Artemis yawned--languor by doldrums company; her muscles fatigued by dreams of stemming the tide. There were high fives all around--for the feat of having survived another night of sleepless nightmares...without having died from suffocation or seizure as fair beget. She had only wanted deep slumber: instead she often awoke startled with the excited banging of children upstairs. The bawdy stampeding broke stale discomfort of a middle-aged woman living under the unwelcoming roof of an vituperative sibling. Merriness obscured the image of children running amok in a sugar-rushed haze, ready to take on the world in their Holiday best outfits. A single day of magic; attenuated the moods of a stifling neighbor--Artemis had made the most of it and just lolled; stretching herself awake in the trouncing of unapologetic charm.

Artemis had avoided discussing adjudicatory opinions on the three baleful Kim spirits that terrorized the North in her Odyssey until now. The missives of heartbreak had kept poems bent with silver tongued filigree--now aligned as a marching view to overlook a strange blue line of “peace”. The capacious land was ran by a strange young boy and a gaggle of blind sycophants--cormorants with starkly angled necks; begging for the chopping. The Titan baby was in need of constant babysitters around-the-clock, his tempered tantrums clocked as qualifying anger--with phials of bewitching spells to counteract the disenchanting nature of such pampered charm.

The contender to no heir or obstacle; the soft nudges of a placid sea kept the immature leader hard at the wrong times. The unspoken rule of an unerring day kept hope alive; with Holiday celebrations recurrently proving integral in repleting the enthusiasm of the laborer fields. Even in times of peace, the world stood silent and still; giving thanks and offering hope to those on foreign soils--their dreams dashed or eviscerated at the pudgy hands of a dictator...brandishing terror and admonishing censorship over any article of entertainment that failed to adhere his spellbound charm.

Artemis had approached the intractable beast with caution: forgetting there was a lingering scent of hot buttered ambition from a previous chapter cleaning the stables. The aphrodisiac aroma lured a hip-thrusting beast from the shadows; walking on his hinds and an infinitesimal unit leading the way. An aura of awkwardness took over; eye contact had been made unwillingly--the braggart brought down by his own elaborations. The young sex addict had upheld a reputation of promiscuity; painted as young boyhood; grunting his own name “un” over and over again. A vehemence for casual sex kept the kingdom under lock-and-key...to keep a beasts housed with gold-posted palisade; distracted by stratagems of concubine tactics and pliable charm.

This had been the timeline of a blighted delay; where Artemis had stood in the shadows of a timeline and did less; unable to conciliate by way of limited resources, as an unwell and insolent man trickled sausage-tipped hands along the smooth surface of a button labelled with only four letters. ICBM. The threat to eviscerate his opponents came with the assumption of contrite values toward the preservation of life. There was no reason to build rhyme upon: no way to predict the culled day of fate...plucked from obscurity--to slash a gaping wound into a timeline lacking credulity, authenticity, outside of the less glamorous side of political mechanics.

Artemis stood over a scene of medical ubiquity; peering over a poor fool... forever cursed with a young death--unaware of his name as a Kim. Artemis had balked in the moment--somehow finding humor that the successor was always “il”, and wondered if he knew of such a tragic fate impending the premature demise. She laughed; forever dis-concerned by the growing armies applauding the perverse and twisted demeanor of the young boy abandoning a gangplank of information and language--holding a Nation hostage by way of implementing domestic abuse mechanics.

Grief had envenomed a tired heart; weakened from many dates with a left hand. The leader was a product of his own environment; stuck going through the motions in locked step and tune with the values these dictators “sung” throughout empty chambers. Such a pathetic waste of land she thought: missing her metal weapons only as of late. Artemis liked the smoothness of her softened bow handle; life had been so much more tolerable while standing at blurried four-way stop in a cement metropolis--stumbling mid-street of another; surrounded by prop stores and pastel painted business. The hollowness of a robbed childhood fell between the pages of Artemis crashing through collapsing scenes and a flurry of emotion. Time stood still; Artemis remained afraid of face-less voice calling for her to come inside and wash-up for super, despite the fact she had been momentarily preoccupied charging across the lawn at full speed into an invisible battle. The child was a fool on the battlefields...blindly charging into war; armed with nothing but a song, a broken string and her Spartan charm.

Her anxiety--was a thin as a mirror with only one way, as though the lack of shadow stripped Artemis naked by day. There was no one to attribute her efforts to; no father to heed compliments; no mother to take credit for her beauty. There was only Artemis; living her pathetic mortal life with the divine strength needed to hold up an invisible armor and shield to protect her emotions. Each day, every-other room of occupation came with an ill-cast crew and Artemis given the trial of withstanding the storms man-made and hand delivered by the weight of a thousand tons of churning water--barreling past the lipped ceramics of an overflowing jar of deep woe. Some days...Artemis awoke aching with each fiber of her being; barely able to support a diaphragm and the horrors of living inflations. Artemis had finally stepped from a judgemental throne--tossing a hat into the ring, and admitted the need for weapons in the lines of offensive Indigenous Warriors--if only to bring forth world peace. Artemis was tired of being the only non-barbarian community without access to non-primitive weapons: ready to handle some deadly mechanics.

