This famous piece on American football and non-consensual sexual activity was a major inspiration for Kinoko Naisu’s American Football.

ogiuemaniax:

The New and Improved Fate/Zero Opening

Yes… quite improved indeed.

From a place in the earth from which forms spring.

When I was first presented with this question in my teenage years, I was compelled to sneak out of the mansion through the window of my study. I knew then, as I know now, that only one place holds a proper response to this conundrum.

The maid cafe.

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The new fighting game from Melty Blood developer French Bread has terribly familiar character designs and is flamboyantly titled Under Night In-Birth.

I trace a Partition Quarter-Seven magical circle onto my forearm and open a Field of “Solitude Conceptual” inside of my mind. A situation such as this calls for careful deliberations.

The images of an electric entertainment product with which I have just been presented are new. That is to say, they’ve just been created. Recently. I am told that the “forms” are “originals.” And yet my stomach stirs, yet a strange feeling rises up into this dimensional thoughtspace and swirls smoke-like around its outskirts, just out of reach.

Despite having just now been created, the “originals” felt strangely familiar. Familiar: that is, like family. Like something I had known for a very long time. But such an unnatural existence, one which was somehow living right now in both present and past, should be impossible. Barring the intervention of lesser demons, the only explanation was that this betrayal of the senses was in fact… a copy.

But a copy of what? I cannot place it. I run the magical phrase through my head, in search of clues:

“Thousand night, Recurrence night, Reverie end Invite.
and… [7_days Immortal]. Unreal BLACK THINGS.”

The couplet is indecipherable, but undeniably familiar. It is as though, in a fit of demonic possession, the words had leapt from my own tongue—

Gods under Canis Major, it was impossible. It was unfathomable.

I made this videogame.

Please look forward to Kinoko Naisu and French Bread’s new collaborative project, Under Night In-Birth. A flowery pasture strewn with gastric juices and the laments of a murdered king’s harem awaits. Bury yourself in history’s lies untold and bathe in the bitter alabaster glow of mortal battle. Die. Live. Die.

The Fractale Production Committee has suspended Funimation’s legal broadcast of their show, on the condition that Funimation first end piracy.

After Funimation sent out some cease and desist letters, Japan was satisfied that internet piracy had effectively ended forever, and the simulcast was allowed to continue.

As I live alone and am myself baffled by the practice of the cooking magics and the arcane devices with which they are performed, the class rep has taken it upon herself to cook my dinners. A class rep is a person who represents the class. My class chose a foreigner, as they envied her blonde, swirling golden-tornado hair. A foreigner is a person who comes from another country. “Blonde” hair is— I digress.

Though she insults me viciously from the moment she enters my small apartment until she’s finished cleaning the dishes, I have always been somewhat grateful for her service. Until tonight.

Tonight I stare down an… unusual dinner menu. Indeed, what I see before me does not qualify as “food”: there is nothing here that I could eat. Only tiny blue cards, each not much larger than my thumbnail.

Odorless. Lacking odor. Meatless. Lacking meat.

Quite devoid of any organic matter at all, in fact. Items from the earth, but not in fact of the earth. Items that merely live there. As I contemplate the “forms” before me, the class rep’s delicate fist bangs down onto the table as heavily as it is capable. I ponder how foreigners could have built something so… soft.

“Information is the sustenance of the new age! Knowledge alone purifies and ennobles the soul! Do you still refuse to understand, donkey-boy?”

So that was it. This was a lesson. A conversation between teacher and student in which knowledge is imparted. A session of learning. A cultural exchange. My stomach rumbles, and again that tiny fist— too, too easy to crush— slams down upon the table.

“Eat, if you’re hungry! The Sumerine Datum wafer sustains gods and men alike, and as such I should think it would suffice for a lowly beast of burden such as yourself!”

I must stress that I bore no resemblance to any such animal. Not even an American animal.

