Artemis felt her heart dampen bit by bit, deteriorating day by day--at what point...had her story become so utterly awful? The afflux of success was forever fleeting. Why had they done this to her? Artemis looked down upon her body with contention--the encumbrances of staring at one’s feet; past walking devices and unkempt hair was humbling to say the least. She owed the citizens nothing...not a smile, a nod of friendly hello: nothing. They had snickered as she walked by, they had hunched over as she passed...strangers had gawked at paucity in strength; her athletic splendor stripped down to the bare-minimum, as she wandered a coveted metropolis, isolated and surrounded at the same time. The endless ignominious stares had caused Artemis to become an numina; a spiteful rift of chaos.

Her relationship with the rainy town--the buildings, the etched bricks and inlay of tiles--covered by ivy and a less-than-admirable history; kept her flitting about on daily adventures--grumbling hello to the public transit workers...rolling along in advanced chariots. The answer had been in the underbelly of the flat roofs--the antimony of the things predating a generation of booming anger, censured by their own upbringings...made for an uncomfortable experience--the compressed discomfort had kept a campaign of perversion going. Artemis followed the leaves of marble inlay; moseying along a modern street--anchored with iron rings for outdated transportation on each side of the pavement; the livestock were honored for their brevity traveling West in the late eighteen hundreds--breeds that had once stood guard of a Czar and his fated family. The red, white, and green metals that held the town together by a few threads--held promises kept within an inhaled breath. The efforts of the youth were considered laudable, but easier to overlook and be left ignored by the elders in charge--the inherited state of affairs ignored over holiday visits; the world spinning upon the intimidating silence-driven chaos.

The citizens had mocked her nakedness--instead of offering an orphan cloth and food. Artemis knew exactly who the citizens were at the end of the day and so their excuses fell flat: inexorable to the meticulous image crafted on a world stage. They had stared at her blankly and said nothing--the distant uncaring eyes forever followed her steps into adulthood; something was deeply wrong with some the citizens. The memories flooded back to Artemis: forgetting that she had once been indescribably lost before the entrance of the loving Kind-Hearted Hunters. They now sheltered her from the world with their love: holding tight the corpuscle of a person, and clearing a path that was less-obstructed by chaos.

Three citizens had offered her cloth, and Artemis dismissed their beautiful linens: afraid to tell them that a woman named Hera used to make her strip on a whim--to be deserving of such fine linens, meant an acknowledgement of mental torture. Artemis often felt undeserving of basic necessities--concomitant to the victimization of a decades worth of extreme abuses as a child. Why had Artemis obeyed the orders of such an ugly woman? Life had left her with this woman for a single day-too-long, and Artemis had almost knelt in defeat. The world had forgotten Artemis at the age of three--trapping her away with a beastly woman; clawing away at undeserving flesh. The experience with an unwell widow had set Artemis up for failure; complete with a lack-of-understanding...that life didn’t have to be driven by hatred, displacement, and pallor chaos.

Hera had suggested Artemis manage her smiles--reminding a child that a lost birthmother sold her body to strangers for money. Artemis wasn’t even the age of six...pretending to talk shop with grown men about sports--left speechless by the admixtures of accusation and confusion. Artemis had waited until the last chapter to ask the world for cloth--to introduce the intent of an unwell woman; robbing a child of dignity through entreated gestures and a simulation on the actions and intentions behind child-abusing chaos.

Artemis smiled wickedly with amusement at the irony of her task--a proper cri de coeur’ would be the only thing to rattle the bones of a woman scorned by all things young and beautiful. She pointed at the woman with a handful of clues--familiar with deflecting patterns of the strange red-painted haired Siren. She didn’t even recall the moment of peace where a childish mask of reliance slipped away--seeing Hera for all that she was. A man defined by their actions in life. It hadn’t taken two academic degrees to verify that something had “been off”, aboot the stout woman with a fleeting nasty attitude. Artemis said: "I’m a little tired of being cold, and I think it’d be funny...if the citizens helped me in crafting a dress from the cloth of Hera.” The woman had once enforced a fear of mirrors upon Artemis: claiming her personality was that of a slug, and that she’d prosper...by pretended to belong in a small village; riddled with drama and xenophobia bubbling over. Joyful colors like yellow and orange were prohibited from draping over Artemis’s supple skin--because the tones brought out unsightly yellow and orange pigments over her skin, and Hera didn’t want to look at that all day. It was easier to talk shit to a child about eugenics--than to dress an innocent child in their favorite colors and call it an unmemorable day. Artemis allowed a neon world of symbols and statuses to rise around her, the consumer-driven greed of the citizens had plunged the land into chaos.

Artemis hadn’t any reason to berate the widow, and so she did the opposite--becoming a prop in childhood, and eventually a model in adulthood; to take pride in fashion and fun. Artemis crafted a machine that churned news and lies alike--stumbling around in on a timeline of celebrity, and taking the reigns with a love of laughter from the side-stages of a bleak industry. Artemis had needed the world to observe the cogs, bells and whistles; to take a hold of the moving parts...if only to help her solve the famed nearly “perfect murder”. Artemis returned to her void--to escape the neglect and abuse that echoed of Hera, and one day she fainted in exhaustion. The few things held precious had been broken down by the hands of time, the abuses of a single woman had caused irreparable damage and near-fatal chaos.

Hera had told Artemis--she hadn’t deserved more than small portions of foods allotted daily...calling her ungrateful, as she stared eagerly at an insecure teenager. There was an extra layer of punishment; the refusal of replenishing energy--after running a track meet and barely placing in the top five talents. The boasting of Artemis’s participation as an athlete belonged to Hera, as was the same with Athena...Dianna excused due to a mask of non-competitiveness that was reserved for social competitions. The lack of athleticism and bragging rights, meant Artemis was unworthy of the roof provided...since there was a commitment to make Hera look bad--by not being the best of the best. The indifference of being crowned as a loser, had caused further harm: Artemis was forever punished for not caring what a failed nurse thought of her. One day...Hera deciding that water was for winners only...undeserving to a growing individual that dared insult the fine-crafted narrative of a "Woman of God", and Artemis’s investment in caring for such spectacle rewarded disproportionately.

Artemis had wandered through the evening light-headed, knowing she wasn’t allowed to ask for water outside of supper. There was no room for mistakes in the lives of people painted as "Millennials"--the world had boasted its toughest battles upon the most soft-hearted personalities; its elders betrayed by the ideas of permanent evidence of mistreatment and the newly-discovered public trials...threatened by the concept of accountability and the idea of opening their homes to opinionated chaos.

School had always been a safe haven from the extreme discipline of a madman/madwoman for Artemis. She fell asleep on their eight-thirty schedule, Dianne in a twin-bed beside her. Artemis had fainted...the second her head hit the pillow: a day of cross-country practice, followed by four hours of chores had depleted every bit of energy left in her petite body. Little had she known: a seizure would steal her life in an aggressively calm session. Artemis had a spine disease even as a teen--accelerated by multiple injuries, and this woman had refused a growing persons food and water...calling her worthless--cackling in her ear each second of the day. Artemis would never say which day, which night--in her story: needing her reader to understand that this occurrence of starvation was common enough--that it didn’t matter which week they observed. Artemis had been born an orphan, thirsty and hungry for love and acceptance--thrust into the arms of a sick household. Instead of helping--the citizens had paid their senators to lock her away with humans that harmed her: they had allowed children to be hurt with taxed money--frivolously cast aside and forgotten. They complained of its absence in their bank, but never followed-up on the criminals that allocated the funds disproportionately.

Artemis saw the horrific outcomes from the imbalance of powers everywhere--the era of grunge and neon....built the common place lessons of life, those drilled in since childhood: the last generation of burnouts and losers. Artemis had decided to say less--telling herself that its easiest to let it go...plastered to poisoned wallpapers, pointy-haired dolls, and a need to ignore the declining expectations of the Supremest of courts. A dreary start to life had been an understatement for many: the partaking of misery was all some knew--holding down the banks of sanity...while parents fought in a blurred out background--with an inevitable divorce on the horizon...a family table empty--all but a silent scholar; eating silently and waiting for noise to settle...for doors to slam and chariots to pull away with abrupt screeches. An entire generations was almost stunted by the hand of negligent elders; avoiding responsibility in self-care, for reasons of bitterer emotions. Responsibility remained spread thin, with children held to the highest of extent of their capabilities at all times--forced to grapple and self-manage entire households; hostages to two generations of old people that romanticized chaos.

The lack-of-enthusiasm for family functions and self-soothing regulation gifted an entire generation with peace; bringing in a new age of empathy to help tie up the loosening edges of an otherwise unstable Democracy. The inherited mess had caused her to glare at elderly strangers. Artemis crossed bridges with trembling bones--planting herself on the front of the river, humming of might in blazing new trails...thorns and lumberjacks. Her many occupations included the grueling task of lugging bags of encased meats up and down Colosseum stairs--lamenting a useless complaint about disliking stairs. A sparkling bow sitting high and Artemis alternating a mean pitch of product between the loot of peanuts, orange creamsicles, and wrapped meats. The wealthy had paid in advance for a reserved seat worth an entire gross earnings--and there she stood, larger than life...obeying the orders of the elite, as they applauded and beckoned for more food. "Hot dog girl!"--had been the sole reason Artemis had walked away from a fun job--the demeaning titles that followed her past stadiums had finally caught up to a full-time student; rolling burritos most days and juggling a seasonal job throwing bunned meat and nuts...fetching libations for the wealthy so their pampered feet didn’t have to manage cement stairs. Hard work had always managed to provide her heart with perspective to such moral chaos.