Artemis knew little of the ruler of the secluded North: outside of his what she had viewed of captured golden portraits--the world had called him self-aggrandizing, but it seemed like only a matter of time until her homeland would lean into such terroristic threats; splashing a mural of a Mechanical Boar on the building side of the Department of Labor, or something as stupid as that...because why not add a little overkill flair to a jejune concrete office space? There had to set the precedence for a leader to embark on a campaign to destroy democracy, and Artemis had wanted to point-out and place accountability on the many, many, many compliant fucks that’d have to bend over and lube themselves up in order for a dictator to make money moves--complete with creepy stock-portrait mechanics.

Artemis had crash landed in a vast compound; watching in silence as a man snickered and trudged--chants filled with unknown dialect filled the corridors with a sense of hysterics: she turned a corner to see a display widening up to a room lined with towering shelves and gold penises. Artemis had no issue saying she enjoyed a solid gold penis from time to time: as would any other lady. There was no need to shame those utilized the golden penises of all shapes and sizes, as she whole-heartedly understood what it meant to be tired of the awful men that usually came attached with the standard flesh penises. She admired the efficiency of self-love, and encouraged the healing it provided those boggled by worry and self-disparagement; to use the penises out of the box for whoever required it, and preferably in a more discrete manner than an unabashed woman named Foxy Knoxy. Not out of prudery, but out of concept. She observed the young sex-craved dictator, as he blatantly ignored sweeping epidemics of poverty and famine to tour all things sexually-taboo. She observed him and took note with monotone narration: only stating her opinions on his dictating skills and the specific timing in his choices. His battle-strategy lacked fundamental mechanics.

Artemis marveled at his timing...or lack-of-timing. She simply admired him... played among his shelves of gold phallic toys, pulled closer and closer to his delighted face. Heavy panting followed the silence; his servants were forbidden from expressing even the slightest of breath in the presence of the almighty. He stared at the rows longingly, as though hoping they’d all come alive at once for his pleasure--the whizzing and roaring of flailing dicks began a small stampede to rupture the soils that held endless stories of victory. “Calm down dude”…Artemis would whisper to herself: ready to be mad at whoever put a random man-baby in charge--wholly unaware, that it had been three generations of such deviousness and corrupt depravity to build up to the climactic scene. Artemis felt reassured that she could be a more professional leader than that random kid...if the circumstances arose where the entire world was out of options kind of deal. Her avoidance in accepting a fate beaded with exceptionalism was congruent in displaying part of her stubborn charm.

Artemis had taken a break from editing her fully-written book momentarily to pursue real life. She had the encouragement of the finicky trolls of all those had knowingly already Read-it, and the occasional traveler wandering by. Her lazy avoidance--had pushed her from the nest of her darkened world, and back into reality; always yanking her back to a nest to dissect daily lessons and observe from higher vantage points. Artemis often felt nervous in expressing positive stories, as her life held very few up until this point. Even typing such faithful truths caused her to silently cry in fatigued embarrassment. After all...Artemis had severe depression--a tale of rushed flirting left little to the imagination; so a long-winded tale about a wife sitting upon a bench and forgetting the passing stride of a masked husband. Her joys were so vibrant; dreams riddled with the role-play of togas and bronzed lore--the intoxicated oracle--shaking hands and agreeing upon accessorized swapping of battle and offering of dental services; a riddle meant to entice a professor named Dan. The bone to pick; being the bottom line of a gangster downfall...in the exchange of two upper bridges--ivory offerings held hostage to a rambling mother in law. The doubtful winds; hindered by an uncontested monologue--its seams broken with a single pinch of a blue thread. Artemis had wished to scream; to growl and stop a heeled shoe with the same passion as a traitorous felon--hold parade and ball. Age holding a memory firm; until the that one time it didn’t. Everything sucked...trying to convenience an arrogant educator that his fate was drawn in the stories plastered beneath pyramids and star-gated entry found within the depths of a cave. Artemis had been raised in an urban jungle...where the people would commonly yell past shuttering and flickering lights--screaming "shut the fuck up, bitch" in moments of a silent night being put to the tests of her melodramatic charm.

She had made the greatest of mistakes; easily overlooking the holders of hand-drawn maps--putting faith in a gray-haired stranger, and proceeding past the hugest of issues; the reader to be jump-scared by the pigeon-eyed stare of a truly miserable mother in-law named Donna.

Artemis would take the stark contrasts between her imagination--taking little pride in her ability to agree with a hissing stranger; pointing at a man named Dan and calling him a fool. Artemis had chucked and grumbled a "probably", to ease the intensity of a all encompassing judgement. The reality being...Dan had been a fool in love, fated to suffer a public slaughtering--on all but one dimension. Artemis hadn’t heard his many yelling; the worried screams falling upon deaf ears...death and cultural differences kept her from taking caution while approaching a motherly beast--Dan was forever-and-a-day; unable to piece together the simple direct phrase "trust no bitches", in earshot of a skin-crawling demon. His missteps in death kept the seemingly non-character player hiding in plain sight; offering tainted maps and well wishes on the journey ahead--stumbling out facts behind the title of grandma; the lost moment of truth was wasted on Artemis’s ability to look past unsightly scenes; disregarding overly-rehearsed rambling about children--some elderly lady hissing about her stolen sunshines...bent over while echoes of children remained running past frail ankles. The scaled shedding in pressumptions of a stranger being said bitches; those rendered untrustworthy when given a second glance. A missed opportunity; unfolded the creases of Golden Fleece--no amount of crisp wording could undo the follies of a fool, indirect at the most inconvient of times, and his wording puzzling or broken down past reassembly. The bare words holding little weight when left without context...foolishness kept the wheels of fate in motion. The absence of such a truth would allow the story to be broken down into fits of giggling; the idea of arguing with Dan and not being able to hold debate--due to her locked-in age of early twenties and a blase sense of caring to details. The most unhelpful of ages; hindered by selfish charm.

