Large Fierce Mammal

Hunter’s Moon

By LFM

By light of moon a hunter came
Snow shod through winter woods,
Bound home from hunt and trading trip
For meat and needful goods.

Moon shadows of bare birchen limbs
Lay cast across the trail
That led to hearth and home and wife,
And respite from travail.

His dearest Meg prayed for him there,
By day and lonely night,
Beloved mother soon to be,
Fair keeper of his light.

The trail behind lay six weeks long,
Ahead, but half an hour,
And knowing this he felt his legs
Recharged with newfound power!

The knoll that rose above the glen
Wherein the cabin stood
Was where, at last, the hunter came
To stand  beside the wood.

And though his heart cried out for haste,
And though he longed to run
Into his dear Meg’s loving arms,
He clutched, instead, his gun.

For though he longed to hold his Meg,
And hungered for her kiss,
He felt his heart freeze in his chest,
For something was amiss.

Long time there he stood and watched
The cabin ‘cross the snow.
He saw no chimney smoke arise,
No warming lantern’s glow.

He eased his pack down on the snow,
He loosed his axe and knife,
And with his rifle leveled
Made his way down to his wife.

Drawing nigh he saw the door
Stood open to the night,
Racing in he screamed her name
And found a ghastly sight.

Every place the moon could cast
Its light upon the floor
Revealed a place of slaughter there,
Festooned with blood and gore.

His rifle clattered from his hands,
He called again for Meg,
Then stumbled to the hearth lamp and
Retrieved it from its peg.

With shaking hands he lit the wick,
Then fell upon his knees.
“Til well past dawn his screams were carried
Miles upon the breeze.

He never knew how long he screamed,
Nor how he came to bed,
But when he woke the sun was up,
Meg’s dress beneath his head.

Rising up, he stumbled to
The thing that broke his mind.
The butchered, hanging, parts of Meg,
So perfectly aligned.

Tears were streaming down his face
As piece by piece he took
Each desecrated piece of flesh
From each and every hook.

No tender flesh for cannibals
Would hang when they returned.
Instead there’d be a smoking hole
Where he and Meg had burned.

The smell of coal oil filled the air,
He kissed his Meg good bye.
The hunter checked his rifle’s load,
And settled back to die.

T’was as he made to light their pyre,
He looked across the floor
And saw a small familiar thing
He’d somehow missed before.

To the corner’s shady gloom
The hunter made his way,
And seeing what it was, he knew
His duty was to stay.

A tiny skull with spine attached
Lay chewed upon the wood,
And vengeance filled the hunter’s mind
To cleanse the Earth for good.

And so the tiny fragment joined
Its mother once again,
And father hunter set about
To play host in his den.

By light of moon the monster came
Up to the cabin door,
But as it entered in it knew
All wasn’t as before.

A thundrous sound rang through the night,
Its head blew from its neck,
The wendigo collapsed in place,
A bloody twitching wreck.

And barely had the body twitched
Its last out of this life,
The hunter fell upon it with
His axe, his saw, and knife.

The hunter plied his trade and cast
To Meg a soulful look,
Then he hung each monster part
From each and every hook.

That night another shot rang out
As fire took them all,
But the hunter saw the monster sent
From Earth to Judgement’s call.

The skies over Nova Scotia were a source of great interest on the night of 4 October 1967 as large numbers of witnesses, including members of the Royal Canadian Mounted police (RCMP), observed moving and hovering lights in the sky off most of the province’s south shore, from Lunenburg west to Shag Harbour. At approximately 23:20 hours ADT, in an event that was again widely witnessed, a large object descended to near water level off Shag Harbour where it hovered a while before “disappearing”, presumed to have sunk.

Observers reported what they still believed to be a plane down, and fishing boats were dispatched to the “crash” site in search of wreckage, survivors, or bodies. All they found was a bright yellow foam that smelled of sulfur dioxide coating the surface of the water until it eventually dissipated.