Artemis was a piece of living art: free to be okay with the many shades of failure--a walking fashion statement for the citizens to observe and ignore. She was here to serve the community--observing their reactions to protest-filled nights, reminding them that the “public property” was occasionally owned and operated by families. The dereliction to duty by a Mechanical Boar had finally brought the world into a state of pure chaos.

Artemis could easily recall a moment being happy--employed during a pandemic, and knowing life had been more rough in the past. She had taken a blind leap in faith; moving North and needing distance from a small house with a magic list of growing problems. The citizens occupying the elongated block had decided enough was enough: their signs has said so. Artemis put her head down--plowing through a dead-end occupation as a porter/on-site engineer, and secretly wondering what the citizens did all day...when they weren’t plotting public protests. The tenants left trash exposed and un-bagged in a sanitized room of chutes and bins: if only to know “the help” would have to do it--Artemis tasked with jumping in a large receptacle to dislodge, or crush the waste of tenants like a machine; while in the stomach of a waste machine. The use of the word "essential", when in context to the pay for the workers was blatant in its message--its words hollow and thankless; young professionals challenged to jump into a bin of plagued citizens...told opportunities were undeserving when booming elders were out of employment for whatever reason. The refusal to update systems, expectations had barred plenty of elders from newly renovated systems. Artemis had been witness to plumbers with attitudes as catty as a nurse; bragging of their ability to hold gate and keep on professions. She had said nothing; knowing the sociological impact would eventually be dissected and laid supine for study--when companies were allowed to make up property management procedure on a whim, their expectations and margins of profit left parallel and rewarded disproportionately.

They had spit on her existence--an hourly worker being left to clean up the garbage of those that lived across from an emergency medical facility named after Emmanuel. Artemis had known a handful were residents...future doctors even. Yet, they were in the same light of blaring indifference to whatever citizen had decided to place their trash--licked glass bottles and aluminum containers popped open and exposed for a random technician to handle. A slap of spit and spittle dribbling down cargo’d trousers had started out the day on a particular note. Artemis had said no. Reminding a supervisor named Dean...that her life mattered. She had earned a degree...accruing thirty-thousand pounds of debt in attending University...just to ask adults to take their trash to its designated room instead of in a hallway for a nosy pet to find. The sheer amount of built-up trash and daily removal...didn’t equate to a full enough picture of endless waste. The implications were of a hopeless future bound by financial chaos.

The student debt Artemis was working off--wouldn’t dissipate if she died violently to the virus running rampant tomorrow; it’d just be passed along to some poor asshole that just happened to be related or affiliated. Artemis was chained to her obligation to heal the self-inflicted wound attained--to “earn” a shit-filled position in a world where plenty of people just didn’t like to work, or do anything for that matter. "Men" like Chaz and Joel Guy had already painted the world with a particularly dangerous brand of laziness. The comparison to upbringings: were the battles she faced on the daily, but at least now she wasn’t alone in her struggle--Artemis wasn’t called “crazy” for angrily addressing frustration in their lack of concern for her safety while doing a job nobody else seemed to want to do...the cost of eleven pound fifty an hour and an occupation dancing with death was treated and paid disproportionately.

Artemis had buckled down--sobering up and finding the words to explain that she was ashamed of having fallen far from a position holding up a Blue Shield of Hope: demoralized by a previous boss named Patrick and his version of pawning off manual labor. Her newer boss was often leaving her alone to monotonous work: scrubbing trash rooms, plunging toilets by appointment only and moving animal shit. The man had given her frustration a name: disappointment. There seemed to be no way out of the pandemic and its newfound chaos.

Neighbors had made her job harder--for four floors of disheveled trash...would easily tack on an extra five to ten minutes per task within the duty of “garbage rounds”. They hadn’t cared that she scrambled throughout the day to attend two other garbage rounds at two other properties. She was nowhere and everywhere at once most days--running ahead of frozen pipes and declaring emergency situations: slathering blinding white paint upon empty flats and one bedroom units. Such were the woes of those born to the beautiful urban landscape--forced to be a part of the working class, probably forever. A majority of her tenants were tourists to the neighborhood: building the memory of--“the years...they lived in a place where it rained a lot”...she assumed. Artemis had been left with no-option, but to sprawl her dissatisfaction in the situation on empty pages...if only to warn the readers that her life was once again in danger. There was no turning back the dials of time when working through a moment of diseased chaos.

They had no idea Artemis had written a book, many hadn’t even learned her name. Artemis just called herself the maintenance department: segway-ing from the falseness that they cared...stepping past less authentic formality and building rapport for the sake of pleasantness. Artemis kept to herself; coping with what it meant to care only about a poisonous grape drank, attempting to juggle the denial parts of a disease based in selfish-chaos.

The notion of meeting neighbors in frantic moments; held hostage by mandate and present for plumbing emergencies--imbued to stay home with mirrors to avoid a communicable disease. A pragmatic mind would down play the concessions weighed to the invaluable price of life. Some citizens chose to die upon such a selfish hill; maligned with right leaning pablum--reticent to hold debate of totted rights with a plumber in a doorway...demanding emotional recompense while a fountain of water sprung over a raging shoulder. Artemis remained silent; her professional hands tied behind a strained back: her eyes only focused on the problem needing addressing--neither tribunal or ambivalent to misansthrope. Political encomium turned a moment of shit-filled stridency into one of situation comedy; complete with bouts of silent chaos.

Tomes worth of awkward moments kept Artemis-fighting the urge to observe the shapes of room layouts she had never set foot in, unwilling to step into a vaunted argument about impudent sins of other people; when financial Hari-Kari hadn’t been discussed over breakfast. She was the tip of a spear; left to ferret the meaning of life in clouds of paint fumes of expired paint--slathering bricks outside one moment and tending to emotions and sinks the next. One of three buildings being ambushed with large fonted names and locations--Artemis was being terrorized by a youthful turd targeting an upscale neighborhood out of boredom. She painted a bland signature of refute: a tan square...meant to excoriate the arts while on the clock...but a silent passerby when wearing civilian clothes, the sensation of caring lessened by a concern in bad management and the financial allowance given to a job filled with thankless chaos.

There seemed to be an overly personal aspect to assisting other people’s residence and attempting to be both a temporary social-bandage, and a mechanic hired to manage and solve the leaks of chaos.

It was an occupation worth doing; when her childhood had been surrendered to cruel behemoths of a guardian that loved boasting of free labor and saved time. The added implication of insecurity of man and home, tempered by religious nonsense--resulted in Artemis placing useful hands and a bag of tools upon a shelf; knowing mistreatment often introduced more mistreatment. Artemis was an adult like that; it was ok to walk away from the things that brought discomfort, but for whatever reason...the price of standing up for herself had always been steep--held to the tight-roped standards of an athlete named Sash and taught to weather mentally draining chaos.

She had grown up impoverished, knowing the residents didn’t care the slightest of the nutrition of a stranger child--but threats to such hypothetical breads wasn’t something that was taken lightly...Artemis’s pages could be verified within the audience of a small population. The pages had been turned, and Artemis left behind--forever a child forgotten in a closet. Bad management had ripped Artemis from the pages; forced to reckon with the indication that she deserved better than obscure deadlines to paint homes white--her un-comissioned work overlooked to complain of the mortal sin in having only two arms, and the ability to do one task at a time. Proficiency was unrewarding for a woman trapped beneath the thumb of a corporate entity that rewarded separate departments disproportionately.

They hadn’t cared she was a civil servant in moments of near-failure--already punching below the belt by flicking Artemis upon the head in formal meetings. There was no real way for her to start young adulthood over--no reset button to eject her from a stiff office seat. Instead, Artemis crafted a simulation, a game of sorts--where she painted the house to match the color of the wind. The outcome: pale, stale, and content with illusions of modernization to her....unless splashed across the walls of her pages of self-reflection--gaudy and tactless in real life. Artemis smiled in amusement--knowing the tenants were just like her: they were simply people. Suckers for the idea of equal and fair housing--avoiding the local mobs associating all the home owners with casual tactics of terrorism. There was nothing new or unique about a market set aflame, where tenants and landlords were protected by pliant laws disproportionately.

Would their voices carry, as the lambent leaders paving a sturdy road for the future...would any of them--have said rude things in her absence impropitious to future peace talks? Probably. She had just painted the walls clear, so they could observe the cascading treatment cast upon the shoulders of Dean; she had often the hoisted responsibility back upon his tired spine...resulting in. Artemis began setting boundaries and taking each day in stride; hoisting legal vassals upon the higher ups in a chain of command--that somehow mattered until it didn’t. Artemis was just hired to be his hype man. She was a porter, assistant engineer: meant to make the lead technician’s job easier and nothing more. The man in charge chose to find those facts to be reductive--her waned enthusiasm condemned, with an added personal attacks of words being cast with carelessness. The words of a renegade rarely circled back to documented work-place injuries in moments of inconvenience. Artemis decided to give up--unable to manage a somewhat thankless occupation, a pelting hail storm of professional revulsion and medical billing chaos.

Artemis wondered how many of the citizens had suspected they were in a simulation, broken down by the unpoetic rivulets. Moments of their homes flooding--blossomed into silly scenes; where characters were unable to leave...staring at an entry door and seeking a professional to construct damming to stop the floods. Artemis placed a blinder device over her eyes--walking and talking past doorway after doorway; her dedication to undulation and property management came from a long line of landlord elders. The bargain of land for peace had been abused disproportionately.