It had given her a shrug of understanding and amusement, and a mild offense to the implications of a disgruntled scholar being left to debate a University grade; the D-range plot, and dry coughs of a grieving ex-spouse were unable to sell an action packed story for even five minutes; every adversary taking a persuading knee--dignified to hold gladiator arena in stride to fair and kindly father. She had scooped up a neon rose; offering the slain father a comforting reminder...placing kind emphasis on a quest for the truth--no matter how unpleasant the road be. The offering of happy fathers day to a cunning intellect; meant more with each time Artemis attended temple--the practice of a crowned star and desire to pull reigns over swaying moods and spells of sorrow. A guardian angel for a lost lawyerly soul, taken hand-in-hand by the voice of woman named Roberta--offering only a piece of stained Glass; in exchange for the answers of problems unsolved and a chance to haunt an elderly git from beyond the grave. The tour of Hades wasn’t going swell: the idiotic twist and meaningless turns quickly lost its appeal when zooming in on the oversized pores of an overzealous brother-in law; sprinting down a sterile hallway--his poisonous roids, roiding; large forehead veins protruding outwards as crazed eyes whizzed about. The story hindered by over-kill, wrapped in hollow lies and action-packed charm.

Artemis built an entire timeline; on the back of the name Adelson--the tiled masks of an entire nest had finally rewarded one sibling from the claws of unreasoning. The outcast family member; a baby bird in a den of wolves--dashing away to turn himself to a gray rock--having noticed a game of obsession that had once been directed at his wife....flashed in the direction of a burdensome soon-to-be ex-husband; the weight of veiled jokes and vague threats blaring winds downward over the flames of conspiracy--Artemis only given the single chance to pin a crow-like woman down...done only with the request of preserving voice and impossible communications to prove the depths of entitlement of such leisurely silliness--Artemis standing by a courtroom; listening to the testimony of anyone willing to explain their blind introduction to an inmate--ripe for shakedowns, evidently. The churning of curiosity and commitment fixed as an itch only scratched by precise aiming; open to the public to view--the trials of family of witches: their modernized faces altered with a dance routine; complete with easily unfixed morals--prominent facial expressions. The methodical appreciation for public officials; holding breath and pulling a death-scented boat ashore. The unpredictable fascination with crimes of passion--true and gore-filled; paired as digestible with a red wine, smeared with soft dairy and the story of a horrific mother--minus her famous bewitching bonnet this time around. Artemis carved a war-path to consume as a late-night snack; the desire feed on resolution curbing a parched throat. She loved that place for such reasons--the changing of tides had brought a little less sparkle out of the citizens; many felt hindered by the lack of food options and weekend activities that had been removed in a time of plagued selfishness. There was a little less to love about the city without the added touch of socializing charm.

There was a harshness itself that came from heavily-populated living; and those lessons had taught her to take things more seriously, and then the citizens themselves turned around and made fun of her for taking herself “too seriously”. The rainy city forced her to seek career at the Blue Shield of Hope--childishly believing a sun-filled day would turn life around. The adventure kept her returning to a sickened river--polluted and offering scourge-filled rain: now making the people of her city sick with sorrow and despair. Luckily, the dense population was not at the same magnitude of potential issues as the huge city up North--where Hawks guarded the Sea, but they were catching up to their statistics pretty fast in terms of foster care to homeless pipeline. Artemis had to leave her city in order to make them proud, trying her best to blaze a trail worth naming--a listless boss named Ph.D. Warmbrodt left to manage scientific gusto and athletic charm.

Artemis had taken off her veil of sadness and tucked it away for a proper unveiling of such a dark artifact--the weight of the world felt less burdensome under the veil. Using psychology to update her emotional systems, and debug her hippocampus of the guilt felt in being diagnosed as a sociopath. There was no refusal to uploaded gratitude in smiles and hugs and to distribute them as she saw fit--her sincerity in duty was neither real nor fake. She lived in the now, but daydreamed of the pain she had felt in the past and masked it visuals of an image of her dancing amongst the clouds. The impairing smoke offered Artemis a slight escape from anxiety; complete with glass-eyed stares to announce the hexing of a bored charm.

Artemis had missed the deadline to sell books, but gained admittance into a masters program in managing sports--there had to be a new ways to row a weary boat, and she had taken responsibility to buckle-down and try and find new ways to contribute caring into the sciences. Artemis was to return to midwest in spirit--until she needed to be on location to her PhD program. A short-sided goal helped Artemis keep her head high, bills in order, and men removed from holding up space and time while she figured out life’s mechanics.