Scooping one of the “chips” up from the table, the class rep throws it into the air and devours it with a single chomp. As I consider (but ultimately decide against) admonishing her for eating some of my foodlike, the wafer reappears on the table before my stunned eyes. For the fourth time this evening, I reconsider the nature of being.

“This is the nature of the data wafer: infinitely repeating and limitless. A thing which cannot be destroyed nor replaced. Now, consume, you fool!”

I consume. I inhale. I “integrate” the data into my body as fast as I can. The cracking sound of electric fibrous innards crunching between my teeth, the long, fleshy waterslide of the esophagus into my digestive pits, the dissolution of raw content into my bloodstream. Before my vision fades, I see her blue eyes begin to narrow, her face twist in disgust at my info-gluttony. I do not care. Rather, I cannot care: drunk on knowledge, the faculties in my brain that usually deal with such issues have entirely shut down.

The Trappist order originated in the Cistercian monastery of La Trappe, France. Various Cistercian congregations existed for many years, and by 1664 the Abbot of La Trappe felt that the Cistercians were becoming former Philadelphia Eagles head coach Rich Kotite was hired to replace Pete Carroll, who was fired after posting a 6-10 record in his only season as Jets head of
the giant Humphries Space Systems

THIS FEELING IS SUBLIME.

and at his 100th birthday party announces a prize of ten billion dollars to anyone who can recover any remains of his eldest son Alex. Alex was killed two years by the nematode (roundworm) Strongyloides stercoralis. Other Strongyloides include S. fülleborni, which infects chimpanzees and baboons and may produce limited infections in humans.

“FIlthy.”

I feel the class rep’s tiny fist punch me full in the mouth, even though it is stuffed with data chips, and a certain nauseous relief washes over me. I worry that the crackling I hear is not in fact that of my own teeth, ironically smashed into dust by the very objects they intended to chew upon.

“Y-you’re disgusting! You… you loathsome chipmunk thing! The food of the gods was never meant for such foul appetites!”

There is a sniffle: tiny, halting intakes of breath which imply emotional distress or allergies. Tears emerge ever so slowly from the corners of her eyes, like jellyfish washing up on a barren, Caucasian shore.

“You can’t have any more data wafers, donkey boy! Not until you— not until you— not until you destroy all that data right now!!”

Her request is plainly ludicrous, but her tears cause my chest to feel a certain burning and vibrating feeling whose influence is undeniable. In mere minutes I have eaten this much of power. In these few moments the class rep has awakened a terrible lust for knowledge in me, and return I forced her to bear witness to the sick orgy of data acquisition that it brought about. In this little time I have lost myself. I open my mouth to voice some kind of sound which I hope will be understood as apologetic—

“I’m sorry, Don-kun. I’m sorry. I knew what it would do to you. I know what data wafers do to all emotionally stunted shut-ins. I just— I just— I wanted to make a better man of you! I… I wanted you to eat them for us— I mean, for the class. I mean… grades. Better grades.”

The burning again. Of my own free will— having agreed to this course of action with my conscious mind as well as the irrational animal emotion of the loins— I upend the dinner table, smash the wood to splinters under my feet. The class rep looks on this second savage display with her hand cupped over her mouth.

It’s over. By smashing this table and the data wafers underneath, I have destroyed information. It won’t be back to bother me. Nor her. Nor our classmates. The glutton-curse “information” will never trouble another soul in this world. I sift through the remains….and find three data wafers, fully intact, among the bits of what used to be my coffee table.

“It won’t work, Don-kun. They’ll never leave. It’s not their nature to leave. I‘ve unleashed a monster upon you who cannot be killed. I’m… so, so sorry.”

As it seems to do every evening not long after dinner, the image of the class rep fades into nothingness (I presume this to be some kind of American form of air travel) with the words “Um, Don-kun, I lo—”. One day, I suppose I will consume the data wafer that will explain this phrase to me.

