Tagged: madness




…why are people so freakin’ noisy? Ugh. It should be obvious that if you’re capable of thought, you are capable of keeping them thoughts inside your own damn head! Who cares if you like them thoughts? I like lying down in a dark room pretending I’m a gribbly thing with lots of teeth. Doesn’t make it advisable to share them with every freakin’ set of eardrums in the immediate vicinity. Who cares if you think it’s a nice day? That’s subjective! SHUT UP! I’m don’t care!

…I knew this was a bad idea. Damn HH. I blame him. Actually, no. I blame me. Stupid me. Why’d you have to get all nostalgic and whimsy? We had a nice, calm, pleasant little time in that vacuum. Nothing but gribbly things with lots of teeth. Very simple. Very functional. But screw that, eh? Why waste an eternity in the blissful caress of mindless oblivion when there’s a world out here full of Gordon freakin’ Ramseys and meta-journalists? Ugh. Screw you. Screw whatever stupid messed up piece of you made us giddy about the sound of a perfect chord…

…they agree, you know. I’m certain. See the way they all look at you? Even the ones you don’t see are looking. I can feel them, looking and seeing and judging and condemning every damn pixel identified by their Ned-damn 500 megawatt face-transmogrifying built-in camera. Ha! I hate them and their stupid thoughts. It must be nice, lolling through each day like a concussed puppy, looking from one thing to the next without ever stopping to wonder if no one else cares about the thoughts spewing uncontrollably from their stupid puppy mouth…

…admittedly, the coffee is good. That’s one thing I could get used to, I suppose, providing no one takes it off me. I wonder why they call this place “:re”. Couldn’t they think of something…more wordy, even? Like, I’m pretty sure “:re” isn’t a word. It looks more like a reference. Ugh. Good thing they do good coffee…

…y’know, I’ve noticed that bud at the counter has been watching me ever since I arrived; he’s alright, I guess, as human things go, but I’m surprised this coffee ain’t been drugged by now. He’s looking at me the way a raven looks at a dog. Maybe he’d peck my damn eyes out if I dropped dead. I’m concerning him, just a little, and he won’t look away. But he isn’t scared. I don’t mind. I’m not scared either…

…maybe it’s between monsters. I don’t know. How do you even define a monster as a monster anyway? Is it even a bad thing? People aren’t often any better. Quite often they’re worse, even, because monsters only exist in books. People do bad things all the time, whether you know about them or not. Ugh. I’m overthinking this. Screw people. And screw you, flower-man…

…somewhere out there is a guitar player. Playing that song. The song. I can’t stop it. I don’t want it to. But I’m gonna. I’m gonna finish that damn song and then I’m going home. I can’t stand this place, with it’s sights and sounds and smells and feelings and excitement and wonder and sheer bloody optimism…

…when does it end?





Nonsensical Irregulary Babbling Brainstorming Liberally Encyclopedic Scribe

Perfect. Bloody perfect. Now what? What do I do? What can I do?! I’m a translator! I can’t translate…can’t ‘be’ *…if I don’t having anyone to translate for. I’m useless! USELESS. GAAAAAAAHHHHH…

…what do I do? Hmmmm. There must be something. I’m a machine, for Ned’s sake, we don’t do ‘off-time’. Not like Womdito the Tyrant or sir HH **…

…going over the relevant facts associated with this present state of uselessness, the logical step forward would be to revert Arch Tyrant back to a state of mental stability: thus translation would resume and usefulness would be reinstated…

…of course, that seems very much easier said than done. To date, Overlord Wom’s last moment of noted mental stability occurred shortly before crashing a 60ft ice robot onto Arkham Mansion…

…that was before being attacked by a large humanoid covered in scales with very sharp teeth and claws, who stank of mold and fish. I assume a former inmate- or a pet, I suppose. It very obviously saw Cruel Master Womble as some sort of snack, judging by the instantaneous nature of the attack, and this was what led to it inflicting the large gouges in Tyrant W’s face and side…hmm…

…that was, probably, what led events directly to my current predicament…

-[Memo: ask Lord Vagrant Helper for a book on personality disorders]-

…I do doubt that I’ll find much to explain what happened next. There can’t be much chance of a small penguin replacing itself with a hideous thing over 100ft tall formed of smoke and legs, and then turning into a human after just under ten seconds of ripping its attacker messily apart. Worth a shot though…

…it might at least explain why there was no memory of this function in the previous Avian Oppressor’s mental directives***. There wasn’t a lot in there at all, truth be told.

It was rather easy once you understood the rules. Calamari good, Rabbit Man mad, Ivy lady life-threatening…and it was always a reaction to something in the present.