Artemis wondered if the maniacal laughter falling from the bellows of her stomach had been crafted; to distract how naked she felt without the title PhD as her name--the unravelling of time was supposed to have some fucked up side-effects. Artemis reverted back to the habit of glaring at strangers; it was as though people had forgotten to pronounce the first letter in her name, or something equally pivotal to what humans call individualism. Soured expressions kept Artemis agitated; it bothered her to have the pronunciation of her name butchered over and over again, left to hold the blame for being born and gifted a name that required newly discovered oral mechanics.

Artemis without an A--sounded like an intoxicated person calling another person a mess. She’d shrug to herself as such hooded thoughts were too silly for most people to get--there was a stage of caring for the details that was never devolped; due to a self-medication method that seemed to be working better than legal tranquilizers. It didn’t matter...that people didn’t get her dry crumpet filled humour, because the cold-mannered parts of her ego were geared and oiled by a past riddled with deflection mechanics.

Artemis had to use her silly boredom to apologize specifically, to her literally squad MVP Leo. Her need to applaud helpfulness was a small thank you to the random...that bought the first copy of her book. His simple ok and flirty click; had forced her groan at the idea of actually having to finish edits and illustrations. The unknown neighbor--had forced Artemis to return to her undisclosed project...to drag nice heels along a brick road and continue on her habit of finishing projects within the deadlines of now until whenever she fucking felt like it; complete with a bubble character cranking up the hatred of the world to eleven...forgetting that violence wasn’t beat by the tactless spells of encouraging charm.

Artemis wasn’t no Indian Giver, and the completion of her Odyssey could serve as a tool to help others. Her every breath was in direct defiance of the cultural utilitarianism that she had accepted as the norm. The first of her successes had been in admitting she may be angry as a human, but it was expected from the gleaming past of being called trash and orphan from time to time. Glistening gold-hued skin made her “less than” or genetically "inferior" to the genome of a Mechanical Boar and the lot of epigenetic fanatics. Artemis had cracked her neck from side to side in a cacophony of frantic emotions: mumbling to herself “Rock Chalk...babyyyy” and hearing the humming of wooden courts calling her name once more. Taking up her weapons of silver and gold and finally earning her place in a haunted tower...accompanied with man-made rolling mounds and hand-carved lakes. Artemis was determined to retrieve her kingdom from the rule of the drunk son-of-a-bitch named Peachy. Her orchestra swelled past her pages--prepared to destroy anything slow with banality, and finally daring each step to disagree with the purpose she purposed. Her ability to say “fuck it” and achieve academic success was her personal prized trait and favorite charm.

Artemis held her breath until then. Watching as the Mechanical Boar began squealing and yammering nonsense, and his relationship with the young dictator deteriorated overnight. Artemis painted them as two old and unsexy men grunting, and tugging at the nubbed tips of their penises while making intense eye-contact with the other...unable to agree on the rules of measurement....she supposed. The dotard Mechanical Boar had accused the young Tyrant of being a “Little Rocket Man” and in retaliation--their nation pointed their weapons at his head. The best way to move up in the ranks of likeability; was to aim at being the least worst for today, and taking stock and value in the self-destruction of others when they lacked the whole self-awareness mechanism.

Artemis would just shake her head...knowing that smaller rockets are often capable of higher speeds and equally as dangerous to robust and unmaintained weapons. The young and old dictator: both wielded insults from each of their representative lands, and Artemis was the only one understanding that neither men should own access to red buttons or state-taxes...she grew outraged that such prized purses were gifted to the weakest of men. Their glutinous and sexually-charged anger was going to bring death and despair across the entire planet, and yet...neither tyrant understood basic science or cared about anything other than discord and sex. The mere mention of either would move each man into a state of erotic tizzy--backing rears up slowly and yearning for magic words to ignite a penetrating charm.

Artemis had used the young dictator to lure the Mechanical Boar out from his concrete forest, and the baited idiot took a bite out of her premonition of a freak fest: placing a cursed wreath upon his thinning tuft of hair with a stingy giggle--there was a ruthlessness needed to trick elderly people into behaving. The rare presence of two princely losers on one timeline; cupped by the hand of the other--had kept Artemis traveling through countless dimensions. She had needed to squash their twisted marital quarrel before it was too late for mankind--nobody had woke up when she went around shaking the citizens one-by-one. Artemis had realized age meant nothing: in the context of understandings general human rights violations--it shouldn’t matter if she said these things in the form of a seven year-old, or that of thirty-six-year old. Tisk…Tisk… she’d click with her tongue in agreement to sadistic sighs--swaying gently to the beeping tones produced from her Golden Fleece: knowing there were no beast to be slain in this chapter. Her golden apple was never to be used as a weapon; its primary function was to simulate the known universe and projected their realty to be powered by the words that fell endlessly within the mechanism.