An extensive military response ensued, the results of which are cloaked in mystery, but the people of Shag Harbour have never forgotten, nor have a few determined investigators who have been picking away at the records and reports that came out of the event since the day it occurred. (more…)

A Night on the Town

By LFM

In a realm that’s near to ours
There dwells a nasty thing.
It has no horns, nor pointy tail,
No scales or batty wing.

It’s not exactly evil, mind,
Though neither is it good,
And when it thinks of vengeful deeds
Its loins become as wood.

You wonder what this thing is called?
Well, “Fuck Off” is its name.
I know because, whenever asked,
Its answer is the same.

How I came to know this is
A question good to ask.
I let Fuck Off possess me once
To help me with a task.

And while it rode astride my soul,
It was surprised to find
Itself possessed by me in turn,
Our two souls intertwined!

We tidied up our darksome deed
And parted souls at last.
T’was then it pulled me to its breast
And there it held me fast.

It cried, “I’ve found a darkness here,
“Within the soul of thee
“So dark indeed, I feel thou art
“A brother unto me!”

Now, even though, in diff’rent realms
I and Fuck Off dwell,
Each Hallowe’en the curtain thins
And lets it out of Hell.

It stops to visit me those nights,
We share a drink and jest,
And then consult our list that names
The unsuspecting bless’d.

Those on our list derive their joy
From torture, rape, and more,
My friend and I, we’ll bring much worse,
Delivered to each door.

Co-possessed as one, we’ll hunt
Our quarry ’til the knell
Of dawn sees every listed soul
Has screamed its way to Hell.

A friend of mine recently brought something to light that I had forgotten about until this morning. Back in 2008, a team led by French marine archaeologist Franck Goddio announced discovery of a bowl dating from between the late 2nd century B.C. and the early 1st century A.D, inscribed with what they believe to be the first known reference to the Biblical Christ.

The bowl is marked, “DIA CHRSTOU O GOISTAIS” which the recovery team have interpreted to mean either, “by Christ the magician” or, “the magician by Christ.” Speaking from my own studies, I would lean toward the latter.

It’s a well known fact that around 1000 AD, Viking explorers and traders spent quite a bit of time roving and rummaging around the east coast of North America from the northern tip of Newfoundland where they left some famous signs of their presence at L’Anse au Meadows, to as far south as the Hudson River. Less well known is that back in 1853, a Newfoundlander named Tim Tarbox spent quite a bit of time there minding a screech still. While rooting about for fire wood one day, he was overcome by the call of nature and, as he was digging a cat hole in a peat bog with a stick, found two perfectly preserved pieces of crockery that bear a striking resemblance to the one disinterred by the Goddio team – but with a striking and, I believe significant difference between them. (more…)

Today’s Dark Sentiment is about a very real curse that stalks our girl children, our wives, our mothers – in fact every woman. It entwines them in its evil tendrils and draws its nourishment from them by draining their sense of self-worth, forcing them to suppress their intellectual and creative spirit, and filling their hearts with the particularly vile belief that their chance of finding love and happiness is proportional to how closely they conform to an ideal of beauty that will be forever held just out of reach to keep them striving – and paying – to attain it. Today I want to dig up the roots of the filthy, lying, parasitic thing and sprinkle on a little LFM herbicide.

In the eyes of Nature men and women are not equal. They are essential and complimentary versions of Human, each constructed with the differences necessary to accomplish Nature’s goals within Her scheme of things. This necessitates the visible sexual differences, called primary sexual characteristics, that we all know and love, as well as certain invisible but just as important ones that are chemical, i. e., hormonal in nature. Also one produces the eggs, the other the sperm, and if you’re not sure which is which, ask the person sitting next to you because they generally know. Nothing else really matters for the purpose of this discussion, so I’ll keep it simple and stick with those.

