THE NIGHT I KILLED LOW IQ MARK FISHER
I raped some girls, I shipped some guns. Like vro, it was the end of the universe. What can I say?
I raped some girls, I shipped some guns. Like vro, it was the end of the universe. What can I say? Let me tell you what it was really like. It was the second year of the compleat 0†, the night before we killed Mark Fisher, and a few months before the thirteenth vibe shift. We were using the early work of Kristen Roupenian to test out the reverse entropy technology we had seen in Dolan’s Tenet rushes and listening to the new Axxturel tape produced by evilgiane. And my friend, whose face could not be seen, said, ‘why don’t we kill Mark Fisher?’ At first the idea seemed funny, obscene even. For some coffin-chasing Marxist-cucks of our generation but not us Fisher was a great theorist, one of a kind, the saviour of the common man starved of clear writing on the passing cultural moment. But as time went on and midnight approached, the idea of killing Mark Fisher became more and more attractive. Even endlessly logical, as if predetermined, like the plot of a great Italian opera. Eventually we had to admit it. It needed to be done. It was time to kill Mark Fisher. In fact, by now it can clearly be seen that Fisher was a relatively useless writer, a very late and not very great cultural theorist, and that life is better without him. I was right to pull that trigger. And I was right to use the baseball bat when he kept on twitching. I was right to eat his face off on all fours when the rose dawn light came through the slats of the still open back door. I have no regrets except that I might have swiftly used the axe and pulp machine that my friend brought for his own amusement after my own work was done. Let the court before me decide my fate. I can only add that like Caleb Williams I have long fervently desired to live in a prison and that my support and respect for the carceral state is genuine.