Artemis had heard a small faint voice in her void of static. The female tone was soothing-concerned in a sort of way that came across as disbelief as she described how citizens were going insane with starvation, casually resulting to cannibalism...slaughtering the hallucinations of stray animals that they held as true, and realizing that they couldn’t find the children that they had accidentally eaten the night before. Artemis had seen more than enough of the world to know that theatrics on a cave wall were often the most valuable of set props. The citizens of her land were prone to the same sentences of starvation--as long as the Mechanical Boar was denied the rights to boast of his longing for a favorite daughter. He had began kicking, rearing anyone on his direct path that dared ask why Donald had ordered Jeffrey to offer up a thirteen year old to his bedroom for the night--unable to grapple with the image of a man selecting his virgin rose; and announcing preferences that his victims resemble a thirteen year old daughter. Artemis, herself had been sentences to similar cruel and unusual punishments--she knew a person walking on thin ice a mile away...she knew better than to poke a pervert on a mission, and the only way to report criminal activity without impunity...was to witness the criminality in question first-hand. It was simpler to remind the public of the severe consequences that befell the things withheld from her as a child...the physical suffered from malnutrition that manifested into unstablized moods and educational development issues. Much like the sloth-like-dictator that lashed his citizens with insanity and starvation: Artemis was raised by a gluttonous villain that hid her abuse by way of heavy-handed propaganda and patriotic charm.

Neither dictator knew of her existence yet, and Artemis used the camouflage of peasanthood to stand nakedly in plain sight; carving away on a getaway canoe into the rising hours of the sun. The young tyrant began to threaten more than the Mechanical Boar and his goons, but they were busy goonin; grunting in the corners of rooms painted with cheap gold-trim. The nepo dictator had made public statement of a Christmas gift set-up that would straight light this place up. There wasn’t a need to conjure cute examples for the threat of mass destruction; it very much reduced the impact of the political charm.

Artemis didn’t take kindly to death threats, as the man-baby had now felt confident in his Nationalism to hold hostage innocent babies and citizens alike. It was one thing to invade with boots on the ground, but to haphazardly decimate an entire Nation to prove a point to a crowd of uneducated citizens...was literally the dumbest thing she had ever heard, considering the impending war was started by two men she assumed suffered from erectile penis dysfunction. The entirety of the situation was like a satire play....ran amok by a script rewrite takeover. A god damn mutiny. Which God? It didn’t matter. A sinking boat was deemed meaningless when surrounded by only crew members--Artemis had heeded the warnings of those not in attendance; complete with name of a stranger named Dan; and the recipients of a claims of insurance--docked to the name Lloyd’s of London. Hesitation caused by the ill-advised reaction of looking down--had cause Artemis to lose footings at times; tired of hearing the proclamations of memory lapses of a widow...barely crawling aboard the deck--when standing up an mistaking a man named Jeffrey with a man named Dan for only a moment; Artemis enduring the tales of screeching family--butting heads and forgetting about a sibling; lacking the disturbing affects caused by persuasive charm.

The riches of enlightenment had been capped; knees given her hints...the weight of it all, had brought on a dawn of bitterer adult-children...protecting the soft skulls of babies; undeserving relatives--swaddled in the care of a slew of aunties and uncles...forfeiting time for personal arguments to be settled in any time or place. Procedure and practice were no longer respect-holders when their employee athletic cabinets required locks and keys; blinding assumptions no longer hindered agitated citizens from wanting to watch a rendering of live news...to claw one’s own eyeballs out in distress. Artemis would enjoy the lie of claiming to have forgotten--a reasoning to release horn’d Mechanical Boars into the furthest reaches of a black hole; to set free a mirroring coward upon a timeline bustling to partake in a parade of death...to celebrate the finalization of mortality in words--free of artificial suggestions and intelligent charm.

Artemis wondered what the world would do--if she used an individualized red tube to spoof the two men; canonized to be the bearer of masks in the most frightening of settings. The irony of the sexism was too much silliness for her alone to handle--heavy is the head of a crowned man, unworthy of title. Artemis could dress in whatever and know life was bare and primal; more often than not, romantic interests picked up her moods...her notion of freedoms challenged kept the nightmare of red hallway door tucked deep away in the back of her mind. The world had been so daunting from it opening credits; complete with a deeply red town--complete with a forgotten and starving Artemis weeping in a corner of a closet...the perfect candidate for a simulation challenging the dangers of gluttonous charm.

Artemis had been shameless; sensing the fallible weapons given willingly in handfuls of moments. She took no reserve in standing upon a soap box...to hold the threshold of anticipation and release an exasperated load upon a crowd by opening a stand up routine with: "Grab em’ by the pussy...", and holding jest to her female touches in making certain things "less", albeit less funny...less digestible, or even just less cute...when coming out of a blonde stranger with hooded eyelids. Artemis was equally bored of the channel...unable to change the tone or offer character development worth studying. Quoting the Mechanical Boar as a female--would definitely produce a more formidable understanding, as to how little this Nation thought of its women--considering women like Bonnie Blue and Pearly could hold arguments and things, oral agreements in place of blood-baths. There were limits to the patience of the audiences. The pants were placed on the roles of two public figures; and both had ran with their loosely knitted plots to defame women, and hold the male gaze at any costs--blue eyes fixated on prey crossing a trench of the unknown. Artemis had crossed their paths in the shadows; trampling from dimension to dimension---searching for a blue thread--resulting in the friendliest of fire. The Commander and Chief had extended a blow to the ear of a Mechanical Boar; offering jokes and causing the wild hog to run for office...dragging along his loser judgemental friend Brett on a campaign advocating for sexual assault and the control of women’s rights. Artemis had wanted to paint a portrait of cucked delight; watching as hard working citizens traded in their dignity for a red toque--untamed in their discretion; grinning while they listened to a man brag about dating a ten year old in another ten years while he simultaneously grabbed the citizens wives by the pussy with a firm handshake…the men laughed in good spirits, and thanked him for assaulting their wives and mothers with his undeniable charm.

