Contrary to popular belief, lovin' Sweeties aren't just for pedophiles! In fact, many potent Wall Street bankers and gender scientists now use them in electronic mail communications!

Sweeties and Cutie Pies can be used to comment on racial politics, war, entertainment, maths or pretty much anything else! There's nothing these lovin' sweeties can't do!

Sweeties can be easily altered to support any political ideology by affixing various hats and uniforms! Most of them are nazis, though, because Nazi shit gets the biggest rise out of people -- especially suburban whites with "jobs!"

Stop holding on to your slave identity! Give up your social security number! Disavow the name your parents gave you!

You ain't shit if you ain't kawaii! You were born to cuddle, born to kill, and are  fashioned rudely for the repetition of dead lexicons!


When I arrived at the sleepy town of Sodom, among the Catskill mountains, I found it be equal in charm to Saugertise or Woodstock; a lonesome widening of a region highway boasting a service station, a post office and a small complex of chain eateries. Its humble signage announced a population of 312, and even this modest sum, I suspect, was somewhat inflated. The distinction of Sodom came to me as I approached the Burger King to buy an angry sandwich with a bright red bun. The restaurant boasted a pianist, and he was playing an old, sad song:

I wish I could turn back time
cause now the guilt is all mine
can't live without the trust from those you love
I know you can't forget the past
you can't forget love and pride
because of that, it's killing me inside

Inside, the Burger King was shadowy. An older structure, lined with wood. The sun fell through the thick glass of its windows like broken columns; dusty shafts of gold amid the gloom. There was straw on the floor, and a small crowd. Nearly every table was occupied by a man of frightening and distinctly American aspect: unkempt hair, protruding bellies, adult acne. All were concentrating on their heavily tattooed computers, their faces floating in the murk like will o' wisps of ghostly blue. They sang softly, as the piano rose to make the chorus:

it all returns to nothing
it all comes
tumbling down
tumbling down
tumbling down!

it returns to nothing
I just keep
letting me down
 letting me down
 letting me down!

Network access arrived in Sodom fifty years before the town was named. Like the more famous town of Butthole, Arizona, its residents make their living brokering in intangibles: drawn pornography, philosophical essays, fortune telling. Resources are shipped to Sodom by autotruck from the nearby town of Hydesville, but all that leaves is data: valuable data. From the material perspective, therefor, the operation of the town is invisible, its culture seemingly inexplicable. The lives of its residents, lived only tangentially in the town itself, intersect with the fortunes of Ireland, Saudi Arabia, Japan. Its shared culture, slight and vestigial, has been built out of the orthodoxy of image boards. It seemed to me a friendly if somewhat otherworldly place, as I dallied with anime posting during my adolescent travels through the South and Southwest. To me, the tune of the Burger King was a sweet, if poisonously erotic, memory. End of Evangelion figured me out, at twelve. I *had* been masturbating to Asuka, just like Shinji did. “I'm so fucked up.”

I ordered my crimson meal and sat to eat it, watching the others. Gradually, I realized I was being watched in turn. The fat mens' eyes were darting, catching furtive glances at me. I was the only diner in the restaurant without a computer, which made me feel suddenly exposed. At last, the pianist (an old, fat man with missing teeth) coughed tremendously, ending a song, and stared me full in the face with something that resembled hatred.  "Don't let the sun go down on you in Sodom, normalfag," he said. "This is a weeb town." Then he coughed again and returned to his row of polished bones. He croaked an old folk tune:

do not believe the roastie's lies
when she comes around to prosthelytize
she'll screech and holler all day long
deny she's taken miles of schlong

The scene was so serious and strange that it moved me immediately to laughter, and I was tempted to fulfill the implied commandment of the town's name. I resisted, however, but made a private commitment before I'd finished my fries that I should *indeed* witness the sundown in Sodom, if only to see the degree to which such sedentary persons as its citizens were capable of revenge. I threw away my wrappers and walked outside, where I sat at a concrete table shaded by an imitation tree. There I waited, listening to the barrel house piano, for sundown.


I had only one further interaction with the citizens of Sodom in daylight. A skeletal man in his mid-fifties punched me in the left shoulder, stammered "f-faggot," and ran away. The fat men leaving and arriving at the restaurant complex were quiet, and seemed as intent on avoiding eye contact with me as they were with each other.

I sat still and watched the line of sweeping pines, rising to the azure peak of a mountain not far distant. Birds charted their lazy courses through the empty summer air, helicopters buzzed, and settlements disgorged their comforting plumes of purest white. Whatever one may have heard of New York's recent weather troubles, it is worth noting that its preserved tracks of wilderness retain every inch of their old-world grandeur.

It was pure delight to watch the sun sink tremendously behind this scene; to chart the evolution of the trees from green to scarlet to black against a curtain of burned brass. I felt then, in the wellspring of my soul, a calm that I had rarely felt before and have missed acutely since. Twilight spread to the horizon like a bruise, studded with the diamond pricking of clear stars. The stars were earthward, too: the air of Sodom was thick with fireflies.

