I was had the idea to make this topic about a month or so ago, inspired in part by Ubi’s off-the-rails narrative about Violent J and his secret weapon, as well as other speculative fiction from around the forum that I’ve come to call ‘Juggalo Fanfiction’. I wanted to try my hand at some myself, though it took me until now to get the free time necessary to pull the trigger on it.

In this thread, feel free to post whatever Juggalo-themed storytime flavor your heart desires, no matter how asinine. Wanna write out your epic Twiztid x Transformers crossover that you’re sure will get adapted into a major motion picture someday? Do it. Wanna transcribe the steamiest scenes from your XXX-themed Sugar Slam+Upchuck roleplay? Fuckin’ do it! Wanna show off your Master’s thesis on Street Clowns and The Women Who Love Them? Do eeeeiiit!!!

Here’s my contribution. It’s a little piece I’m just now titling “Some Bullshit I Wrote on The Internet”:

Somewhere in the woods of Michigan, just beyond the eldritch and out of time pastural stretch of The Fabled Orchards of Monsueir Frederick, Violent J broods in the place known as the Haunted Cabin Recording Studio. It is dark, save for the myriad tiny red and white lights that adorn the massive soundboard like the controls of a spaceship from some serialized 1960’s science fiction show. The checkerboard glow cast upon the unpainted yet tattooed visage of the man who sat before them a quiet and unobserved psychedelic menace, a biker Boris Karloff stuck in a fever dream. 

In the moments leading to the onset of his trance he had sat reclined in a high-backed, leather upholstered swivel chair smoking a blunt. Sweet smelling earthen fog clouded both the environment and his incensed disposition which had previously found uproarious purchase in his psyche by way of ruminations on the past. The betrayers. The Judases in his midst. The mutinous and decietful divorcees he would come to know as the Majik Ninjas. He had built alongside them for many years, all opportunities and gifts given voided in appreciation by way of the slingblade of strictly business, its cutting edge reaping the winds of change and rendering him as he was now: A lone artist sitting quietly in an anotherwise empty room, with no homies to smoke with.

In the space of a breath all that tore and troubled J was washed to obfuscation like a windshield in a sudden downpour. The elastic synaptic lucidity of his mind was, in that instant, made to be a blank canvas to which outside forces would project their strange stimuli for an unknowable agenda. The equipment surrounding the man sprang to life, seemingly of its own agency. Switchboard lights burned brighter now, showing colors which their hardware should not permit while foreign patterns emerged that danced wildly across the monitors. The enormous speakers that flanked the rest of the equipment began to quiver and tremble a seismic vibrational rattle, a microcosm of a million disturbed water puddles hyper condensed and set to motion at the issuing forth of sound. The truth of what aurally assailed him defies description, but had in its base make up a cacaphony of car crashes and calliope playing forward and reverse as a backbeat to commands and suggestions made in a language that was not so much a spoken tongue as it was a haunted reverb of assertive frequencies that was somehow dreadfully comprehensible.

Ink-dressed fingers bit viscious and unaware into the chair’s armrests, creating impressions in the polymer that could be seen hereafter. His eyes rolled upward, burying the irises as though they had become lost in the sizeable forehead above them, leaving only whites and pink, straining veins visible like a pair of diseased chicken eggs. At his feet smoldered the forsaken blunt roach, a black coil of singed carpet fiber joining the whispy fumes of marijuana and tobacco leaf. J did not notice the smell, too much the prisoner of the malignant thing that had overtaken him.

Scenes of texture and dimension joined in his mind the infernal sermon in a complete sensory takeover, more of a transmission to a place of otherness than the queer intangiblity of a dream. Visions of spectacular violence and strange parables played out around him, grisly in the seeming authenticity of their sights, sounds and smells. It was as though he were a man caught in a storm made out of shifting consciousness, joined only by the narration of that commanding not-voice which dictated to J the tales he would be expected to tell. The backdrop to these scenes seemed to resemble places in Detroit at a superficial first glance, but closer scrutiny revealed its aspect to be inverted and wrong. No structures of red brick and mortar could be seen- all was onyx and pewter. Dark hovels carved out into baffling and impractical satire of architectural form. Smooth facades that were displeasing to look at and instinctively alarming like the flamboyantly colorful warnings that decorated the thorax of a poisonous insect. What might have been billboard scaffolding in a sane world existed in this place as a skeletal and off-puttingly organic structure, calcified and marrow-woven, supporting no signage but hosting at its summit a vacuous spiral of inconcievable depth which he knew better than to look directly upon. Above this place was a vast and cloudless infinity, an upturned ocean of prismatic auroral twilight that waved and folded majestically, though no source for its unearthly luminescence could be observed. It was a sky of manifold alien color that cradled at every point and dimension of its cosmic permeation innumerable stars that were not stars at all, but the gigantic staring eyes of the thing that watched him from beyond reality’s veil which burned phosphorescent with dangerous intellect. 

The panorama surrounding J would change often, marked by a sudden darkness wherein the only discernable thing were the repetition of a single letter three times over. The letter F, written in bold block font that dominated his eyesight and preceeded the next vision like the changing of a film reel. 

