This may look like a big hole in the ground, but I have it on good authority that there is something underneath, something that’s rhythmically thrusting toward the surface, like Titans in the Earth in the throes of a mad coupling, grinding and pumping and heaving through the magma, smashing and slapping wetly in the crush and grind of godlike pelvises, the heat of their passion bursting upward like superheated steam exploding through volcanic vents, gargantuan roars of ecstasy rumbling through miles of bedrock as they push and pound toward our frail civilizations, almost ready to spew the black effluvium of their creation over the Earth, engulfing the tiny fleshlings of this feeble world with the magisterial dankness of the great rising, the dark tower that is becoming, the glistening, spiked shaft of our undoing.
Fuck, where was I?
Oh yeah, there’s this thing called The Monolith. They want your e-mail address. Something to do with your personal survival. Warnings about what is coming as it rises. Go here and give ’em what they want now, because what you may have to pay later as a sign of your obedience may be much, much worse.
There. I’ve done it. I’m safe now. The rest of you are on your own.