|Cybernetic culture research unit|
Bad Night at Wendigo's
Carver meets Sarkon in the Decadence-Den at Wendigo's Casino.
It is built upon a desecrated Tzikvik burial ground.
Murals in the distinctive Tzikvik-style, mixed zig-zags and cross-hatchings.
Gaming-table dead centre. Ceremonial masks and hunting implements line the walls.
Subarctic storms howl outside.
A columbian mirage of the Indus.
They say the Tzikvik are survivors from Lemuria.
That their souls died with the birth of photography. Potlatch engulfed them.
Genocided, drunk, and broken, washing up ruins like Joe Wendigo.
But then, in this business, bad publicity is free advertizing.
When you hear Joe Wendigo laugh you find yourself believing in hell. It's all coming back.
Genocide nemesis storm-twisted through ghost-regions. Tappings into the old powers.
Ragings. Howlings. He attributes it to his warped maternal line.
Mother a lunatic. Grandmother a spirit-switcher. Great-grandmother a regional oracle.
It's funny the way it goes. Her mother was probably god (that's when he laughs).
He tells you how he got his name.
They always said he was a monster. Destined to prey on his own.
Tobacco-gangster at sixteen. Now he's rich (living off probability).
Wendigo lore varies confusingly, even in its core features. It includes an elemental linkage to the wind, temptations to feed on one's own kind, wider madnesses, burnt-feet and bleeding-eyes, moss-eating abominations, many things intrinsically indefinite.
The Wendigo chews shelter to pieces. It combines cutting-winds and derangements.
Screech-breath. Quasiphrased unwords. Insinuating itself between you and the storm.
It really fucks you up (Joe laughing again). Weaving through click-chattering roulette tables.
Most likely it's a cannibalistic demon of bone-gnawing horror.
There's nothing more twisted. After all, how frightening is the weather? (Laugh).
Everything checks red and black.
When you hear the wind ache as it twists you're it. So they say. Gestural languages.
Outside betting on psychometeorological bad-medicine. Shrieking.
When you think like the weather the Wendigo comes. It's difficult to concentrate.
Turbular disintegration of self. Double or quits. Psychotic dissociations.
Granulation into $10 chips. Coincidence. Shredding nightmares. Endlessly feeding.
Chop-ups. (Laugh). That's Joe Wendigo. His mother never spoke much.
Insubstantial subsentences. Continuously lapsing back, as he weaves.
Artificially drugged into ceaseless fractioning.
Self-scattering, whilst outside it screams. Northern weather. Turbulence.
Ghosts of a broken people (dead with the new century). Crushed-drunk.
Anytime soon, something horrible will happen here. That's obvious (laugh)!
So says Joe (don't-take-me-seriously) Wendigo.
He found out how chopped-up things are today. Something truly horrible.
No sense of night or day. Timeless, in that sense. A perpetual ritual of feeding.
This place is like a movie-set. Twistedly authentic. It's screaming outside.
That' s why they come. Honestly! They know, somehow.