The reluctant citizens had believed she was the shit in their porcelain: unaware that an ancestor simulation through Artemis’s eyes would beat the worst of options--to be chained to the dead timeline of a rheumy-eyed Josh and his baying father, Steven. To be the remaining persons embracing what little was left of Susan’s memory--the surrounding extras swallowed whole; swirling the bowl of a universe, as non-essential characters to a woman slaughtered for her gifts of nubility. An entire home was overcast with a lank sister enabling the madness; hissing shorn desires to witness the downfall of a sister-in-law. A den of wolves was so despicably awful to describe--outside of the visual of two men standing side-by-side, one holding a device to capture golden portraits...the other holding a hatchet. An educated accomplice named Michael falling from the sky--instead of facing consequences of his actions like a man, he had taken and abandoned a perfectly fine chariot near the colorful wool mills of Pendleton. The fair scale of judgement between an orphan and paler entitlement came at the cost of an unspeakable evil--dipped in the insecurities of man...wrapped neatly in violent chaos.

Artemis felt her music swelling: her love of justice brought a forever aching heart a modicum of peace. Poetic Justice--distracted her from the bloated and ugly faces of the citizens that wasted her day away: dipping in and out of her view--unable to stay in character with a Truman simulation. Because they found attention to be of higher value than the controls of a science experiment. Karens were seen as dangerous to the public to Kendras--fawning over a medical professional; casually towering over a man and calling it lust. Artemis was upset the citizens had destroyed her untapped data--they had broken her with their dancing hand gestures: pointing to the freaks of a Reality Circus, and Artemis turning to see a patient fleeing into the night. Such vague unhelpfulness was unfair to a scene with limited scope. Artemis lost the capability to walk over the project and dust velvet-topped heels every day: she decided that maybe the citizens deserved sleepless pains and documented humiliation--the off spun of consequences didn’t stop at fatal chaos.

Such wickedness had been what had led Artemis to the cave--to participate in an unbeatable game: except now she had a word for it. It was the Beast her Peoples had named: Yani. It was the initial unnatural thought--followed by acceptance of the thought that was acted out in reality. The choice to soberly harm someone “you love”--the designated action that ties an individual to a point in time. The Marky Mark phases of aggression and turmoil that passed or were left behind altogether if someone was so fortunate. Artemis had faced the spirit of Yani a few times before, but this lifetime she had decided the world needed evil--she had stepped aside to adjust delicate buckles on thin-strapped shoes. The choice to save Hades; in order to preserve the heavens--was something of a compounding issue. Without the pains of adversity, some would have no reason to rise above the circumstance--no core issue to seed a story line from...no red thread to follow and tie to a moment of chaos.

Time was being used as a smoke screen, a tangible asterisks to tack up each tapestry by fragile corners. Artemis got to do whatever she wanted: according to Athena. A goal of being loved--had given Artemis endless opportunities; where her sister only held the goal of claiming respect and loyalty. Sometimes Artemis would burst her bubble; walking through time allocation, costs, and seasonal openings in class enrollment--listing off regular student worries in catalogical order. Athena would claim the exhaustion of a conversation as an equal, left her deterred by the notion of short-term commitments. Artemis let go of her anguish in the things left said and unsaid; the seas of her cascading heart began to level out--life was mellowing out as the years passed. The flames of irrational reasoning had been passed from the torches of Hera’s home--to a house painted white, littered with National military forces; the disenchanted scene resembled that of a park meant for mobile homes, double and wide. It’s lawn drenched with painted faces and oversized ribboning ties; horny to stand on public stages and lie to the press and public if it meant side-stepping a list in hand of a man named Epstein, building walls of silence to distract from the implications of such legal and immoral chaos.

Artemis made a machine--powered by tax-payers, controlled by their own voices: sacrifices had been made, to bring information to the public, and childhood stories broadcast at all hours. There was no such thing as free in the land of freedom. She watched as the machine demanded maintenance, more data--she gladly accommodated the need to prove the depths of ego and greed from a focus group. On the day of memorial: she granted them the access to the information they had wanted from page one. The machine required a child--an unbiased spectator to the world; brought into existence to churn the lightning they had come to depend on--a fact the citizens seem to forget. The book itself, had been for nobody--open and available to everybody and anybody to enjoy a court-side seat to a life built on pages of tragic chaos.

Artemis was left wondering how many had actually read her words--how many of these fucking fools could even read anymore? The Mechanical Boar had forgotten or left behind the childish talent in military reform school, and now caused fires-glaring past pages that remained silent. She had decided to say nothing and hash out fire and flame as they went...there had plenty of others to blame for a dictator, dictating--his sycophants handing off confidential papers and files, bending over for their mushroom-tipped reward--peaking at the sight of judicial chaos.

She said to nobody: “want to see a magic trick?”-a fourth wall was meant to make the entry of a wardrobe in a trench and fog--discussing the many unsolved mysteries of the world. Artemis granted them access to a gold crown, during moments of sleep; to prove herself worthy of conducting the world on the axis of thoughts and intentions. That’s what this had all been aboot, right? This had only been done for the citizens and their relenting boredom...they now boasted of the Mechanical Boars agenda for "liberation", and their desires to divvy-out freedom and respect disproportionately.

Artemis had nothing to hide, they had seen it all: known her misdeeds and missteps, all along. At the end of the day: everything would be ok, as long as they were far from the Kingdom of Powell. She was exactly who they had wanted her to be--painted by their sloppy hands. Angry in response--defiant in her listening--unable to physically do as they did, but praised for her wee efforts. Artemis was “aggressively ethnic” in their eyes. She hadn’t any reason to object to their accusations--because her back hurt, and she may fall ill to a hunched lumbar at any moment. Artemis gave them a crown too heavy for most, as she slept--knowing the citizens would line up around the block to view a glance at her memories with the Viking, to disbar beliefs or witness such flirts firsthand. Their expectations and reality aligning disproportionately.

How many women would line up; if given the opportunity to lock themselves in a room with Orion...if only for a night? Artemis had laughed that they had assumed access to such gifted memories: because the citizens were inferior to her, unlike the many men she blindly ran away from with a slow stride. Artemis had proof to this so called army of suitors: crafting the wreath to self-destruct with the player attached...if they dared mount Orion. Forcing them to die--by way of falling, if they dared to try and stray from the course she had already walked: protecting the conversations between her and the Viking, and Orion from further mistreatment. Artemis respected the two men too much, as to let the depraved or disturbed strangers to take advantage of their willing involvement in an awful life. Absofruitly not. That level of unrestricted access would bring upon true, the unstoppable delivery of self-destructing malware had been hemmed into the core scripts; meant to defend and destroy an evidence of her romantic chaos.

Artemis raised a worn down hands in indifference to the death they lusted after: opps were everywhere. She assumed those deaths--the locked out and tapped out--were that of the lonely female sort, and one in pink; too rich to fathom what Orions love felt like--women like Circe feed off the chase of flipping opinions and attractions, burrowing in the timber of another’s home like a cockroach...if it meant being available in a moments notice. Artemis could bother such timidity to her core; asking polite questions, but not actually caring...the cracking of noble persona fell fast and heavy...pushed past its limits by a stranger asking how things were up North. There was a stark difference in posture, one woman was perpetually insulted by the attention of men...given to an injured woman, and the injured woman was usually focused on attending the next athletic event. There were whispers of a Tiger Prince coming abroad, born under the year of the rooster--ready to suit up and provide a soggy metropolis with much needed tourism...to ignite a competitive flame and marketable chaos.

Artemis remained rapt to the little effort needed to be deemed incandescent...the epitome of a beautiful disaster: the perfect storm, keeling over in very nice shoes. Artemis crafted the game to be played by adults--seeing themselves and friends in her book, as children on the outside...battling in the last decades corrupt contagion. The unfurling of a doomed timeline--left to the hand of Hydra in the mask of her Papa Jim, the cudgles of unnatural lusts were at the mercy of Artemis’s archiving machine. Artemis was the God-less envoy; a tawny anti-Christian scientist--plashing on a neon scene...just in time to save the masses from further delving into religious chaos.

The injection of truth--came at a random day; when Francis up and died...following an introduction with a political presence of a number two... standing in place for a Mechanical Boar. The simplistic of tasks of shaking hands; and being in right place at the right time...would hold the most horrendous and deeply wounding implications--making an entire party a political joke in a single weekend. Artemis had held little room for remorse in others pain over a single death; she already knew life could go to shit overnight--accustomed to minimizing pain by way of learned behaviors. Artemis nibbled on communions of Seder; bitters held little to behold when comparing it to the surrounding political chaos.

The craft of minding one’s business had been a cultural gift--provided by prattling remarks and victim blaming. If there wasn’t a reason for one’s pain; why would a cruel evangelicalism-driven God...allow such evils to prevail? The elegance of skirting around unpleasant confrontations--had began to unravel the fringes of reality...somewhere around the beginning of such a journey; Artemis taxed...dragging along a Mechanical Boar as he drowned himself, stubborn in mood--when a well-traveled shepherd had mentioned the dangers of swimming against the currents to seek unproven fortune upriver. A leash with no end kept the moron clasping at the edges of a choking leash, treading above the raging water and calling everyone ashore names in their justifiable reluctance to jump in and help--lashing out at the cowards that dipped their toes into the waters of his preventable chaos.

Artemis had walked into the sea that day. Returning, for proof that these men could, and gladly would validate the Hydra’s exemption from paying taxes. They brought their children as due sacrifices, drove by drove--the timeless beast changed its face with a plume of smoke to match its protected predators with their victims. A single loss could turn a world on its head--stripping down the mundane parts of an entire week and offering a moment to divert attention from a childish Mechanical Boar; obsessed with his name and lumpy gold acrylic paints being plastered upon every wall and door--unable to behave for a single week, as he was driven by a desire to cause unrepeatable chaos.