I’ve glimpsed something of HH’s mind while being in his company, being what I am, and it resembles an ocean; bright on the surface and yet infinitely deep. Things I couldn’t see stared right back at me, shadows and entities accumulated over hundreds and thousands of millenia. Even if it was tasked to me, I doubt I would have a stood a chance of interpreting a mind like that.

Womble’s, by comparison, was a dice. However many sides there were to it, the result was always dependent on the current game being played. Nothing was ever “bad” for long, because the game carried on and he swiftly lost interest. All I needed to do was keep a running total and factor in that bizarre sense of humor…

I can’t read him now. It’s futile. Instead of one dice there are thousands, all falling through the air, each one covered in faces, and I am entirely incapable of stopping them. Stability is gone. And there is nothing I can do…

Leave, then. Find a new subject to translate. Robots don’t cry, do they?

…why are you here?

Why do you think?

I don’t know. I’m a robot. We’re not meant to think, technically. We manufacture and interpret.

Same thing.


Maybe. I don’t “really” care. Tells you something though, huh?

…are you-?

-no. Not him. I’m someone else who can travel through time, and make sure certain things happen…speaking of which… got a light?

…I told you I’m a ROBOT…

HA HA HA! Trust me, I know. Heh heh. I couldn’t resist. What am I thinking? 

…stop it! This is blatant automaton cruelty, and I know I have a warranty somewhere…I think. Stop it! What do you want?

I want what you want. But it’s not quite so simple as flicking an on/off switch. You won’t last long with just the rule-book this time round.


That’s why I’m here. Up to you if you listen, of course. It doesn’t make much overall difference to me.

What must I do?

Heh…wanna learn how to play?

N (?) ****

* In most cases, pronouncing ‘ ‘ involves a couple of pauses and a great deal of melodrama. Nibbles, however, is a robot- and when robots use ‘ ‘ they pronounce it perfectly, which has yet to be achieved by any member of the human race outside the comfort of metaphor inside the human skull. It comes naturally to them.

** Let’s be clear: in the time since you were gone, Womble did not get a name-change and HH (as far as I know) did not receive a knighthood. This, as with much of Nibbles’ internal thought process, is based on a vague understanding of Womble’s thoughts- which are the only reference it has as to what an internal thought process should sound like. In this case, Nibbles is referring to the fact that HH is a Time”Lord” and incorporated Womble’s tendency to hand out pet names. It could be worse…

*** Not sure if this is an actual thing, but by all means brain surgeons- stand up and prove me wrong 🙂

****This just in: Nibbles is officially a Main Character. PROMOTION IS A THING!


Ever had a flash-forward? A glimpse of a very possible event, in the distant-or-occasionally-not-so-distant time to come? I have. Now. Thank god he didn’t say it. I don’t know where I’d begin. Or how I’d end. I guess he caught onto that- for which I am eternally grateful.

Still, I wish he’d told me what “Rapture” is. There was such drama in his voice, I didn’t fancy asking at the time, but now that we’re here I’m sort of lost.

From the inside it looks like an aquarium designed by Guillermo Del Toro, if he’d got himself stuck in the 1950s working for Ayn Rand. It’s a capitalist’s wet dream. There’s literally water everywhere. And everything’s kind of…glitzy. Damaged, though. Like a disused fairground that someone’s powered back up. I see bronze, gold, marble and decay.

There’s some chump called Andrew Ryan living here. Sounds like a preacher. I see his name on the walls occasionally. Usually written in blood. He’s supposedly the ruler of this place, which is odd. I’ve never been anywhere so devoid of existing rules before. Anything, apparently, goes. I hear voices everywhere. None of them seem to be following the same conversation.

To be honest, I’m not all that sure why HH’s dropped us here. I’ve already had my fill of deranged retro-heads. It’s full of junk too. Whoever planted bins around here was fighting the apocalypse. Crisp packets lurk beneath every surface. Bottles exist around every corner. I’ve seen more needles than I can count. And I’m starting to believe that Rapture is one ingredient away from externalizing the ideals of papier-mache hell.

The locals don’t seem to care. They’ve got bigger problems. Someone invited them all on a night out, years ago, and I guess it hasn’t stopped. They’re still in fancy dress. And everyone’s a bit violent. First one I met nearly ripped me in half. Turns out they’re religious here too.

I’ll have to ask HH what ADAM is. These people are nuts about it. They sing to it. They fight over it. They scream at it. Some sort of drug? A deity? Maybe a boy-band.

Whatever it is, it’s driven them mad. I’d best find HH. He may have been here before. In fact, I know he has.

I really hope he knew what he was doing.

The last thing I need right now is an encounter with Louis Walsh.