Saturday, 31 October 2015
(SATIRE) I want to “Listen and Believe: The MODE 5 Guide to the Ghosts and Ghouls of GamerGate
The wilful daughter of landed aristocracy, Anita Sarkeesian was fated to endure boundless emotional torment, rained down upon her trim, corseted figure by her authoritarian stepfather.
The stern patriarch had grown tired of his rebellious ward's censorious condemnation of the card game 'whist'. Of particular irritation was her observation that the under-represented female characters in the game had all been predictably cast in the stereotypical role of Queen. He was furthermore greatly vexed by her insistence that there was no earthly reason why cards such as the Five of Diamonds, or (more scandalously) the Nine of Clubs couldn't also be female.
Hoping to put an end to the young girl's dangerous socially progressive leanings, the elder Sarkeesian commanded that she publicly debate her wayward opinions with Nigel Shirlicker – the ruggedly handsome swain of the Norfolk Shirlickers - who held strong opposing views upon this very matter.
When Anita heard that her sentiments were to be challenged as part of structured discussion she felt both devastated and harassed. To avoid the dreadful fate that awaited her the tearful maiden cut off her own head with a pair of garden shears.
Her apparition is said to roam the fens of Lower Glossop, judgmentally bleeding from her neck stump over anything that she finds problematic. Those who have encountered the shade, and survived with their sanity, claim that she can be temporarily banished by stuffing her spurting carotid arteries with money.
A local prophecy states that he (the prophecy is unfortunately rather sexist) who is able to toss a pair of gold hoop earrings over 'Skullkeesian's neck will dispel her from the earthly plane forever.
“I have no idea why people refer to her Skullkeesian,” said leading Ghostologist Donald Holmes, when asked by a MODE 5 reporter. “She has no head. It makes absolutely no fucking sense.”
Gazing disconsolately into the contents of a milk churn, while contemplating one's lot as a simple dairy farmer, one might, perchance, spy a curdled face trapped beneath the surface staring back, its fixed expression one of unfocused terror, as if perpetually startled by its own improbable existence.
Those who choose to linger upon this gloomy vision will perhaps witness an arm rising from the liquid and a clingy hand, cold like the grave, fastening itself around living flesh, as the tremoring mouth of the wretched, whey-faced entity forms the following the words:
“How terrified I am of you.”
Ghostologist, Donald Holmes, explains:
“Once the etheric parasite that is Brianna WooOOOOO! has escaped from its milk churn it will latch onto a set of victims, usually a family, and attempt to position itself at the centre of any drama, most of which will be of her own creation.
“Frequently she will boast of writing a damning condemnation of her hosts scrawled in blood on a post-it note, which she plans to transfer, on a larger scale, to one of the walls in the master bedroom. Householders shouldn't be too alarmed as this will almost certainly never happen.
Dairy farmer, Andrew Hartley, and his family have been haunted by Brianna WooOOOOO! For three years:
“This morning over breakfast Brianna informed me that every female living under my roof was terrified of me.
“Having consulted with my wife and my two teenage daughters it would appear that, far from being terrified, they regard me as a source of easy money and feel that I present very little threat to them.”
“When Brianna gets too overbearing I toss her some loose change, at which point she retreats into a corner and sulkily counts it into small piles.”
“The chilling reality is that Brianna WooOOOOO! may not even be the final form of this milk-obsessed, pan-dimensional parasite,” says Holmes. “I think it wants to be Batman or Samus Aran from the Metroid saga.”
When a fistful of coke-dusted sequins, scattered from the sunroof of a pink limousine by a Liza Minnelli impersonator, wrapped themselves around the dying wish of Elton John's most preening, flamboyant toucan, Undead Milo was born.
Undead Milo is a self-haunting apparition who wears sunglasses indoors, allegedly to shield his eyes from the glare of his own fabulousness.
Graham Knotts of the Pitsea-based recycling firm – Sunflower – said:
“I can confirm that Undead Milo manifested at our after-works drinks one evening, holding court for an hour, while ordering a succession of suggestively-named cocktails, before disappearing into the night with my Nigerian line manager"
Folk tales whispered by nannies to children of the landed gentry speak of the Bokhari – a unerring polite, but mischievous spirit.
According to legend, the Bokhari will arrive at the door of your stately home slightly later than expected, but well-spoken and impeccably turned out. Having been granted entry it will resolve a long-standing technical issue you have been having with one of your ethernet ports. After you have retired to bed it will shave the Triforce symbol from the Legend of Zelda saga into your croquet lawn before quietly departing.