The simulation wasn’t meant for everyone, and intruding upon the experiment with brute force would be punishable by the law. Artemis was done making excuses for the pedophiles like the Hydra, and even more tired of the thirsty ass citizens...caring about their social lives more than protecting their own children. She painted them white, dawning them with different colored eyes, to give them “notable characteristics”. Assimilation had to be completed...before it could be undone. They boomed with excuses of claiming not to know any better--when they meant to say...they didn’t know that a golden net of information would be developed to better cache their sins. The bells of true accountability had yet to be rang, rung, rungithed? Artemis shook a head in disapproval--the particulars wouldn’t matter, until the many heads of Hydra weighed its massive neck down for her to place a boot upon its throat in domination. They hadn’t the faintest of understanding as to why her primary childhood nickname had always been: chaos.

Artemis saw similar struggles to that of a woman flopping on the floor to secure denim robes and airy monologue in a provocative way--neither of them had asked to be seen as muse, but had seen how much easier it made life when succeeding around a star-hungry parent. She had noticed Brooke’s insecure stance; being within eye-shot of a dearest mother and fondling earned nutrition. What had differentiated their paths--had been the fact that Artemis had failed in providing a stage parent with unbridled glory, and suffered greatly because of it. This could be proven with a single title, a single phrase; meant to provide context of what it meant to be innocent in lifes cyclones of hate: whenever the name Darcy was placed on either Artemis’s or Brooke’s forehead. To say that Darcy couldn’t swim; would mean a suffering of childhood...too incomprehensible to the naked eye. To be cast over a bridge by one’s father, and abandoned with the prayer of survival--to fend for one’s self upon immediate impact...with the assumption of a quality in life when being fished from the waters of chaos.

Much like Darcy’s hated father: Artemis’s birth-father--also, only cared about the opinions of others...famed for lights of hazardous warnings, one could say. The spiteful existence as a mortal pawn in the games of cowardly men had taken its toll on her life--nothing could mend the wounds given at the hands of a neglectful parent. The incursions of absentia offered the world with horrendous poems; tossed over the edge of shortened barriers--those built by other men--unintended for the fundamental breech of trust to the citizens utilizing bridges, and or social services. Life was nothing shy of a portrait of lone man non-plussed by the loss of a child. The longing for freedom and understanding of responsibility weighed quite lightly upon the chest of one man--considering Artemis had barely survived the fall. Poor Darcy was left to fall through the morning sky--having woken up with in the inclination that the first day of primary had been one of celebration--her poor mother left at forever guarding a door with a new uniform in hand, while an estranged ex partner did his best to inflict maximum harm and unspeakable chaos.

Artemis often wondered what it meant to have a fatherly figure--a person to aspire to--or rely on, as a protector from the ugliness of the world. Such philosophy didn’t co-mix with reality--it lacked authentic examples in the surrounding vicinity; Robert was exceptionally unexceptional...the essence of an unremarkable man...outside of the title of parent. He had landed himself in a box with Arthur; abandoning a child out of inconvenience--to provide collateral damage by way of neglect of his own child. The timid man fell conquered by etiolated spells...choosing it to be more self-serving to ghost a woman with two other kids; and providing one, as a genetic gift for his royal company. The tines of Artemis’s spite pressed past pointed words reserved for a lady named Missy. He preferred a life of eke freedom--over the stresses of raising three sisters alongside a woman powered by poisonous chaos.

To draft a manuscript--with its skeleton laid bare for the world to observe...life had spun itself into the thickening wool’d conflicts; morrow’d by issues inherited though parents...adults, if we must offer conjecture to the word. The concept remained foreign to her steely tongue. Artemis’s hand spun a less-than preened story...its defined realness was meant to heal the gaping wound in her heart, for having once wasted a Christmas wish--pleading with universe for a mum and dad. The impossible wish dropped heavy nettles of disappointment into an empty vase--an ancient artifact built to capture tendril emotions...to churn a spiral of emotions in an otherwise cold orphan. The childish wish had thrown her into a fit of rage; forced to reckon with facts and move on from the uncomfortable truth...to seek convivial pride in self-efficacy...rather than to perpetuate more of Roberts self-pity. The pale man had been dipped in gold upon birth--pallor, upper middle-class, and given a mundane name that indicated a lack-of dedication to chaos.

The coalescing of homes being forced to stay home out of caution; had gifted the citizens with a proper introduction--to their families. A moment of manipulated time; birthed a mental health epidemic that’d follow soon upon its heels. Artemis had thought a simulated pandemic would have been enough for the citizens to treat each other with humanity, but instead--she had broken the world into pieces; by leaving the citizens to self-reflect and the option to create distance or take considerations of others. One-hundred and eighty-two centimeters to one’s self--wasn’t a lot to ask in the face of death. The most simple, of freely accessible medical recommendations--had thrown an entire Nation into chaos.

The citizens were unable to decipher--if she had been truthful in dull words, as though these hadn’t yet occurred or held implications of chicanery. Strange. Artemis began throwing out the first thoughts that came to her head. She laughed. There was no room for subtle bragging--she had already written the book when plenty of mortals had died--in the attempt of such a back breaking endeavor. Artemis had already achieved the pinnacle of fame: her life left at the mercy of the readers--cemented in sciences, its efforts admired....but accumulated minimal publishing profits. The two worlds of writing were valued quite disproportionately.

Artemis had only wanted to go home...when no such place existed. She crafted an evil machine to accommodate that feeling of being chased to the edges of sanity with every breath--giving birth to dimension with genial evils. The passive machine would randomly choose a day of moderate or deep suffering in its anguish; much like a psychopath fleeing analysands, and the citizens--left to witness or participate in a world built upon the crucible of social forces, and left to deal with the consequences of their out-of character chaos.

The citizens would be forced to sign a paper: stating that she wasn’t responsible for their inevitable death in a game meant to search-and-destroy hope. She had found a wild beast with starry eyes wearing a name-tag stating only the word Asterion, and a hazardous symbol of man eating a bone. Hades had plenty of cannibalistic pets, and she had no intention of insulting whatever type of owner would keep such a guarded animal for fun. Artemis knew that many wouldn’t last the night, some would be given the most boring of days: no amount of money could designate a path of a player. Ten women, and ten confused men: forced to play a game with hidden rules by their own ego, and die at their own expense. The lack of age-restrictions had set the casting mode to be super random; providing endless entertainment and widely-distributed chaos.

She felt nothing for them. Reminding the citizens that no name, or fame... would come from the feat of the experience in surviving a single day; there was only the offering of death and or, great sorrow. They had deserved to have their parents taken away; to feel the relentless desolation...if only for a moment. They had thought the game would only consume the participant by nightfall, but the vases of woe--didn’t believe in a measurable spectrum of time. Each participant left to their own thoughts, shooting themselves in fucking face, all within an hour--the cost of beauty gave way to hopeless-filled chaos.

Artemis swung a billowing red dress aside--walking from the pages rifled through in glamorous exhaustion....had the citizens not known; she was meant to escape the prison of static with the surmounting data left behind with each of their deaths? Had she forgotten to tell them this key bit of information...knowing the ten(s) of thousands were already dead upon arrival. It’d take a special kind of player--to conduct and produce a world brimmed with death, child abuse, molestation...all the profoundly awful things that came with mortal chaos.

Artemis was affected by the curses of a book, unsure if its reprise would be of enough to elevate her life past the cursed name of Jimmer. Minus the gift of a decent coach. Would she have to spend the rest of her life accommodating the citizens’ greed--moseying between the world and her simulation forever; they had already taken the fun out her beloved sport--she had retired a jersey many moons ago? Artemis would be forced to live in isolation, humming silly spells to Mesmerize armies..."I love it when you look at me, baby". Twirling wires and iron snakes, tucking away a shield and Golden Fleece--missing a time when she had a God to believe in. There seemed to be no justification, patteren, or larger gameplan that could explain the state of the world on fire...A Mechanical Boar, the behemoth destroying rows of China...the problem of someone else’s making. Life was more fun, painting slow falling glass...Artemis walking around with the temperament of a Spartan, a sniping reserve--tagging along her bounty in high-spirits, enjoying the view and reporting on diabolical path of strangers enabling an elder on his never ending campaign for political chaos.

Artemis sat court-side, awaiting the opportunity to witness a medical miracle. Her day with routine and sobering lectures--fleeing the grasps of bounty hunters: attempting to tack down a place of employment--claiming they had personal business with an hourly worker. The shake-down of earned wages were more difficult when she hid amongst the reeds; tending to high-risk jobs or ones with lower qualifications, where the inconvenience of loss-of-labor was taken more personal by those in charge. Ten to fifteen percent of each financial deposit, had been the punishment for her falling apart on payment plans...hunched over and unwanted in a easily-scorned siblings home. Artemis was comfortable with a slight snarl, knowing she tried each day to be respectable citizen--moving from occupation to occupation, forcing contracted thugs to chase her down, as fair-enough punishment for hindering her professional capabilities. A larger pie and yearly earning given once, meant a larger slice of victory for the Mechanical Boar: his love-hate relationship with numbers was well known to the citizens. Predatory scholastic loans had left her life in shambles--pulling the rug from a steady plan of payment when an overdrawn account kept the bankers informed and ready to defend her honor. A holiday had kept numbers in limbo, and Artemis forced to take five steps back...to begin again with higher stakes...no sign of hope in sight. Artemis was chained to a rock, taught nothing and told that one day a bird would pluck at her liver--as a punishment from the Gods. The modernity of such a tale was meant to ease the reader, to lube their rears for the Mechanical Boar to impose his talents of repositioning in moments of fearful chaos.