Artemis construed her face and waved thinning arms frantically--yelling at nobody…. “And you think it. You know...I’m like a really good businessman.” holding back fits of laughter tempting to break her character. Na...this land deserved the Mechanical Boar, as he served as a beautiful monument “maybe the most beautiful” display of privilege--his gold image captured the antithesis of their patriotic values; its weight to be placed on the scales of time--to bare data of sinful obedience, to be counterbalanced by those that enable, encourage, and coverup crimes for the sake of ego. The tiny pinpoint of time spun on the anger of Jake, a son of the house of Haro--beating infants with his bare hand, and weeping upon his kness before a man named Vincent; flicking away a water-logged fist with rings--his brightly colored threads offset by mismatched jewlery; the loot aquired from his rank and title in preserving the law with a defensive charm.

Artemis awake in the middle of field; its pixilated rendering trembling down the walls and turning into a swamp. She was stuck in the movement of pivoting in the sparse dittany of the desert; clamoring to find whatever was left of baby Emmanuel--knowing his mother had been seen asking about a saw on a day of errands, one of which had been disposing the reminants of a baby wardrobe and toys. Time and wording had been of the essence on Artemis trail of orphan tears--there was no spare assumption that life would get easier; considering people like the Adelson family existed as in-laws. A douse of spirit washed over her pages; she took relief in seeing things through--if it meant holding witness to a testimony filled with lies and mistruths. It brought a modicum of relief to know that the world had reached its limits for bullshit--to stand on a slippery truth, and sort through the stalls of reasoning for any answer worth its value in gold; settling for the growing concern of the citizens vocalizing their fear in a gang of people...hiding behind titles like lust-filled lovers or the spinning gear of a family mechanism.

Artemis spun, glaring over the shoulder of a wide-eyed woman; beeping and bopping along...sending out a BOLO to family friends--slamming the hard shell of a silver book close, and tidying up a tight-fitting skirt and snarling smile. The image of her claimed abuser stood before her; offering friendship and understanding in a moment of grief. The infantilization of childish personalities had morphed into a tragic tale of assassination--extending past characters, clawing its way past pages and spreading out over a decades worth of time stolen. The bid to set a Jeffrey up for murder had crumbled beneath Wendi’s taloned feet--he had be rewarded for caring about an ex-husband to the extent of honoring his death as untimely, calculated, and the sentence penalizing a failed marriage--dragged to the courts of public opinion until a week of reckoning would commense. The harsh edges of dangerous personalities shifted and slithered from the lies crevices; the lies of a snake-filled burrow had been proven ineffective--their trail oiled and leaving a pattern of distrust along a blue thread and offering temporary dye called Jakie blue. A single twang of a single note; grinding the last gear of patience and brought out the worst-of-the-worst--Artemis had been tasked to lasso and guide such beasts back to their cages: if only to prove that some people defied all understanding or agreement to human decency and the unspoken confounds of the social mechanism.

The battle grounds granted to be decided by the Mechanical Boar; to provide fair egalitarian offerings of playing fields...unfamiliar to a West Coast Tribal leader. Artemis had known the the Mechanical Boar had loved the phallic shaped state--his humor was not favorable to the jokes about the flaccid piece of land being cheapened by the rowdy neighbor causing light pollution nextdoor. The vacant land was abandoned with soft-persuasions of Elon; tinkering away at elections in the background of his many projects. Artemis didn’t see much of a threat from a balding man; riding high on some sort of mind-altering substance...fingering a line-up of fruit-filled pastries with slumping and sucking noises to complete the scene of boyish loser hiding behind the logic of his wants and desires; his mother licking the tips of fruit and custard-laced fingers...lost in the trances of a sons charm.

A drought that hindered the trade of oranges, and fresh-pressed juices had been a trade agreement bound by law between the Indigenous Warriors and their sovereign leaders. She didn’t take or speak of the word famine lightly, and figured it was a good time to point out the crop decimation following the warming of their planet and the changes made by forgetful world leader. She stood near crops; perishing out of spite....their shelf value increased by the scarcity in transit. The Mechanical Boar had set out on a campaign to rid the land of its laborers and unions--this was winning. Science bitch. A theory of a sore-winner being the most dangerous species came with the steepest of costs for production and delivery...in the centered fold of such a chapter stood Artemis; a historic figure by earned right...holding the line by herself in the face of tyranny...knowing a white-washed name kept her secrets of melanin safe enough most days; the eagerness to take part on her successes protecting scientific works with an invisibility charm.

She hadn’t needed to call attention to herself; since there stood an awkwardly erect elderly man attached to a leash in hand--mumbling about his incestuous intent, urine-drenched and dawning the name-tag: Chief in Command. She needn’t firey bullets or silver birds to deliver warnings or defend family honor--the firm disrespect given to gentle words had been the greatest weapon in life, and Artemis had taken initiative to gather intellect in understanding people...to stand aside while others broke protocol and allowed entry into places considered secure; the aggressive post left to hold answers to a chain of command--to take accountability or explain the severity of Artemis’s larger-than-life charm.

