View Full Version : Marilyn Manson fan-fiction in space by Dv5

02-10-2013, 09:03 AM

A good friend will always stab you in the front....

He whispered to me as I sat in a dentists chair. The light from overhead stalking and tracing my face while the sound of electric drills made my dilated eyes water and stream discoloured dreams into a spit and puke bucket. It became a Scrying Pool. Manson leered over me and asked me "do you have what it takes to be me, motherfucker?" to which I replied...if the Beatles were bigger than Jesus, and you are bigger than Satan, then I am bigger than you. I blacked out and awoke backstage at a venue where I was surrounded by scantily clad high school girls wearing pink and blue wigs who wanted to give me rapidly paced blow jobs. The room smelled of melting Haribo gummy bears and a nebulous fog began to cloud around me. "FIVE MINUTES....NO TWO MINUTES...". It was almost time to go onstage.

Manson appeared behind me again as doctors in Hazmat suits attended to me, checking my eye reflexes. Manson draped my shoulders with a purple ascot before blowing Scopolomine into my face. He then handed me a microphone with an assault rifle attached to it. It was of course not loaded with ammunition but rather a very powerful anesthetic that I was to crop dust the audience with. "This is your hour upon the stage". The crowd is going wild. A rube grabs me by the hand and walks me through the corridor towards the platform. As I am walking, I notice groupies trapped behind chicken wire, naked, bloody, covered in some sort of plasma as if they had just been shat out of a junkies womb. I ignore their pleas to be set free. This is where they must remain. This is what they wanted. Before I am led onstage I ask the rube what her name is, and she says "Katherine the Great". She points to Manson and instructs me to take his torch and extinguish it, then reignite it with a flame that she pulled from her heart. It was a blue flame that was able to speak. It had a curse put on it that could only be reversed by throwing it into a crowded mosh area where it could engulf people and become a collective spirit of pandemonium again.

I took the flame and placed it inside of my pants as Manson smirked and gulped down his liquor from a wooden chalice, laughing hysterically with an insidious cough as a gluttonous king would at a dinner table. The show is about to begin. I announce "Your Messiah is Here". Both Katherine the Great and Manson are whispering to one another as the curtain is about to drop. I turn around and bellow out "CREATOR! PRESERVER! DESTROYER! Only there is no audience. No one is in attendance. The magical talking flame in my pants has disappeared. I am no longer on stage. I am among no one. Manson appears again, and we are alone in a glass elevator where we are descending through levels of what seems to be other peoples nightmares. Some people are receiving shock therapy. others are having their insides harvested and limbs amputated to be replaced with mechanical prosthetics and animal organs. This is Nightmare Hall. I ask Manson why he has brought me here. He pulls out a slip of paper that has written on it "Retrogade the technology of dreams". I am to reverse all of this. I must close Pandora's box. It is up to me to defeat the boss trolls on each level and climb my way back to the top where I am promised to inherit all of his fame, taking from him the burden of being who he hates being.

I am sat in front of a television set with a toilet beside the green molded couch and giant black sunglasses are placed on my face. He instructs me to watch a training video in preparation to fight the misery machines that he is surrounded by. He needs me to save him. He needs me to help him escape being what he hates being. He didn't want me to be him, he needed me to help him find himself in the audience again.


A flood begins to fill the room like a bathtub being drawn by a suicidal little girl. All of the sudden I am back in the dressing room. The clock on the wall says that it is my birthday. The year is - I am suddenly aware of my real surroundings again. A mechanical bride wheels over a cart with a bottle containing some sort of etheric solution. I drink it and am back in the dentists chair. My teeth have been filed into railroad spikes. Manson then hands me the spit tray again and I vomit out Hell with the aborted fetuses that were trying to grow to become him. They look like coffee grinds. Coffee grinds and melted chalk. Before I stand up, he takes the dish from me and pours it down a drain that becomes a swirling black hole and then is sealed with a giant blood clot that he dug out from his heart with a mic knife and then seals the black hole with an indecipherable whisper. Manson then pushes the palm of his hand onto my forehead and I am back at home on the internet 13 years later as the stars are nearing the same alignment they were on the day that Manson whisked me away. The End is not always near. Sometimes it is behind us we must face the knife and impale ourselves onto the canvas so that it can be erased and begin anew. The dirt is rumbling and the sun is sinking into our graves, rapturing us into the eye of Horus in the sky so that we may blind it and forever escape the all seeing prison gods that hold us captive in our space.

02-10-2013, 10:15 AM

02-10-2013, 11:31 AM

Wow. What a great reply <3

02-10-2013, 11:35 AM
Any time, cutie pie <3

02-10-2013, 03:52 PM
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you two. Did you really think that I wouldn't say this? You know that I play this better than you.

02-13-2013, 10:14 PM
I like this! <3 applause!

02-23-2013, 08:01 AM
Look deeper @_@