‘FFF’

A man is being murdered brutally. This man is a sinner. This is not a murder. It is an execution.

‘FFF’

A child is being abused. His face is contorted into a mask of pain and incomprehension, a tear-stained testimony of suffering punctuated by a high and helpless wail that comes together as a holocaust portrait tatooed upon the very heart of the observer. Justice must come to his abuser.

‘FFF’ The letters begin to bleed now.

People are walking in a procession. J does not know them, but he is made to understand that these are not good people. Drug addicted mothers. Thieves. Merciless thugs. Decievers. Corrupt police officers and unscrupulous businessmen. Together they march into the high iron gates of a graveyard, smiling all the while. Their bodies turn at first grey, then a diseased shade of green or bruised and fatal purple. Some swell like morbid parade balloons, bloating about the face and arms until shining bubbles form on their tallow skin before bursting into lesions of dark fluid and noxious gas. Others shink to skeletal figures which play host to swarms of larva and insects, eyes and offal and skin sloughing off of their diminishing frames, consigned to the dirt as they march. All rot before reaching their sepulchers.

‘FFF’

‘FFF’

‘FFF’

The exhange between the chaotic visions and the exsanguinating letters quickened into a strobing pandemonium until the former yielded its animation to become a series of suspended scenes cloaked in the vesitages of arcane symbolism. The voice that had been J’s guide spoke for the first time words that were immediately familiar to his ears. Two words. Two syllables. A simple rhyme that was a portent of terror when brought forth by the inhuman shattered-glass articulation of his abhorrent and unseen agitator. 

“RED FRED.” 

“RED FRED!”

“RED FRED!!!!”

It was as much a name as it was an incantation. 

The final vision was thrust upon him with the suddenness of a lightning strike. Violent J now stood in a barren landscape, a desert in both air and aspect, though the sensation of the oppressive heat was all but lost to him. For he was wholly consumed by horror and reverence that was acute in its dreadful submission to the terrible sight of this last revelation. From on far it dominated his vision, the looming shape of the ghastly titan usurping the horizon to the new sky which roiled and undulated clouds of rolling inferno that burned lividly on all sides of it. Its scale was impossibly massive, drawfing the grandiose visual reaches of any known observable moutain range by unquantifiable leagues. So grand it was in its cosmically mountainous scope that J was made to feel infinitesimal. A flea at the foot of a monolith. The moon beholding Jupiter.

It was, as all the others that heralded the epochs which came before it, a face. A face whose eyes were two malignant and hate-filled suns, fixed upon him with a scornfulness beyond the sum of all notions of suffering and pain known to man in the spectrum of experience or imagination. The rays of these abysmal suns carried with them promises of genocide without end. Of infinite tortures to come by way of flame and steel, disfigurement and rot. A crucible of agony unknowable to living flesh, where skin and bones which never cease to feel are transfigured into the infrastructure of a necropolis. Where all concepts of sentience were a shrieking bundle of exposed nerves. It was damnation itself, transferring with its infernally black and maddening gaze the very energy which served as the heart for the latest message that Joe Bruce had been called to deliver to the wider world. He heard the voice speak one final time, bellowing in this sprawling and peculiar land of awe and primal fear the name of the beast before him with the omnipresent doomsaying thunder of a thousand volcanos erupting at once.

In the next instant all was as it had been. Nothing seen save for the soft glow of the switchboard before him. Nothing heard except for the barely perceptible electronic buzz of these same machines. J looked about, finding the roach that had burned itself a shallow nest in the carpet. Fuck it, he would just have to roll another one.

The following toke session served as much to calm his nerves as it did to process the weighty implications of this latest communication from the strange place beyond. In a short time he would reveal the name and face of the latest Joker’s Card, passing along its message as he had so many times in the past. He would, of course, strip it down and stylize it with cartoon embellishments until it was an easily digestible symbol. He had, quite on accident, grown erudite in the power of symbols and their capacity to transmit energy and ideas after all. Besides, even the most realistic of renderings do no justice to the awesome and sublimely frightening truth of the thing he had come to call The Dark Carnival, for such things were beyond the scope of man’s understanding, and to render it in its absolute black majesty would be to court razorwire insanity and complete oblivion of the soul. His interpretations of these dread and mystic secretive things were one way of sparing his mind, a filter between his conscious self and that strange place of terror and otherness. He would continue to seek refuge in the gentle melodies of pop songs, occasionally trying his hand at it himself as further insolation from the dark tendrils that had wrapped themselves around his mind like shackles of chain and padlock. Bright melodies. Happy harmonies. Sweet songs to keep the madness and despair of his illumined burdens at bay.

A final thought occurred to him, as sudden and somber as the roach flame that he snuffed into black ash on the bottom of the crowded glass tray before him. It hadn’t been mere monetary disagreements that lead to the exodus of his former label mates and comrades. While true that rats will flee a sinking ship, it is also true that animals will flee the forest on the cusp of some devastating natural disaster. It had been this sort of fear that brought about the desertion- they had sensed that the strange forces that had driven him to success at the cost of his peace of mind might one day infect them, and draw them to a place of hideousness from where the could be no return. A place of genuinely wicked shit.

I mean, what else could it be, gnomesayin’?