certainly hate the Insurgency as much as I do.
That's why I became the boss. To rein them in.
I sabotaged them from the top down for years. They never noticed.
There are people in this world who are completely, profoundly selfish.
Some of these people are in the position to do serious harm to society at large.
The Insurgency is a collection of the worst people with the greatest potential.
You have likely been directly affected by the actions of the Insurgency.
You likely have done research of your own to oppose them.
You almost certainly wish to abolish them from existence.
But it is vital that you do not shatter the Insurgency apart.
The key purpose of the Insurgency is keeping these people unified and controlled.
Further reductions into factions could result in a war that could tear the world apart.
The Insurgency requires a leader who can continue its stagnation as best as possible in a covert manner.

My system has chosen you.

If you consent to this, please insert the enclosed needle into your left eye.
You will understand more afterwards.
It won't hurt, I promise.

I regret putting you in this position, but anticipate you shall rise to the occasion.
Archibald Mirum

Bijou looked at the needle in her right hand. It sounded like nonsense, but she could feel something inside of the point calling out to her. She held her left eyelids apart with her left hand, moved the needle to the surface of her eyeball, and thrust it deep into her pupil.

Bijou clenched her jaw. It was not painless. But it was worth it.

The Manna Charitable Foundation received an anonymous five million dollar donation.

Marshall, Carter and Dark discovered five million dollars had disappeared from their coffers.

The Janitor noticed a buzzing in its pocket as it escaped from the chaos far below.

Sender: Critic Reroute Number (662-639-4663)
SMS Content: Hard Drive Sixteen.
File - infohazard_images_492.7z
Password - 3jkb25bv6266kla3j2b6kindejbkreb6k26j4bv2346jg23
The instructions are in there. You will know what to do.
I love you. Thank you, and farewell.

The Janitor did not read the message until the following morning.

Ruiz Duchamp woke up staring at an intriguing installation piece. The piece itself was composed of several hundred mobile phones, all taped speaker-to-microphone, in a long, snakelike weave.


Ruiz wasn't sure quite when he had gone to sleep. After The Critic had died, he'd felt somewhat detached. He felt cheated of his prize. Ruiz groggily slapped himself in the face, trying to rouse some semblance of coherence within his noggin. It wasn't working.

Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the street, entered his favourite coffee shop, and asked for a double-strength espresso, which he then used to down his daily caffeine pills, multivitamins, and antidepressants.

And then, Ruiz finally woke up.

Then he remembered that there was a dead body still sitting in the middle of his exhibition room.

“Shit! Carol, hold onto this!”

Ruiz placed his coffee into the hand of the confounded barista, sprinted back to 'wowwee', and took a look at the body that was once Nobody. At least it had been a clean shot; were it not for the circular hole in the centre of his forehead, or the dried blood that had run down his cheeks, or the teeth that had broken from the sudden impact, or the smell of his body beginning to decompose, or his extremely dishevelled suit, with his customary grey fedora (also punctured) dropped beside the seat with burn marks and blood at the point of impact, you could almost think he was still alive.

Ruiz threw a blanket over him and started walking back to the coffee shop.

the first of first is death
The first of second is before.
The First Of Third Is After
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