Tha Daughters of Darkness

I have a rage! A rage so pure in its intensity, so poignant in its cause, and so sure of its aims.

All men have a line. A point when he must say enough! Sure, some men today have lost their will, lost all hope. But not me, no not me my Steemian friends.

I have reached my line. I am at the breaking point. This is where I stop hold the line and start pushing back. Yes, this is where I make my last stand.

I was at a shitty bar you see. The reason for my presence at said shitty bar is not essential to my rage. What is important is what I saw there. What lurked there behind the empty schooner glasses and beneath the off-center billiard tables.

Those of you of weak stomachs, soft sensibilities, and other feminine traits should turn away now. Go back to the so-called trending page and comment on HF21 posts. For what I'm about to say may haunt your nights and harras your very soul.

However, those of you made from sterner stuff, men of honor and courage, my fellow spiritual warriors, read on.

Evil humanoid hybrids walk amongst us, my friends. Soulless beasts from the underworld. These half-human half-wraith-like beings exist. I know because I saw one at the shitty bar.

I was tricked, you see. At the shitty bar by my so-called friend. He was no friend, however. He was one of them. He had been turned. He's not my friend anymore you should know. I don't have friends now. Since the encounter, I've become wiser and less trusting.

He told me there was a woman I should meet. That was the bait, the cheese in the hellish mousetrap. It pains me to admit I fell for such a ruse, but the description of this woman he gave was astounding — the most excellent A-Grade specimen, Grass-fed beef from New Zealand as they say.

And so like a fool I sunk my teeth over the hook and bit down hard.

I knew something was horrendously wrong when my so-called friend, after introducing me to the woman, ran immediately away. Where to? I don't know. Probably to collect payment for his Faustian deal.

When I gazed upon the woman, I felt something strange. The feeling took me back many years to a humid night in Bangkok, where I witnessed the spectacle of ladyboys parading around the streets.

Alluring, dare I say attractive? But a deep primal instinct warning me to stay far far away.

Perhaps it was her long blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and slim body. Or maybe it was the social awkwardness that accompanies such meetings. Whatever the case, I ignored my instinctual warnings and dared to speak to her.

"So where are you from?"

And that's when I saw it. Hormones and social anxiety had momentarily blinded me, but it was staring me right in the face. It wasn't in her response which I don't remember, it was in her facial expressions, and her lips. Dear Lord God in heaven, those lips.

Her lips where gigantic monstrosities that protruded a full inch from her face. Studies show that facial symmetry is a sign of reproductive health and thus attractiveness, but these lips could stir Pythagoras himself from the grave.

The right upper lift was puffier than all else and gave the impression a giant cold sore rested underneath the glossy pink paint that covered the entire mountainous region.

I couldn't meet her eyes. I was locked onto her mouth. It was hypnotizing the way the pink gloss shimmered under the pub lights. The giant mouth had a Hiroshima/Nagasaki quality to it, and the way it extended from the face gave her a pouting look. A fixed pout like something horribly sour was forever stuck on her tongue.

Then there was the brow. Unlike the lips, her eyebrows seemed to have been 3D printed on her face with a symmetry that was so perfect it gave her an inhuman look. What's worse, the entire upper face structure didn't move. The area from the high monster lip to the hairline was wholly fixed in place. Only the chin seemed reasonable, homo sapien in its own way.

The absence of micro-expressions delivered from the brow and around the eyes sent millions of error messages to my evolutionary synapses.

I felt what the Indian and Aboriginal people must have felt when they first laid eyes upon the white man. Part fear, part curiosity, wanting to run, but unable to. Aliens! Strange creatures who look like us, move like us, but they are not us. They will change everything. They are our doom.

My friends, this was no face. This was a Piccaso painting come to life, a creature birthed from the pages of a Steven King novel, some kind of Japanese sex robot prototype that never made it to mass production.

This was a grotesque parody of femininity if I ever saw one. The Devil seemed to laugh at me through those deep blue eyes that stared at me with gigantic lips pouting like an insolent child.

Was the creature happy to meet me? Was it sad? Bored maybe? How could any man know? There was no soul, no emotional point of reference to base an interaction off. Even a dog can wag its tail or bare its teeth.

I began to feel sympathy for the creature as I slowly began to shuffle my feet back to give myself distance and an opportunity to run. Perhaps it was human once. Maybe it had a family who loved it and wanted it to return home. But the forces of darkness had taken this one. The Botox Baal had consumed it and left nothing but the hollowed-out shell of a human to roam amongst us and do its evil lords bidding.

This was a face only a blind man could love. The very thought of my lips meeting its neurotoxic balloons and having their pink gloss absorbed into my skin was just too much. How could any man love this? How could one hold the disfigured creature against his chest at night and stroke the side of its paralyzed brow?

Some of you may say I'm too harsh. The modern school of thought is one that says a woman's body is hers to do with as she wishes.

To this, I agree. I say go forth young women. Cover your bodies in strange markings, run steel rods through your nipples, and dance around fires until your menopausal and grey.

But, at what point does body modification become self-mutilation? Where is the line between human expression and demonic transfiguration?

In any case, how is it possible to classify the creature as human?

My friends these are not people. These are ghouls! Goblins! Wraiths!

The notion that they should share the same rights as a regular folk is atrocious. The very thought of these abominations voting, driving, participating in our social structures is absurd. 

Why should we, the children of light, suffer the daughters of darkness?

Oh, how I long for the classical era. A time when women didn't inject bacteria into their faces. When you knew she was pissed off because you could see the large creases in her skin that ran across her frowning forehead.

But those days are gone. The Botox Baal now gorges upon more and more victims. His thirst unquenchable, his hunger insatiable.

Perhaps there is a solution to our malady. As humanity moves deeper into the silicon age, we could recycle the spawn of Sauron and sell the raw material to China. The Chinese can then manufacture various gizmos and gadgets and sell the dreaded creatures straight back to us. Thus completing the cycle of nature.

But I fear our species no longer have the stomach for such measures. And so I will continue to rage. I have drawn my line in the sand. I know one man's rage cannot stand against the tsunami of ugliness and inhuman deformity that now descends upon us from this army of clown faces. I still rage.

I told the creature that night I needed to go to the bathroom. I didn't. It was a lie. Just like it tried to deceive me with its evil estrogenic smoke and mirrors campaign, I cheated it with a false bladder alarm. Two can play that game.

I got out alive. I'm a little smarter now too. I won't fall for the old meet this woman trick again. 

And so begins the hunt for my so-called friend.