Beyond that, and in accordance with Her tendency to keep things simple by avoiding solving the same problem twice using two different methods in a single organism, Nature simply duplicated what didn’t need changing between the male and female of the species. One of the things she had no reason to fiddle with was the brain. While history right up to the present day is fraught with myths of one sex being somehow intellectually superior to the other, there really is no reason why that would be an evolutionary necessity. Any society that fails to recognize and embrace the power of an entire sex is ultimately doomed to limp along like a six cylinder car with three dead spark plugs, two flat tires, and a lobotomized driver, and it’s the power of women that almost universally gets devalued for the basest of reasons. (more…)

Source: http://zombietools.net/

There were supposed to be two zombie inspired articles here this year, but thanks to the late breaking news of Lindsay Lohan’s zombification, we all got stuck with one extra. Tonight though, the coast is clear (I know because I’m almost literally sitting on it) and we can proceed with the way things were supposed to be.

I personally dislike the term “survivalism” just as much as that used to describe its adherents – “survivalist” – because they sloppily cloud the most important issue – the fact that in Nature there are only two cardinal points called “Life” and “Death”, and in between them lies a quality scale that runs from “thriving” on the one end and “better off dead” on the other. Therefore, until you reach the “Death” end of that scale, you are alive, and by definition “surviving”. (more…)

Yesterday we looked at zombies and zombification – the dark art of creating a zombie. Part of that was the bizarre tale of Clairvius Narcisse who turned up alive 18 years after his “death” with reports of his zombification, 2 years enslaved as a zombie, his escape, and 16 years trying to find his way home.

Also discussed was “zombie powder”, a concoction of natural toxins and hallucinogens that constitutes the secret ingredient essential to the institution and maintenance of zombification. That’s right – at the root, non-prescription pharmaceuticals are the real magic.

Here at LFM, we’re always on the lookout for the bizarre, and just today Mrs. LFM turned up evidence of an even more recent case of zombification, once again with a clear drug connection. Black magic indeed!

Lindsay Lohan circa 2007, roundabout the onset of the zombification process.

Lindsay Lohan this week during a court appearance. We suspect her zombie powder must be of inferior quality for it to be taking this long, but nevertheless, the transformation is clearly well on the way. Just wait until the suppurating rot under those cheeks builds up enough pressure to break through! 

Yes, there’s even a video game.

“I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

~ Albert Einstein ~

Apocalyptic events come in many flavours. For example, back in the 50’s and 60’s it was nuclear war that held the spotlight, and thus was born an entire genre of science fiction, horror, and fantasy literature and films that regularly feature the latest in a hit parade of causal events. No matter what starts it all – doomsday bomb, sudden onset ice age, rogue asteroid, plague – there’s always one common thread: modern technological society as we know it has melted down with a resulting removal of anything resembling law and order so that small groups of people now exist as isolated scavengers, fighting for their daily survival against the horrors of their new reality. (more…)

On Day 28 of last year’s series I explored True Love as a Dark Sentiment. Today, somewhat in that vein but more than a little laced with melancholy, I’m going to expose you to a haunting tale titled Peter Kagan and the Wind written by the multi-talented Gordon Bok, and that only first came to my attention a couple years ago thanks to our esteemed friend Valentina.

The performance I’ve chosen is one by the duo of Tommy Makem and Liam Clancy. Courtesy of the ever helpful YouTube community, it follows in two parts.

Stefan Ramin

If you just slid into Halifax, Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver, or any city in the world for your very first time, would you agree to go touring alone with someone you had only just met? If you have a death wish don’t bother to answer that, but most people wouldn’t.

Ramin and Dorsch in happier times. Click to enlarge.

Yet every year people in search of adventure expose themselves to unnecessary danger on trips to exotic locales because they don’t know the difference between being adventurous and being a fucking idiot. Case in point today is 40 year old German adventure seeker Stefan Ramin who embarked by catamaran on the adventure of a lifetime with his 37 year old girlfriend Heike Dorsch in 2008, ending up anchored off the coast of the Polynesian island of Nuku Hiva on 16 September 2011. Interestingly, Herman Melville of Moby Dick fame claimed he was once captured by cannibals on Nuku Hiva but managed to make good his escape. True or not, that’s more than a little prophetic (more…)