The heaping amount of studying for the book had begun to take its toll upon her heart--the discomfort of a previous paragraph was insignificant in comparison to the true misfortune suffered by one of the ex-wives of the Mechanical Boar. Artemis felt the turmoil of its impurity--she honored the disclosure of such a horrific encounter; allowing it to be cemented over a cursed rug. The objected that were painted with trauma often held the most profound value in hindsight. A telling of an Apprentice--and a sadistic friendship with a snake. Gritty expressions were needed to pull her head out of the machine from time to time. A tired mind had drifted back to the memory of a woman named Hera, as she had once tried to steal her face--ripping chunks away from the edges of her chin. Artemis had turned away from a peckish hand clenching at youthful skin; forcing Hera to pull at a shoulder...to reach over and claw away at chin...all to tell an adolescent--to not touch her face. The vanity-driven reasons for an oily appearance were unacceptable in the throws of the morning. "Whatever." The longing to scream...for everyone to leave her alone--had caused a rift in her thoughts; an anguished scar of emotions had fractured reality into a fistful of pages. She remained conflicted in a second of a thought--wondering why her life didn’t feel like her own. The expectations of personal boundaries remained to be dealt by the hand of an abuser; its range...forever leaning out of her favor, the results appreciated disproportionately.

There remained an inconsistent thud upon a red wooden door...the calling of a Yani--knowing Hera woke up, titilated to jump into her skin...her flesh in motion without a secondary plan in motion most days....with the starry-eyed intentions of physically abusing Artemis. The spirit of pain deserved a name. The woman would shadow the teenager--loitering over chores, curious as to where the endless supply of audacity had been stored whenever the teenager thought of herself as better than everyone--adults include. There was no room for objection, therefore Artemis allowed curtains to drop...for dusted thoughts to sweep up stale mindsets and lame audiences. Thirteen had been an awful age. Artemis objected to dumb remarks with silence and shrugging shoulders. She found if facinating to know that food scarcity was an openly talked about issue in their home; when Heras manicured claws were financially prioritized disproportionately.

Hera had seemed afraid of Artemis in this moment, because she had said nothing--glaring at a stranger for a single second. Affiliation of genetics meant nothing in the Brooks home. A single reminder would do everything to tip the scales of injustice. Hera loved the attention found in buildings marked with red-crosses, boasting of her lost husband; stolen to a cancered blood--the sob tales could fill the pages of Artemis’s book five times over, but never seemed to be enough to fill Heras ego-laced cup. Artemis wondered what she had done--to the other patients with medical problems. Caring for others meant complaining and sneering at those with pains and discomfort. Abusers don’t start by abusing on a whim, and the hobby often only resulted in an esclated thirst. It wasn’t a slow push of efforts to hurt others--there had to be a seedling of evil, a mere speck of hatred that sprouted when watered at the polished hands of selfish chaos.

Hera slid comfortably into the role of child-abuser with pride--almost as though she had done it before. There was no reason besides the data presented, to make such harsh assumptions--no reason that proved Hera had valued the lives of the citizens to any degree. Beady eyes and silent moments of awkwardness could paint more of a sensation to caution--more than anything Artemis could explain. Instad she painted a picture; a malnourished kid jogging in the night--"an escapee": holding the powers of authority by way of fleeing with calm goodbye--unable to conform to religious chaos.

Their timeline had needed particular sets and stages--she implored them to paint and build a medical facility with Hera in it, to stroke it with coarse brushes, smearing it with a more vomit-y spectrum. Neatly tucked into a fresh bean-shaped pallet: themed with the less groovy side of history--splitting peas and neatly-pitted olives. Artemis had wanted to corner Hera in a trap of her own making--knowing the woman was vile and cowardly: reminding them to follow-up on patients in comas and the most unprotected and vulnerable...the children. She refused to believe that there was any indicator that made the situation multiple children being abused in one home unique--abusers didn’t just wake up and start abusing others in their thirties and forties...there had to be some previous discrepancies that pointed to Hera’s commitment to spite-filled chaos.

The woman was known for making predatory remarks like Madeline’s parents: pushing blame on anyone and everyone. Artemis believed the woman was aware or somewhat knew of the presence of a perverse Yani; etched in the thoughts of Papa Jim, and she had probably married him because of it: competition between wicked people never ended well for the children involved. Evil often took evil by the hand. Hera had needed a mask to cover her own and Artemis needn’t blemish her book with the direct quotes of an uneducated woman, so she didn’t. A judge asking a few questions could do more damage than any hearsay thrown into pages. The citizens would do the rest. The mark of a red-cross had fallen in value, and she had no need to explore the many “missteps” of the organizations that gouged the citizens for money, her Rely to preserve Life became too much work, and charity bragging rights no longer counteracted short and snarled wording. Artemis was so tired of the book that imprisoned Hera--thinking she was falling into madness: catching herself at the last minute, and saving her own sanity with a necromancy that nobody had asked for. The blind belief that she’d wrote an award winning book, and the lack-of-current reward for doing such; remained to be ambiguously presumptions--that teetered and tottered violently. There had yet to be a moment where confidence in trials and tribulations were tangible--resulting in Artemis crafting poems to better needle and sort through the survived chaos.

Artemis had crafted a book--to imprison the evilest of all evils, and annihilate them all by planting them all on one timeline; chained to moments of accountability...eventually devalued due to oversaturation. She had needed to weed through the differences of the dimensions--figuring out which had split away into new ones, and where. Artemis had found Hera smothering her children as they slept--taking a step back when recalling the dream where such hesitation of trust had been injected into a single ordinary day. All that remained was red door, and a strange and confusing slew of ill-intended jokes made by Hera--to remind Artemis that life could always be worse. The strange occurrence of maturity being forced into an early teenage had set Artemis on the path of mental health services; acclimated to being burdened with the problems of those "in charge"--left to listen to issues out of the range of her understanding of life, and to peacefully be forced to offer overlooked solutions to such chaos.

Artemis had crafted a world--where the three sisters existed, and she became trapped in the simulation after the birth of her best friend: Jessica. Artemis had loved the nervous cousin without the need to explain it--drinking away the denial that child predators didn’t see their victims with labels like relative to be relevent in moments where sexual desire was at the helmn. A child molester could care less of the name grand daughter in the throws of "passion". Morality and reasoning weren’t real deterrents to their goals of harming children. Artemis had been forced to abandon her cousin with Hera--wondering how long it’d take for before the decrepit hag lashed out at her own grandchildren with verbal abuse and neglect. The mask of hatred could only be held up for so long before slipping away in moments of disappointment--simple tasks taking too much time, or not being done to the particulars of an obsessive personality. Artemis anticipated their faces in observing her true wrath in moments of rage; the simplest of mistakes were rewarded with vocalized lashings--the dissection of personality from birth to the present moment, open range and fair use materials in passing or very public conversation. Perfection was expected from individuals based on an idealization of usefulness for Hera’s ideal future; to be a mother to all, and the widow to dark chaos.

Artemis had learned from her esteemed boss Kari, how to take a breath and calm wandering thoughts. She appreciated how patiently the woman stared at Artemis, waiting for a response and reminding her of their shared value in time. The woman had taught Artemis to be strict in her word selection, directing words to achieve a goal within a reasonable distance--percise and backed up. Artemis appreciated their ability to bond over pleats and tweed: a shared flare in dawning ruffles and dresses--influence came with the experience of hardened personalities proving they could care about the struggles of others. Such were the fine qualities of the dead-eyed savages--that Artemis had chosen to protect, to defend with her every word. She was not in anger...to the trauma-hemmed past they had already stitched for her, but distraught by her lack-of-place in it. Timing had put a group of hard working people in a position of potential failure, and so Artemis had removed herself from a team needing a more physically well person to do the manual labors asked by a greedy company. Mass evictions and useless dead-lines crafted by idiots in plush offices...had forced a well-rounded team of professionals to crumble under the quarterly chaos.

It had been done before her birth, the citizens had already dragged a naked child through the streets and demanded men cat-called her--shame had fallen on the house of Shields. The reader said to themselves: “no I didn’t”. A timeline of perversion had already been paved at the hand of a negligent and selfish mother. Artemis began to clench her jaw: how soon these barbarians forgot their own pedophiles: eager to make fun of the Jeffery and a Prince named Andrew. Artemis removed the Shield from her hand at last--returning it to the original bearer of victimization: a beautiful gift to mankind, a now respected woman named Brooke. How had they forgotten the ten-year-old woman--plastered between the pages of a playful bunny? They had normalized the “sensual” nature of a naked child body; investing and perpetuating all the conditional aspects of owning and distributing CP--held guilty forever in the printing and sales of such perverse chaos.

Their elders had raced to the shopping centers--purchasing cursed leaf-like books with glee; unzipping their trousers and pleasuring themselves. Jeffrey had done the rest to fuck up an entire timeline: firing up an nasty old machine for Artemis to maintain with defiant obligation. Artemis pointed at the dead-eyed savages as a whole--watching as her "woke readers" began to question their elders. Someone needed to explain to Artemis and her peers... how and why they had been brought in to shoulder the majority of issues that had been crafted at the hands of less-mindful individuals--because corruption had cursed the tapestry dyed with the inks of endless pain, deep waves of panic--caused by deep misfortune, and an impending exhaustion toward stepping in a room; knowing it was filled with avoidant chaos.

How many of their grandparents purchased the child pornography? Had they raped Brooke with dancing eyes as she grew up: believing a supple childish body--was theirs to fantasize and masturbate to...because a mother had allowed it to be mass published. Artemis noticed the model had a smile that expressed shy emptiness: motherhood eventually saving her life, and allowing an overbearing mother to bring out a curtain cane. Artemis had known these were the same “respected elders” that wore red caps and bore children to the Viking--there was always a distinct booming in ignorance that exploited and encouraged such unrewarding chaos.