Until then, I will watch the 1976 Japanese superhero television program Azteckaiser, created by Go Nagai and Ken Ishikawa. And I will wait.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Assembly has targeted anime/manga with a law that effectively labels a wide and vaguely defined chunk of the medium as pornography.

By definition, a child is a thing that hasn’t yet grown up. The fragile thing is easily broken. As such, it is a fact that a child must be protected. One couldn’t say that a child without protection could ever become a truly grown and large creature. Because the child takes a great amount of time to grow, we could literally say that the child is our future. For as long as I can remember, for the sake of the future, I have dreamed every night of protecting children.

On a moonlit night I would burst into action, like the mighty squid rising from his home in the depths of the Tokyo Bay. The inky blackness of my spray would plunge the enemies of my tiny human comrades into oblivion, and for my deeds I would take the title of the legendary friend of all children. I would be on cordial terms with these small beings, extending their lifespans and thus extending the future.

But today pulls me away from those dreams.

Today causes me some distress.

Today I’ve heard of Non-Existent Youths. The mere concept racks my mind with the unique, strangling terror that comes when all fundamentals of being fall under suspicion. It is fearful. This existential horror frightens me to the bone.

A thing that doesn’t exist just isn’t there. Neither made of carbon nor polyvinyl chlorine, such a non-existence— which is and which yet is not— is an unequaled paradox for which my elite education at Japan’s finest junior college had left me wholly unprepared.

I tested the theory by drawing an A-rank imaginary child in my mind. Folding my consciousness inside itself, aligning the circuits from Quarter-Gamma to Section A7L, I shifted into the dream space intent on running an interrogation on this transcendent being. She cut me off before I could begin.

“You want to ask me what a Non-Existent Youth is. I want to ask you if it is not the case that you’re not the one who hasn’t failed to exist.”

It couldn’t— it couldn’t.

No.

The porcelain doll, her blue eyes like the tiny, spotted eggs of a quail, was right. By entering the imaginary thought-space was I myself, by necessity, transformed into Non-Existence? What was existent anymore? To do the math, I would need a piece of paper and a pen— but I was already falling into this black hole, this place where, self-cast out of proper existence, I could not even conjure tools into being— for I was the act of unbeing itself.

The only option that was left to me was to verify what was “real to me”: relatively speaking, of course. I reached my hand towards the Non-Existent Youth. If we made contact, and if I felt something, it naturally followed that the Non-Existent Youth had actually existed all along in my mind. I would be free from this prison. My hand moved of its own accord, but the compelled bundle of nerves and flesh (lacking an organ for thought) was unable to fathom the horror that would follow.

As my fingers drew closer to the top of the girl’s head, I began to feel a “nothing” rather than the expected “something”: only the sucking of a trans-dimensional vaccuum pulling insistently on my fingertips nearly to the point of separating them from my knuckles. I thought for a moment of a life without fingertips.

Without.
Lacking.
Without.

As my fingers made contact with the top of the head of the Non-Existent Youth, a dark, oily puddle opened up at the top of her skull and began to spread over the length of her body. An… inky blackness. An absence of light. It couldn’t be bright, because it was dark. A darkness which could not shine.

I tried to concentrate on her pearl resin eyes, the purest, whitest objects in an ever-expanding void. My salvation. Her mouth was gone, but she spoke to me.

“Listen. The underside of an azure slice of moonshade. The crinkling and crunching of bones. Apples, stems neatly trimmed. Necks of rubber. Unshattered glass. Things never seen. Drunk as two dogs for bacon. Things already lost. Captain of the finest seafaring vessel. Strip shows in the alley, near-collisions on the highway. The finest bob-haired action heroine of the year. A sharp intake of breath. The end of gods and the age of man. Regrets, my first and dearest friend. Regrets.

My name is Ailloeteuthe Subyiulinae von Tinten. The future is set. What never existed was never protected. I am the solution to your arrogance. Go now to your seventh-circle dimensional pseudocoffin, and tell Tokyo Metro that they will be next.”