They were in the same boat as Artemis...stating someone should have halted entry; stood up and mentioned a door was left insecure at the hands of a man-made error. Why hadn’t anyone stopped a wrong track in its tracks? Why was it easier to blame women for the mistakes of man? To what degree did man feel free to extend reasoning past protocol--in a bid for popularity, prosperity, or access to a Federal banking system...all tied to a super-secret account of growing numbers; gaining interest the moment Jeffrey was given sentence and left to face the reflections of a self-harming charm.

The citizens had giggled and smirked, as Keith called children and infants rape-worthy and painted the wealthy as untouchable; too advanced for the common man to understand such vulgar humor. It was well within the norms of attendance for the powerful and rich--to rip out pages of suggestive books; offering exposure and fortune to the raped youth for offerings to do as they pleased with prepubescent bodies. The pale elders had said they believed in harnessing the energy of youth--through the act of sex, and giddily stretched the word consent until a Mechanical Boar arrived to lower the bar of childhood before their very eyes. Artemis’s key point to their dedications in depravity had worked like a disseminating and disgusting charm.

Her land had been so untouched by hatred until a century ago. The settlers had brought the word pedophilia with them on their ships in order to “gain the power of immortality”--with the same intrigue that a isolated Nation of the North had suppressed the concept of homelessness. The granted fact that everyone was given buildings to selfishly reside in as a prop, but never gifted a home to build a corner stone for generations of prosperity. The unfamiliar nature of caring and sharing had oppressed two or three whole generations of workers, tradesmen; those holding their heads high above the thrashing waters of political tides. Artemis had often resorted to keeping a head down; finding occupation in work nobody else wanted and trying to dig out from beneath a mountain of scholastic debt--wandering between two world as a desperate coping mechanism.

Artemis remembered hearing such warnings--to be brought to one’s knees with the terror-stricken ways of an enemy with no known morals to compass them through warfare. The calmness of dreams filled with dancing stars and frigid posts securing a long-house neighborhood--the curse-filled words crept up on the Yurok people. The noticing of a strange calmness in the silent moments between treaty discussions brought on a cautionary tale, of trusting the enemy too much when small talk was promised in place of urgent negotiations....Artemis wondered what had happened for Yurok men to step down from cultural practices of monarchy and female-guided war councils. A single person had brought the downfall of a those resting in time and immemorial--handing off a torch along a dark path, and directing the enemy to strike by dawn; setting ablaze homes filled with family and friends and giving birth to the concept of traitor in a world filled with guile longing, where prospretity was granted to the most twisted individual; usually hiding behind kind titles and statuses meant to veil or supress selfish charm.

The Mechanical Boar had found himself in the center of a massive scandal over his love of all things young and beautiful--once more standing nakedly in a corner with his saggy butt holding snug the wide shape of two walls as the man stroked an aging mushroom-tipped dick with violent delight. The Mechanical Boar was now-and-forever entangled with the words pedo and sex-trafficking, held beneath a blue thread painted by the blood trickling past an injured ear. His odd lack- of-memory and growing cache of “unbecoming friendships” served as proof--that he were either deteriorating mentally at a concernedly rapid pace, or using his lies to deflect from a dubious past by hiding behind the Questionable Queen and a distant affiliation to a bratty Prince named Andrew, as a sweaty last-defense mechanism.

Artemis wrote, pulling levers and pushing the buttons as she went along and wove a necromancy: urgently stitching together thoughts and recollections, for what seemed like an eternity. The more she admired the intricately laced work...she was left to wonder why such humbling energy was considered evil: where as the Boar, and the “Little Rocket Man” were congratulated and bestowed honorary titles for being lazy humans in a time where evidence was key and record keeping was a hobby of the citizens--Artemis had ripped a page from the playbook of Stokes, archiving items for submission as historical artifacts...having seen ominous writing on the walls and fearing the deletion of public information in a future held without consent to the will of two men--measuring their dicks and mumbling in separate tongues; both wrung dry by their own accord, bleeding from chaffed tissues...pleading for a moment free of stroking; impartial to the strengths of a disillusioned charm.

The only differences in their circumstances; was that the two men had nub penises that proved that they were men, in the genetic way...where Artemis was just a man of the people; granted access to view the world and all its ugly flaws without the interference of bribe or corruption. Artemis had no penis to offer the council of men that refused to look in her direction: she was just a lady...blushing at simple things like a kind Soldier, reserving the time of day for her flirts to manifest. There was no contention against those of uniform or separate melanin color placements; it took a special kind of fucked up...for mathematical men like Captain Sorenson to hold fists up two twin babies--six-weeks fresh into the world, to instill a bit of freedom upon newborn ribs, while their mother did not-enough to stop a military leader from tormenting the helpless; captivated and consumed by her husbands authoritative charm.

Artemis had slammed the door on such a nightmare; labelled the strange witch of a man as a lost cause and wishing him nothing more than a public death by way of execution. There was no need to wish violence or revenge on weak-minded men, but there would always be a need for a boxed-in planet to set example of mortals decent into immorality and chaos. She didn’t waste hissing words on aging men--a justice system...loosely rigged against untrustworthy holders of the law had built a nest of lies and fabrications for Artemis to stock-pile and riffle through in boredom. Moments of flustered insomnia gave rise to swells of editing and distractions...Artemis left to tell the unsolved mystery of Meredith for an audience barely-willing to look at her or subscribe to passion-filled outbursts. Life had been stagnant in its successes following her dismissal from an office barely fixed-into a dwindling budget; days of working beneath a Blue Shield of Hope gave an uptick in ambitions...when amplified by the longing stare of a young Soldier hiding behind an outdated mustache: eager to test her wifely charm.