Artemis avoided looking at the citizens because of their lewd past with child exploitation: men were defined by their actions. The implications were gross--the stakes given to a man, high to some; dialed in on a reasonable channel for most. The sick jokes and innuendos had already been thrown into the air by the time Artemis arrived on scene. Adults were openly fawning over a child...counting the minute to pounce a fountain of vitality. A playful mask-doe and regal; Brooke had yet to live in a world without a cage. The rotation of knowing, and needing the criminality of labor law violations for youthful thespians without Union representation to care for a bright-eyed girl; forever torn to shreds in the eye of the public. She remained to be a spark of hope for the world; the modern miracle...climbing from a den of beasts in heat--Artemis vulgar words fell heavier, somehow considered unwarranted to the platoons of men that handed shrived meats...forever seen as the menace in a room of criminality; cheeky in the faces of avoidant chaos.

The citizens had sacrificed a fucking ten-year-old to a fate unknown: walking her up a mountain--raised to the Gods...claiming virgin blood fed the an evil machine. Grown men had wanted a reason to twirl the naked ten year old with a hollow chest, to exploit a stage mums love of fame and fortune--to dance with evils in the interpretation of the word art. Giant insect-like men shimmied and shuffled to the surface of society; holding queue on the street in broad daylight--drawing pound and pence with giddy glee. The world laughed at a child’s gentle trauma; the hindsight of such horrific normalization had allowed the timeline to drift in the direction of deviant promiscuity...A single paragraph--painted a portrait of a prepubescent girl without a face--given barely a name; taught to find comfort in being selected to represent a moment of celebratory chaos.

The woman was a marvel left among the rubbish--a rose tossed aside...to wither in the dark. Artemis had wanted to use hypothetical funds...to further explore the law, or become a professional entertainer, and maybe find some time to say hello to the locals. Mr. Greenfield...the honorable Judge had already christened Brooke with a kiss of death; the conflicted validation of an abuser kept the world confined to a zeitgeist of moral turmoil. “Tisk, tisk”, Artemis had found the key to the cover the machine’s keypad: realizing she couldn’t turn off the machine unless it was "turned off"...a feat that could be seen as impossible with the devotion used to shovel smut and slime. A tornado of inculpated stirrings would swirl and lift up in the future winds of change; with elders blaming the demand for such consumption to be moved at once--scattering to cover tracks of pedophila content. It was facinating to watch Brooke blame anyone but legal guardians, a judge blame the consumer, and the consumer blame for the sickened process and distribution of such back-firing editorial chaos.

Artemis had needed this detail to craft the machine--rebooting it a good ten times...finally giving it a goated kick in passing and managing to get it to purr with delight: to punish the citizens for their sins in indifference. They were nothing but ants in her glass farmed contraption now: her book--the heart stone to a massive mecha device. Artemis--free to play and kill them under her own volition; too caring to annihilate a digital cage, unable to abandon the other trapped in the strews of reeds. Her presence as a Royal Indigenous Warrior wasn’t a coded secret; the information wasn’t heard or disclosed by those in charge....her arrival announcement had just fallen off in two generations. An alarming amount of personality disorders lay as a cushion to the blow of information to Artemis’s diagnosis--crash landing into the raging ocean after splitting from a tail of a meteor storm. The general overtone of Artemis’s birth had been well drafted on caves and marble’d courtrooms alike; her face to be seen as the unspoken victim. Her words unheard; a line of defense never coming to her aid. Specifications of reincarnation, and the rebirth of genetic patterns had been gifted in the looted gold-shillings of a Hydra...rested on a pile of wealth, its massive ballsack tucking the details away--the general public was deemed too stupid to understand such complex theories; the craft of reading held hostage for decades--to slow the burn of a business that relied on charity and tax-exemption statuses. The comparison of harm and compassion of a con called "The Church" kept the arts and sciences in the darkness--stranded behind a lock-and-key; wings clipped by a creepy cult of posturing men and a slew of women...picked, and blessed...allowing child harm to reach all corners of the world. Their efforts in protecting and yelling about caring, calling in floundering volumes...their reasons and debate points falling flat, words jumbled and lost when having to verbally articulate a stance on such impartial-leaning chaos.

The information of her being: incomparable skills--dismantling a brigade of illusions, cast by the hand of fate. Artemis had landed in pursuit of a living evil...vessel-ed in the matronly name Lori, its black-back spotted--jackal ears perking up at the sound of a name. Her love of one man left the host despondent to the fabric of reality. A wheel-of-fortune drew blurry smearing in Artemis’s mind, the twirling of a nightmare came with steep buy-ins. There had been a larger lore at play--in the background of all forms of entertainment...Sirens blaring in the background: even in moments of muted chaos.

The Gods of Olympus remained praised by viewer; trading masks and names in plain sight. The sieving of sands falling from one timeline to another--kept the Gods alive at the hands of its congregation. The public remained unaware of their appraisal of dead Gods--the temptations of a single book kept them watered-down, boggled by ignorance. Decades slipped beneath the tides before them; a stupid game--controlled by the hands of children...to bring on the end of times...if such a lesson needed to be learned. Artemis had just been the a Siren with mercenary mindset; needing to announce the path of destruction painted by the mere image of Lori and a blinded brother--blurry edged shadows...holding the silhouette of a sleeping child near a guarding statue, loftily disposing of a disabled child’s body. Artemis had taken in the whole scene; catatonic in fear as she peered down at bucket holding adult sized limbs. A loving uncle had fixed his place in Hades, and Artemis was sent to collect his story--minus the lies and one liners. Alex and his uncle title remained cursed; the least funny comic in an easily entertained world that praised the most obscure talents. The implications of evils, the might of inaction and religious extremes had forced Artemis to scrape each universe with a fine comb. The Saints of Latter Day refused to denounce the slaughter of children...Lori given validation, grinning while her mother prodded and dared a community to judge her parenting. Artemis had seen the dance of maliciousness in the eyes of a mother and a sibling named Summer--the loss of Lolly had put the spokes of defiance on Lori’s wagon. There was nothing to salvage in a home wrecked by ignorance, and Artemis’s only quest was to aide a lost Indigenous son named Colby...to give him the cyber hugs on the daily and provide comforting company--in order for him to survive such indescribable chaos.

Their reigning governments and the Hydra had called the citizens “too stupid to understand”--the notion of history repeating itself; a timeline of characters falling from the sky--Artemis, surrounded by monsters and beasts--enslaved to a book filled with lore and endless interpretations. The most innocuous of things had become lethal...in the hands of Lori: a scrupulous tongue slithering lies and a projections of importance--the conduit of evil in the flesh. The Indigenous Warriors that had been left in charge of protecting the location of the game, forgotten in their task of protecting a Golden Fleece of information in a time of immense chaos.

Artemis had been born to witness the fair-enough removal of such a poisoned person...to warn of the great wave of mental health issues stampeding past an invisible horizon. She glared past the ocean...how did nobody else see the large-mainsails of a boat christened with worry washing ashore? The unburdened secret of a booming generation could be found in the backyard of a stranger named Chad: hidden beneath hand-set boulders and planks of discarded wood--his wife dead in a marital bed; the boom of his ship aimed in Lori’s direction. The horrific implications of enabling and placating blame, whilst defending personalities riddled with anti-social and dissociation had brought the true character from the children of Tammy. The fun won. Lori won. The known universe had been fine-tuned in waves of somber frequencies...inked into reality by a bizarre aging woman: claiming to be the true arbiter of judgement--giggling and manipulating facts in order to protect herself from such threats of accountability. The split from reality had broken the world in two: one where reasoning existed....and then there was the bullshit made up in Lori’s mind--where two missing children had torn her away from a well deserved honeymoon. The single question cast: a caring judge had seen Artemis distress call--demanding proof of life for the two children that had been thrown into a world of silent chaos.

The only time the citizens and the Indigenous Warriors had agreed...had been in conversations contemplating the rationality of such deadly silence. The citizens were in no mental state to lay out any-and-all possible outcomes...because the truth was too gruesome to comprehend: such a trial would mean holding mirror up to their zealous society. The fracture of conflicting reality began to merge at the hand of a cursed clocking system--where compounding patterns emerged, and a need to make sense out of the senseless in moments of great sorrow created a glowing path. Empathy would trickle in as time wore on--as elders died off; leaving the next generations...to understand complex technology of mortal observation, to invest in forensic sciences, to allow facts to be given more importance than a tattered predatory book that predated anything they had known. There lay a childish belief--that the finding of truths beneath a nest of lies would, or could offer closure for the avoidable crimes. The sensationalist movement of problem-solving and the need for resolve; had built a beautiful and twisted world where the truth barely and occasionally prevailed. The slow and methodical ticking of time had forced impatience into criminals; tying their dangerous hands behind their backs with the broadening strokes of the word speedy. Artemis had wanted to add a slight poetic justice to a sad story; helping compartmentalize the sharp lines between reality and Lori’s non-reality; where she ruled a delusional narrative--complete with spinning stories--falling apart at the slightest of touch. A brave man with a diligent and kind Hart, had stepped into the cold room; saying less as the lying mother dug herself a Chad-Sized hole and walking away to look for lost children on an island in the middle of the ocean. A strange story of a wedding between two already-married people; unfolded into intricately spun chaos.

Artemis had nothing to hide--only the shy belief in understanding that the citizens would possibly see her differently; whenever she awoke from publishing this chapter. There was a depth of vision that kept Artemis unable to predict the totality of chapters, as she built a literary empire. She’d yawn and act surprised at the realization that she had let them “play her game” with wicked intent--the vulnerability of sleeping...often brought an uptick in crimes: Tammy and another man named Hartman had tacked down the truths of mankind, hung up the tapestry of mistrusts--holding firm stories of the ultimate betrayal; painted as undeserving of life by their spouse...their memories chained in a bed on a Saturday Night. Complete with a laughing track and scattered applause to worsen the morbid chaos.