By the time she was done speaking, there was nothing left but her eyes and the void. I felt my own eyes roll over backwards desperately in their prisoner cages, attempting escape, but she followed them even to the back of my skull. I could no longer look away. Full-Beta Command was no longer answering calls, and Section 4Z was shut down. There was nowhere in my own mind to run. It was a place (a non-place, a hell with neither fire nor brimstone nor sinner) from which escape was impossible.

As the last of my consciousness faded, I pledged to never again touch a Non-Existent Youth. Some laws are truly beyond us.

-BAD END-

The Kara no Kyoukai BD box set will be released for $400.

“What, indeed, is money?” I asked.

She flipped her long auburn hair with the casual elegance of a spider walking among snakes, and began to speak.

“Currency is a system that man has devised in order to give his efforts— which you and I understand are ultimately meaningless on the astral scale, but the thrashing of a fly whose legs have yet to be torn off—”

(I recalled that like the dinosaurs, humanity would eventually be destroyed by some mundane natural occurrence like a meteor: we were too insiginificant for gods to take notice of.)

“—value. The wealth number, such as it is, can be increased by work and decreased in exchange for goods and services, like our morning tea and the maid who brings it to us.”

And indeed, the frills she wore. I understood this concept. It was like the use of male reproductive liquids in the magical world. In a corner of my mind, I began a series of calculations that would eventually result in my magical wealth number.

“A box set of the Japanese animated feature film series Kara no Kyoukai on Blu-Ray Disc will cost the big brothers in America four hundred of their dollar-bills. Each film would cost fifty of these strange paper strips.

This is more than the typical American big brother pays for a motion picture recorded onto any sort of discus, and many are concerned that there will be no papers left for them to ward off demons with. In Japan, 100,000 big brothers paid even more yen-coins for their discs, but as they view the discs less as a practical item than as religious offerings of an odd sort, they are pleased.”

I’d made up my mind. I had to ask her. “Sis—”

“Yes, simpleton?”

A hint of joy was mixed with her disdain.

“I want to buy Kara no Kyoukai. Is there a way to exchange my semen for some of these dollar-bills?”

She paused, blushing.

“That is possible.”

COMING SOON FROM ELECTRONIC ARTS AND TYPE-MOON, THE UNNATURAL PRODUCT OF AN ALLIANCE THAT IS BEYOND HUMAN

Kinoko Naisu’s American Football

There’s a football flying in the air above me.
Floating.
This ball is destined to travel, and then fall.
But at this moment, in front of my eyes, I can see a football.
An American football.

I draw a diagram in my mind.
You throw an American football in a spiral. Like a worm crawling in a dog’s intestines.
A football thrown any other way just won’t go very far.
It certainly won’t get to the place it was intended to be thrown.
But this American football. This American football.

It moves with unnatural accuracy.
Obscenely.
Moist with the juices of human effort, this football tumbles end over end through the air.
Blasphemously.
It’s as though the place it was going will always be the place it will go.
I think of my sister.

This American football is impossible. It just can’t exist.
I want to wipe it from my eyes.
I want to scream and shove my face into a prehistoric tar pit.

It.
Is.
Terrifying.

heytheoffensivelinemenaretheMURDERbiggestguysonthefield,they’rebiggerthan
everybodyelse,andthat’swhatAPOCALYPSEmakesthemthebiggestguysonthe
fieldwhenyourPUNISHMENTarmgetshittheballisnotgoingtogowhereyouwantitto
kdkfjlaINSANITYgahdfjifyouseeadefenseteamwithdirtandmudontheirbacks
they’veRAPEhadabadday.

I wake up in my bed, bleeding.
My flaxen-haired maid is here with a bowl of Campbell’s Chunky soup.

I feel like a an empty pot of meat, about to be filled.

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