Artemis walked a line between crass sets and scenery; occasionally dawning button ups and spectacles--often holding her breath when attractive men stepped forward with their intentions to admire her failing body; or paint over the concept of her sickness with gaudy gold paint...if only to hoist her upon a pedestal to claim as a muse--time would often turn and pivot in the opposite direction; proving that random men had no issue pulling themselves into her orbit...if only to be given the chance at an invitation to a premarital bed: Artemis forgetting that sex had been so often used as a weapon to emotionally manipulate people in the past--her choice in abstinence being done more so to frame the lack of good selection in suitor...the game triggered by forgetful men clamoring to recall Artemis’s face; broken by a spell of laughter....confusion in admiration by others causing a unique charm.

Artemis would refrain from judging the past--the mistakes she made, and avoided from calling "Suckers and losers", due to her actions in facilitating romantic failures. The Mechanical Boar would always excitedly clog his arteries with false foods--Artemis would always flood pathways of pleasure with the ambitions to find a fair partner, husband, and future father to her children. The other tyrant was no different from the Mechanical Boar: he was unfamilar with the hardships of romantic courting--destined to fail the most basic of battles. Marriage wasn’t for the faint of heart, and there came a seperate set of issues when a personal discard and neglect tactic held rope over the neck of a man--too folly-filled to believe a women held the right to exit stage left; too deaf to hear the finalizing words of a marital charm.

Much like Elliot; the two men held deep contention for women--borrowing from generations of suffrage and longing to return to time when beating women and children was the norm. The vast age gap between the two dictators built its own bridge; proving an epidemic of male loneliness had been implemented at the hands of unruly leaders. Both fat baby-faced leaders words would fall aplenty, a silique of data bursting from its adjoining pods. Both drew out words of declaration with empty tones; as both lacked the Warrior physique that suggested each, would, or even could--charge into battle alongside a deployed military. It was only a matter of time before one loser mirrored the other; each land held hostage to a policing state--immobilized from secret entities within--kept form achieving any form of enlightenment in the medical, judicial, or artistic fields...stranded to the belief that the world would shake off their inhibitions in fearing diversity...but assuming there was cure for stupidity on a timeline threaded by disenchanting charm.

Artemis only saw a sad, gluttonous boy sitting alone on his floor: the scary dictator was less threatening when she observed him sniffling snot and trying his best to halt a moment of mourning a father. It had been the age old story of toxic masculinity--a simple story, drafted as too complex for words: handed down for Artemis to place upon a palm and refute. She had began taking the world upon daily travels; scribbling down the sights of a small and elaborate city in book painted with RedNotes. There was an art to showing the sides of a large village; struggling to hold the attention of tourists when the streets were being raided of its workers and its data pillaged and siphoned off to a dictator--his bulging eyes hidden behind mono-lids and a wall of dark static; a threat to information granted to the viewership of other dictators had been a localized issue--granted by the leader of the land: hoisting hind feet to cover up a hole holding evidence with urgency. Artemis had only turned the guiding direction of the Mechanical Boar to the right--knowing he’d kick up dirt on a political party ripe with corruption....hoping to settle the score of generations of bad-luck and breaking a culturally oppressing charm.

The sympathy allotted a grieving dictator came with a short fuse: the expenses of caring had caused great harm upon the world. The grief of a dictator was short-lived in the grand-scheme of a mortal timeline; his petulence filled moments of boredom...Artemis; chained to a stone--her liver plucked by shadowy armies of Daofei nightly...preserving an unending disdain for authority by a woman born into a scarring legal system...unaware of the healing nature of her self-admittance and commitment to sobering up to reality. The world hadn’t expected Artemis to only need thirty-thousand, five-hundred and something years to gain hold over the controls of her life...let alone to pacify entry into a game without written rules; and hold valor over a time-memoralizing mechanism.

The lack-of-interest in world affairs was always perceived to be immaturity; a gift to the young...until they were old enough to be sexualized by the creepy old men in charge. The bar holding the thresholds of laws and child-marriage were held between two dictators; busy holding a bar between two snouts...and circling the other in heat. The physically demeaning tactic was now proved to be unhelpful to both leaders--winded by lust, and endless desire. Artemis appreciated moments in time where the two were constantly pressed--pressured to “take things seriously” with barking orders; even when they had both been children with fucking dorky haircuts. Artemis hadn’t inherited her kingdom in the same way the “Little Rocket Man” or perverted Commander in Chief had; no one granted her easy access to any room or military title, or left an measly inheritance for her to squander away on a whim. Instead: Artemis dawned a concerned glare, walked upon tipped toes, whilst adorning a beaded leather crown that had been cursed in projecting an endless burdensome lack-of-faith by the Indigenous Warriors; hindered by her spells of laughter and realization that a child had grown up to lead its People with female charm.

Next Chapter: [ XXIX ] Artemis and the general Custard