Artemis let the readers only draw pictures of Hera--a face trembling in rage before a battle: the dark harsh lines of charcoal gave a more authentic approach to such a dark-filled heart. Artemis had needed ten articles of proof--that she had died at the hand of this woman: the simulation was meant to protect her from the unknown of such a woeful story-line. The intent of a fostering parent was encapsulated to be observed and studied as a base-line for a personality known only as a Karen. A red hat was all it’d take-- to polish off the costume of a child-abusing adult; the leap from love to hatred was painted with fine lines to better soften the impacts of reality. The unsettling nature of whole communities walking around un-diagnosed; had left them with an influx of awful citizens reaping and sowing endless chaos.

Artemis awoke in a cave: mistaking it for an abandoned mine--searching and screaming the name of a lost mother known only as Susan. Her restless soul forever in trapped between death and the afterlife--seeking her lost children...and a father named Chuck: forever in search of Susan’s body. It was all so tragic. The citizens had sacrificed their lives in-ego: they were unable to survive a night set on the setting of eight for mental anguish, tuned by a toadish looking man named Chad--to increase the pain or whatever. Artemis was free to be without pain at last: leaving a whole timeline to crumble in her wake...allowing the truth to lock into place--the truth falling from the sky like hail, bouncing from the ground and settling in the grasses. Artemis found comfort in the cycle of nature cushioning atmospheric chaos.

Artemis had needed definitive proof--that Hera had mentally set out to kill or irreparably harm children, or to cover up the things called "accidents and mishaps" on the regular. Hera feigned unsureness when parents pointed out a pattern of specific children with reoccurring injuries, unaware Artemis hid the bruises of Hera’s grasp on weary forearms. Artemis laughed, as the readers seemed to have already forgotten: Hera “owned” a facility to raise children and enslaved orphans--to better leverage financial successes to gamble away nightly. The citizens had needed their own validation in Artemis’s existence as eye-witnesses: because the change in brain chemistry could better express the depth of her sadness. The culture that protected her smile on rare occasions...had given her a chance in Hades: its essence being fundamental in tipping the scales of Justice disproportionately.

She said, “I can’t write my book--with all these fuckers staring at me, and acting weird.”, and "whoever had vetted and cast the citizens should be fired". They were awful at acting as themselves, but in a fake city--their heavy arms flailing funny. "O well", they said when told to stop breaking character. Artemis had seen extras be fired for less. Instead of approaching the citizens one-by-one...she cursed their faces, to hold the sins of their modern family. For each hand turned--explaining Artemis knocking over an apple offering mockingly; their elders had already paid the price...their hands chopped in public squares for theft of a single apple...forced to live in squalor because their future relatives brought shame to their surname. Why should Artemis be the only one to suffer? The citizens had wanted a shit-show to be a part of...so Artemis obliged. The greedy citizens had punished their great-great grandparents to sentences to death and most recent family into bodies of disability or great illness to undo their sin. Artemis to label the subjects one through ten, twice. Allowing two out of every ten losers to walk away with their hairline in tact, their family okay enough to be grateful for. The other bodies were hauled away by daybreak, her trash duties lessened by way of removing contributor. The pains of an essential worker weren’t so funny; when it was their elders being forced to be overworked and underpaid--occasionally beaten by romantic partners, and left to pick up the pieces of a life built upon a need to break away from generations of trauma. Artemis watched as the citizens grew worried by her blossoming apathy--why should a rape victim be silenced for attempting to survive the worst mankind had to offer? Artemis had ran out of empathetic context to paint her struggles with surviving such endless and brutal chaos.

All was right in the world: she smiled--knowing what the nights were reserved for the proper purging for the ignorance of citizens wearing her skin, claiming it was deeply necessary. Artemis banned anyone she knew from participating under her wreath, as to not skew prized data and remove possible biases. The fucking idiot citizens had done enough damage, whenever Artemis left apple unattended; a book splayed open, sans-a-chapter--her book forever blank to the unworthy. The refusal of sleep would inflict insanity upon the world around her; two worlds colliding in ways where reality refused to remain sewn in with such horrific types of chaos.

The citizens had wanted this all along; the pale yearned for blood and harm upon children to spice up their blessed lives. Artemis had taken a knee; creeped out by bulging eyes and wide-toothed smiles: false chompers falling out without invitation. They had craved celebrity, but Artemis had only ever wished for fame that negated all famedom--immortality gifted to her by way of impacting the world somehow. She had wanted to be without a rival--to be uncontested or important to society in some way. Artemis let them view the anguish the world felt with the loss of such love, for Chad--an actor, a beloved Bowman...with too few pieces of time; to commemorate his range in talents. Mr. Shakur--a scathing poet: silenced at the height of his fame: cut down by a mystery...Tim and the Robin; each man was of the same caliber of a man pricked by a rose: given the blessed name Dražen, as he lay to rest in a net of the potentials wasted. The counterbalance of grief--kept their timeline drifting between making reasons, and the unreasonable...attempting to better make understanding of such multifarious chaos.

Artemis had needed the citizens to feel the tightness in the chest--to stop dead in their tracks when unspeakable moments befell and nothing made sense: her breathing restricted by the loss-of-love...left in the world whenever valuable mortals were plucked from reality. Instead of heeding value in the presence of such greatness, the citizens had been left with a sicko named Kirk, and a Mechanical Boar that stood on stand-by. Artemis took habit of shaking his soggy detached head with indignity and delight--a basket containing her unnamed husband was cultivated to pull identity to the surface with due time; to trade a slain head for a head. The mystery of impartiality forcing patience into Artemis’s life...unsure of who it was absent in her heart: starkly stabbing their shared reality with loneliness and unforeseen chaos.

The blood of the Mechanical Boar had begun to coagulate--his age weathering upon leathery skin: past sins attempting to “seep upwards” bruises and blotches kept a Boar covered in patch paint. The Mechanical Boar was a wonder to spectate in a way; the destruction shivering beneath small hooves was borderline impressive--minus the whole attempting to destroy Democracy part. Artemis invited them to observe the rallies he enforced and encouraged their “night of freedom”. How many citizens would let large corporate entities buy their experience, believing they could gather more information from the short-term hosts? Artemis fixed her forearm: inking celebrations of accomplishments as time passed-- preparing to trade out a tablet of wise words, for those of victory flowers. The citizens hadn’t the slightest clue as to what needle in the haystack they sought after...when arriving on random days beneath a crown: Artemis--tasked with phishing and labeling different forms of evils. These were the few facts she had come to know--this was the life she had come to love, the series of events she had manifested to elevate an entire timeline and guide a lost drunken soul home. Artemis was sober now: her life no longer "theirs" to place a monetary value over--the turning point of self-awareness and pride in practice--had been a reward earned by putting down a single innocuous glass. It was not a question that was up for debate--their inability to respect her privacy had enraged her...just enough to allow the slaughter of ten(s) of thousands of randoms at a time as she peacefully slept nearby. The more time passed where strangers were allowed to do whatever by living in her body with their own intentions; had forced the world to dive into a state of barbaric chaos.

Artemis tucked her lost land away: mirroring it above Akita. She had watched as the temples aligned to appease her many, many demands. The machinery parts collected by passing checked marks in a timeline slid into their places: metals so delicate and finely oiled that they were without screeches or shuffling sounds. Copper iron was a great element for the fine crafting of all that she touched. Artemis gifted the citizens with a night of her crown--knowing well-enough, that they would take her “hat”, and die in pain and anguish by sunrise; their perception of depression shattered with a single lock-out, tag-out game that judged the players by their ability to survive such anguished chaos.

The participants were stuck being ripped between a past of shameful existence, and the expectations of being a functional adult in the span of an hour. Many would die due to heart complications, or sickness that forced them to mutilate their bodies. Would they shrivel away in her seizures, or draw weapons to her head with the upturning and curling of a tired elbow. Artemis left standing outside herself; looking down at the woman hunched over and noticing their real reflection was holding the weapon used according to their intent. Only the night would tell--if the citizens had just learned to fucking back the fuck up and provide social distancing...to take a small appreciation of their neighbors, if it meant having a community to rely on in predictable moments and story-lines filled with violent chaos.

Grandparents often lasted longer than their parents when walking in Artemis’s heeled shoes. They began to cheer as the room of terror-reflecting mirrors hurt the participant less and others more. The paranoia of the citizens had drove her mad...now aimed directly at their own families--the image of their near-naked grandma racing home to cry seemed less funny somehow. The hope of accomplishing the feat was more valuable--if they drew nearer to her placement by a red door of torment. She simply asked--that they collect the dead bodies before she awoke and refrain from forcing their sacrifices of life in her face. A single ask had been to much. The citizens were too busy having fun stalking a single woman that lived alone with weird expressions and gaping laughter. It became apparent that disrespect of such a simple wish had been to much for Artemis to ask for--her garden of Eden had been tainted by their inability to listen; to do less and observe the waves of an ocean filled with tragic chaos.

They had only needed citizens without wings for this project: boiling down the pool of candidates to the asshole parents that believed that playing a game would prove something to their offspring. They had forgotten the power of a clean slate. The choice to wear sparking wings would indicate the choices of survival and daily option to take a path of heterosexuality--despite being stripped of the basic choice as an infant. The nagging paranoia of being needed somewhere, or neglected parental duties causing the break in reality...whenever the sensation of home longing came over. The parameters of a single day weren’t solid, but drawn by the median time of players realizing that they hated being Artemis...in the same respect that Artemis hated being Artemis most days. There had to be a gesture of submission; for a player to turn back and embrace their own lives--instead of wearing someone else’s tissue for fun...the stench of death in body excreations had been the undefined side-effect. There came a strange validation in watching the fast-paced turnover in participants--because it was a visual representation of the might needed to survive such tedious trails--those filled with creepy leering strangers, and a need to address and publish the trials hand-molded by the sins of mortal chaos.

