Close your eyes…
Go to sleep.
Imagine a yellowed, faded, dog-eared document.
Hand-written on vellum—prepared animal skin—mysterious illustrations, glyphs, and an unknown language adorn its many pages.
Scholars and professionals of various disciplines have attempted to translate the centuries-old manuscript on many occasions.
Diagrams of people, flora, and strange symbols appear to broach herbal, astrological, and pharmaceutical material, though we’ve yet to decipher or truly understand the contents – nor its origins or purpose.
Keen minds have postulated that the codex is a script for a natural or constructed language; a form of cryptography, waiting to be cracked; or a hoax, containing no meaningful information or knowledge whatsoever.
The document has come to be known as the Voynich manuscript.
But you’re not the only one who seems to think you’re some kind of best-kept secret…
The Captain has conquered the seven seas seven times over. Sending countless men to their watery graves, plundering every penny he can get his greedy hands on, he fooled his best friend—his blood brother—and stabbed him in the back to ascend the throne as King, revealing his twisted, Lovecraftian alter-ego.
The serpent is, by nature, a trickster. Slithering on his belly whilst anyone with a spine walks proud, his venomous mouth spins yarns, tells tall tales, and whispers whatever his subjects want to hear in order to convince and coerce them to carry out his bidding. Brokering a deal with power players, bad Mother fuckers, he seized gold – my gold.
The archaeologist himself feigned innocence and naïveté upon first stepping into The Slaughterhouse. The lost little lamb claimed to be searching for his daddy. The sins of the fathers are visited upon their children, however, as Florian’s shaky morals and crumbling ethics have since fallen into ruin, carrying out heinous acts in pursuit of vengeance and glory.
Like the dried pages of that enigmatic document, you believe yourselves to be indecipherable by even the sharpest of minds.
Planting red herrings, you lead the reader astray with misdirection and misinformation. You speak in riddles and invoke symbolism where there’s no true rhyme or reason.
You think you’re all so clever, don’t you?
But I can read you all like a book.
Reading between the lines, you see, decoding ciphers and cracking the codes of the subconscious, is kind of my forte.
You can scrawl in ancient languages, long since lost to time, and you can speak in dead tongues.
I’ll break your fingers, rip your tongue out of your head, then send a message of my own, inked with your blood.
Delving into your yellowed, faded, dog-eared psyches, I shall expose your shallow prose, deconstruct and dissect your symbols, and illustrate a level of pain and suffering you previously couldn’t have imagined.
At Rust Out, I will crack you wide open, watching as your cumulative forbidden knowledge spills onto the canvas.
Reflected in that viscous, crimson puddle, will be me – holding my gold above my head.
Sweet dreams, boys.
One, two, Sandman’s comin’ for you…