The following morning you will receive a letter from the Bokhari penned in green ink, graciously thanking you for your hospitality. The letter will conclude with the disjointed sentences seguing, somewhat convolutedly, into the lyrics to the theme from the hit American sitcom - The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
Famed online as the woman who doxed Cthulhu, Harpy moved in with the monstrous cosmic entity in 2013.
“She brought some nice cushions that contrasted well with the non-euclidean geometry of the underwater city of R'lyeh, where I have slumbered for millennia,” said the squid-headed harbinger of the apocalypse.
“One morning I was rudely awakened by police officers who informed me they were answering a report of domestic violence at this address. I was later evicted from my home by court order. The sunken city of R'lyeh occupies a desirable rent-controlled area of the South Pacific. I believe that it was always Harpy's intent to oust me from it, so that she could have the place for herself.
“Everything that she touches is sullied by her compulsion to impose herself upon it. I once walked in on her greedily devouring a whole unicorn. Frankly it's a bit too much, even for me.”
Leading Ghostolglist, Donald Holmes, has studied Harpy through a powerful underwater telescope:
“Apparently Harpy is CEO of an organisation called the Online Abuse Prevention Initiative (OAPI). As you can imagine I deal with some fairly outlandish assertions on a daily basis yet, while I occasionally find evidence of ghostlike entities, even I find claims of the existence of OAPI to be far-fetched.”
She who literally cannot be named
Regrettably MODE 5 cannot invoke the true name of this shambling horror, whose faded tones bear the colours of the rainbows from which she derives her sustenance, without subjecting ourselves to aggressive legal action from her legal team.
Suffice to say that this malevolent entity seeks to bring about the subjugation of all living things, while expending the minimum amount of effort.
Occult student Anil Tarleton said: “She who literally cannot be named has achieved very little under her own limited powers.
“It would appear that she owes her ascension into the pantheon of Outer Gods to a succession of friendships and torrid romantic entanglements with various Great Old Ones and other cosmic horrors, dispensing with their services as soon as they are no longer of any further use to her.”
Tarleton's claims are substantiated by one of She who literally cannot be named's former boyfriends – the Outer God Yog Sothoth, who was once known as “the gate, the key and guardian of the gate” but who recently described himself as “the guardian of not much of anything these days.”
When MODE 5 approached the cult of Yog Sothoth for additional information on the couple's relationship, we were told:
This Scottish troll, slathered in the soiled plaid of his former clan, conceals himself beneath the beds of children, emerging after dark to ransack their closets for problematic toys and games, and replacing them with Noam Chomsky action figures.
Another contemporary folk devil who allegedly preys upon the joy of small children.
An urban legend speaks of parents receiving a phone call from the Nyberg, who regales them with salacious commentary on the underwear choices of a prepubescent female cousin.
When the police finally trace the call, the couple are horrified to discover that it is coming from inside the bedroom of their eight year old daughter!
The story generally ends in pathos, with the handcuffed Nyberg claiming Edgelord status, which grants it immunity from prosecution, and the traumatised family being given an informative leaflet on how to make their home more secure from burglars and other predators.
At the tail-end of any zombie mass-migration you are likely to find its root cause:
Banshee Alexander was pickled in brandy for three days before rising from the dead. A former hot mess, now downgraded to 'just a mess' she is commonly witnessed dressed in loose-fitting clothing that barely contains her flopping breasts, drunkenly cavorting among predominately male zombie gatherings, flinging her arms around the swaying, mouldering corpses and announcing that they “should all go to Vegas together”.
Zombie Studies Student, Jim Robinson, says:
“Banshee Alexander demonstrates significantly less coordination and control over her flailing limbs and bodily functions than the majority of her undead counterparts.
“You can tell that the zombies are really uncomfortable being around her by the manner in which they constantly shuffle away every time she breaks into a raucous chorus of Nickelback's Rockstar.
“I've even seen her lift wallets out of the pockets of zombies and remove all the cash before replacing them. It's obvious from their body language and facial expressions that the zombies don't want to pay for another round of vodka shots, but they lack the vocal chords to say 'No'”
Yes, this means you.
You are in fact dead.
I am sorry to be the one to break the bad news. We were hoping that M Night Shyamalan might oblige, but even he found the eventual twist too insultingly obvious.
I can prove using the internet that, as a gamer, you have died on many occasions over the course of the previous year.
Yet no matter how many times your demise is reported in the media, you rise once more from the dead.
As long as you keep getting up, the people who fear you can have no power over you, and they cannot harm you.
Now go forth into the night my terrors. Go forth I say!