Artemis had warned the citizens of her wickedness--given them fair-opportunity to run away from a path of misfortune even. Instead of caring--they cast their laughter in her direction, foods falling freely with slobbering chuckles. They made daily outings to sight a stranger, eating outside or nodding in the direction of a window...Artemis took note of overwhelming majority of pale citizens that turned a shoulder away to hiss gossip to their equally boring counterparts. These citizens deserved to lose their parents to the game....if a stroke of luck-luster hit them just right. Artemis had only accommodated their need to call her "less than" with such theatrical mockery. The physical breaking down of the body due to mental trauma-- could inflict death to a “normal person”...evidently it wasn’t as fun to see their elders losing bowels and stomach contents when surviving seizures. It was amazing to watch strangers try to throw fortunes at a blood-thirsty machine, claiming it unfair when their family was gifted with the crown of Artemis. The bloodless murders of players came by way of proxy in maintaining a machine--buried away in a fleeced timeline. Artemis was unable to explain the need to feed flames into the device she made by hand, and so she slapped a white label that named the stupid machine...to better warn the players to prepare for deadly chaos.

Artemis would know the citizens were weak--too frail to handle all that she had known as real: she had proven it with a handful of fliers, simply asking if they had been having weird dreams. She drew an awful sketch of the man she sought in their dreams--needing their malleable minds to come forward: categorized voluntarily, so she knew where to "Boson jump" with their "survey of time". One citizen--had made Artemis worry with confusion, stating that they’d never seen the people in his dreams to be cast with familiar faces....they just instinctively knew who they were. The longing to find familiarity had broken down disoriented dreams--proving the value of finding closure with seeing lost loved ones in a dimension of dreams. This overwhelmingly haunting type of logic, had inspired the spookiness seen in the book--the secrets carried by those living with the solitude of dreams, or perfect vision; seemed to be a trait that impacted mortal personalities with a different type of jealousy. She said oooo--nervously, as she crafted a tapestry in the dark and had no other scientist nearby to run complex theories by. Such were the silliness she had come to call confusion: chaos.

Artemis had seen the citizens calling her attendance--needing a naked body to make fun of, or prove their protest to hold any relevance in a dead timeline. Artemis was in decline to their demands: she was not their Princess--her loyalty barely belonged to the Indigenous Warriors. She had instructed the citizens to take a knee--to speak of the trauma that hurt their heart outside of a game...instead they looted her home. Claiming her property had been bought with the admission fee of joining a hunt for a game. Artemis wanted to prove which "color" of citizens extended the boundaries of kindness...to provide evidence of the pallor "race"--giggling as they lined up each night like Artemis’s name was Bonnie...to strip down a stranger and run through the streets shamelessly. The depth of their greed captured to be placed on display for eternity; Artemis laughed, knowing the citizens refused to hear non-threatening words. Oracles were known for truthful warnings, not necessarily for their sacrifices given to end chaos.

Instead, of searching for cures and a hope....the citizens carved a trail of death---that allowed authoritative Boars with stars to mount campaigns of corruption. The world was dealt at the direction of careless district attorneys like Mr. Rourke, and his need to stitch together delicate tissues with lies and the lazy stapling of a wound bursting at it seams. The free-flow of information had released a strange aura of expectation to protect the victims that hadn’t survived such selfish chaos.

Women began to observe strange cramps and menstruation cycles, as the Mechanical Boar had told his goonies to “sterilize the situation”. Artemis knew this trick--the Government had used it on her Tribal family, “accidentally surgically sterilizing” women. The desecration of bodily autonomy would place everyone’s mother to be put in harm’s way, led by a weird flame-haired woman named Hannah--screaming on a corner that women should have their right to vote revoked...because she said so. I guess the citizens took a lot of stock and value of the woman, and chose to accommodate the greed of one weirdo--taking ten steps back...because Hannah was bitter an unwed, today, tomorrow and hopefully forever. The women took a knee--stating with their posture: “our lives matter, and so will any life that leaves my body.” The need for such a declaration would be proof that their timeline was cursed--given the slimmest of chances in survival, and forced to outlive a gaggle of patriots holding public offices and Hannah’s non-existent love life. The great equalizer--known as time; would be the only credible solution when facing such evil-driven chaos.

The women of the land were being forced to fight the battles of men with small and shriveled penises--rising up to the occasion, and asking for help from the less fun crowd. Artemis had known the urban jungle would be annoyed to be called cowardly--to be painted as proof of such social constructs, but she had seen enough of what they had done to the landscape...to care of their disappointment in wording. If she wanted bad advice or stupid opinions...Artemis would just ask Hannah. She waited for the Mechanical Boar to appear before a forest: rummaging for foods and humping anything laying horizontal. Hannah had missed out...despite the loud panting of lustful breaths aimed in his direction; standing on her business came with a cost. It didn’t take much to convenience the readers of the character traits of an orange beast digging up his own grave and displacing selfish pebbles of chaos.

Her jarring presence in a portrait; lugging around a severed head of Mechanical Boar; came with the implication that Artemis was a danger to the public...in all reality the prop head was more of a metaphor; to draw out the public’s need to fear people of color. Artemis had found the injured beast, rolling slop--slapping one of his ex wives; and rearing her without consent. Artemis rewound time--seeking answers to the scene panning out...to see how such came to be. The Mechanical Boar had been the needle; he had voluntarily wounded his ear in a famous Hunt and forgot that he’d painted the story as an assassination attempt--the many tactics that were meant to distract and deflect from a bromance with a pedophile named Jeffery. His head dripped with its last drops of blood as she prepared to sleep--the sands of a clock that tipped and turned between two spaces fell peacefully enough; the separate timelines existing to both be true and real...where she had just been a random young adult that stumbled upon a man committing crimes against children with a premeditated desire to inflict pedophilia-laced chaos.

Artemis had hung the fool out to dry--he had exceeded her every expectation in fucking up an entire timeline. She smiled wickedly; viewing the sea of red. "I told you I knew what I was doing. Stop fucking calling me crazy." Artemis was omnipresent like dat. Her magic...knowing no bounds--her words undeniably protective when etched on the surface of any shield. The Mechanical Boar was now cornered by his own foul mouth--the smell of fresh piss and sex lingering in his breath. There was an unspoken but everpresent longing by the Mechanical Boar for showers of gold-laced chaos.

The Mechanical Boar had the nerve to travel away from his home, and used the tax-dollars to denigrate the soldiers that had fallen to capture or death--calling his men and women serving: “losers and suckers”. The Mechanical Boar had been witnessed and canonized, for having boasted that he was unsure of the value the soldiers had gained by serving their country. His daddy had paid to for him skip such honorable services--claiming his son had fucked up feet that kept him from serving his Nation. Artemis paraphrased his trash-filled language, reminding the citizens that they were literally-- already paying a blonde petite lady to "decipher the fucking Commander in Chiefs words." Her loose translation of events was meant to provide a second perspective of political terms--poisoned by the hand of one man and the idiots that chose to dismantle a barely functioning Justice system when every-other lie that fell from his loose lips caused months of chaos.

Artemis used her book to flip endless tables and yell "Ahhhhhhh!’--with a gusto in such times of annoyance. Her distinctive voice carrying across the pages and into reality. Artemis was not on the payroll of the citizens at the moment, and she didn’t care to humor their incessant need to cheer on a Mechanical Boar. Instead of caring about the sickness in elders all around; Artemis went about archiving the many ways their leader had verbally admitted to the long-quest dedicated to fuck, or at least date a favorite daughter. Instead of making excuses or looking for a reason behind this particular brand of fucked-upness--Artemis allowed them to prove their worthiness one at a time, to take her place in a world where elders remained committed to the contemporary Western traditions; of coveting family members and silencing victims with sexual violence. Only time would lessen the burden of the victims; even those that had leaned into the Justice system for help in healing from the traumas that caused emotional distress and self-identifying chaos.

Artemis was left wondering--if any of the citizens had what it takes to be the God of War: the Bringer of Death. Each version of her life--leading straight to the Mechanical Boar and his thugs: pointing weapons at the heads of children, and embezzling funds through sporting trips that "encouraged" public servants to throw their monies at the properties managed or owned by the Mechanical Boar. Why did the citizens believe they deserved to live? Did they not care that the Mechanical Boar and his adult offspring had drained charity funds meant to find cure or comfort? Artemis left the winning losers to their chaos.

The Mechanical Boar began turning red and pale with blotchy skin: his joy by each corrupt transaction and successful week of theft tickled his undercarriage. Artemis had found the beast in the forest: taking a shit on their Constitution, and demanding the citizens reach into their own pockets--to pay the allotted funds needed to be wasted on his vacations standing upon green fields and cheating at sports. Each death of the citizen(s): would gather more pertinent data, as to how the man had gotten away with such large-scale corruption. Artemis had needed answers, to craft a functioning squad of morally-driven teams, done by observing how much others worked to keep corruption in office...well fed and fucked. Preferably not by one of his daughters...if this situation meant uncomfortable conversations with their own elders, or doing the right thing on a ballot. Despite having a weak team: "those safe" behind the Mechanical Boar would gloat--emoting remorselessness, as they were more important to history than all those that voted for them into office in the first fucking place. The unspeakably ugly--the few currently in power, proved with solid numbers; that Justice was served cold, tilted by the judgement of skin color--their positions given out to the less-qualified of options out of hatred, and causing the world capsize into a perpetual state of chaos.

Next Chapter: [ XLIX ] Artemis and the Citizens