Read Scarleton Series I : Before the Cult for Free Online

was peculiarly bumpy,
not shying from expressing its discomfort and dislike. That we
detested. Its judgemental and callous attitude rattling our truck
to its joints and bolts. That was to be expected from a dirty dirt
road, but this afternoon the mood was not that gracious in the
truck. It was one accompanied with clenching jaws and flaring
nostrils. An atmosphere not fond of intrusion of distraction.
    Macxermillio
was the agent of its fortification, his hands tightly grasping on
the wheel. His breathing laborious the more discomfited he became.
With the same discomfiture, Macfearson played the clip in a loop
desperately hoping he had overlooked something or, even more
desperate, that we had not filmed well. The more he watched the
more irrefutable the conclusion became. We had failed.
    Macfearson
sighed and wearily dropped his hands into his lap, his mouth gaping
and eyes staring into nothingness. “No,” he mouthed. Seeing defeat
on his face was a scary sight because it was rare.
    “Maybe we just
have to lay low a little or move,” Macxermillio said putting up
defences, or maybe he was attempting to convince himself of a
different truth. “Avoid being caught, of course.”
    Deep into his
being he sensed how foul the whole practice was. Not because it was
repulsive and malevolent but because it was not solving our
problem. The practice was never just a means to an end, it was also
an end in itself because it facilitated much needed pleasure. The
kind of pleasure that easily becomes the centre of all our pursuits
and aspiration. The malice of it (the sampling) is the merciless
drive to erode conscience and rob all the affection the heart has
to offer and channel it onto itself. Often by establishing blind
loyalty and an incorruptible ignorant will to feed its bottomless
desire. A pastime pleasure evolves into a need and then an endpoint
in itself. The tragic part is that the practice was also
instrumental because so often the line is easily blurred. The line
between doing the sampling for the crop or sampling because we just
enjoy it. The latter is unhelpful but not easy to give up, so the
sampling had to show some validity and results in order for us to
feel like we are actually doing something. The lack of any results
was disturbing and threatened not only our self-image but could
spoil our pleasure as well, because then we would be no different
to a lifeling killer. So defending validity of the sampling
was important to maintain an unsparing appetite and an image. And
learning that we had no reason to continue sampling was
unacceptable and indigestible. We were unwilling to accept at the
heart not in the mind.
    In moments of
emotional tension my mind would spontaneously play songs in clips
as if my subconscious is trying to communicate something to me in a
language I can easily comprehend. After all dreams and
psychosomatic symptoms are never clear and to the point. Not to say
the songs were helpful either but it was a point to begin. The
effort to follow the leads and interpret the clips seldom came and
I just appreciated this peculiar trend. It was incredibly
distracting and sometimes soothing because there was no place like
music where I found sanctuary, meaning and felt understood to a
degree. And in the car they began rolling:
    “ If I could
find the time to speak…” Evans Blue’s Painted, the vocalist’s
voice embedded in profound hurt and despair. “…they never said
I’d end up like this…” Marilyn Manson’s Unkillable Monster. “…We finish and wish we can start again…” Hurt’s Fall Apart,
the song carries on to say “ So woe is me when all falls
apart…”. And then a desperate scream portraying a futile
protest for peace in a storm of melody, “ No…No More ” from
Hurt’s Overdose. Then an almost crooning voice in a state of
numbness and mental decay , “ … if you were me what would you do?
Probably nothing…” from Korn’s Faget. And another one from
Korn’s Make Me Bad “