It took me a moment to realize that the residents were out; a body of a hundred or so rotund and rustic men and women of highly individuated and variable loveliness. They were walking down the road slowly, their heads inclined down, until, all at once, they came to a stop, forming a great line between where I sat, outside the Burger King, and the nearest darksome treeline. I watched them breathing, separately, in the cool night air. Then I watched the illumination from the trees.

Spots of light were floating among the trunks. They darted like ghosts, like sprites, like playful fairies and, one by one, the residents of Sodom raised their eyes to espy them. They opened their arms, all at once, unfolding like a row of flowers. And to them ran a horde of cherubim: glowing lolis, each no more than four feet tall. I heard their high-pitched voices, on the cool winds of night:

I missed you Onii-Chan!
You have done well today, Onii-Chan!
Feed Me!
I h-have been a good girl, master
I want head pats -- and ice cream!

I stood upright, agog with wonder. I'd heard, of course, about "crossings from the 2D world." One particularly trying period of my dissertation had been rendered survivable by late night radio broadcasts, where awed anons would describe their glorious transpositions into anime reality, usually as the result of a botched suicide attempt. But I had always believed myself to be too plain for miracles, too common for such feats of belief. In Sodom, I found myself confronted with a miracle as plain as the nose on my face, or the president's agenda. Weeping weeaboos, embracing luminous under-12 cartoon girls, in a haunted hollow of New England.

Then, I heard her voice:

"Konban-wa," she said.

I turned and found, standing beside my ankles, a loli of my own. She had green hair and large red eyes and was dressed in a kimono of simple colors: pink folded into yellow folded into pale blue. "I-I'm Aiko-Chan," she said.

I told her my name at once. "There," I said. "Now we know one another. That means we're friends."

"You w-want to be my friend?" said Aiko-Chan, rubbing her stubby foot in the sand adorably. "I-I'd like that."

"What manner of thing are you?" I asked.

The loli stared at me blankly.

"I know my questions may sound odd but please answer to the best of your abilities."

"O-ok," said the girl. "I guess -- I guess I'm the result of a culture and an industry ruthlessly devoted to using the techniques of cartooning to emotionally manipulative effect; a carefully crafted glyph which triggers mental receptors of attachment and sympathy usually inspired by biological children."

"Fascinating," I said, crouching down to look my loli in the eyes. "So you are conscious of yourself as an object of art, produced by an artistic tradition."

"Not just an artistic tradition," said Aiko-Chan, "but also an evolutionary process, effected by cross-pressures of economics and the needs of culture at large. I succeed if I can elicit quicker and more complicated attachment than my competition; I am iterated by generations of artists to the point that my manipulative effect is multiplied beyond human capacity. I am the sensation a mother or father has for their child, magnified and commodified into easily digestible chunks of image and video. I am every daughter you will ever have and the daughter that cannot exist.”

It was true. I loved her deeply. Through moistening eyes, I surveyed the crowd. Some were talking, others embracing. A blue-haired loli produced a gigantic mallet from nowhere and swatted her blobulous suitor halfway to Albany. His shadow receded overhead until it became a star. Beneath it, a small crowd of bullies were bullying their lolis relentlessly; negging them about fashion choices and choice of school clubs while they wept adorably. Some of the town's residents were doing something less than savory.

"Disgusting," I said.

Aiko-Chan turned beet-red and looked away in embarrassment. "S-some people want to do lewd things with us," she admitted. "I'm glad you're not like that -" the girl touched my shoulder - "Onii-chan."

I grew stern. "No," I said.

She removed her hand immediately and apologized. "G-gomenasai," she said. 

I regarded her cooly. She did inspire a flash of love, but there was something more in it. Her green hair shimmered with a promise of control; a fantasy world where the very form of things was expertly devised to produce a concert of emotions. The world of Aiko-Chan was an intentional world; a postulated earth whose God revered concision and clarity. But there was something wrong with it, too. It implicity and explicitly catered to the desire to bone kids. My brow furrowed in concern. Aiko-Chan seemed to sense what I was thinking for she said, quietly:

"Even dangerous monsters should get to crank off," she said. "Cranking off is an inhuman rite."

I smiled at the little girl genuinely. "You're right," I said.

The moon was rising behind the trees. Aiko-Chan became visibly agitated, her small head steaming. "W-when the moon reaches its halfway point in the sky I have to go, onii-chan. I'm late already!"

There was an exodus of lolis. Aiko-Chan ran into the forest, and I watched her emerald bob recede. "It was fun talking Onii-chan!" she called, on a breeze made freezing. "I love you!"

The light had left us. I sat on the grass, one with my brothers and sisters, utterly and completely alone. Wordlessly, we went our separate ways. Only the pianist, who it turned out was a gross pedophile who (90% chance) was also a victim of child abuse, dared to catch my eye. He was a cummy-smellin' dude, but his face was a sadness face, and seeing it reminded me of the injunction he delivered that afternoon. It had been, I realized, for my own protection. The heart of a normalfag can never hold the desires of a weeaboo.

For the people of Sodom, separate and together, love was a matter of conjecture and, thus, unlimited. In a way they loved God and God only; if God truly be the name of industrial capitalism's unintended consequences. I returned to my world a measure wearier, and with a sadness I have so-far been unable to shake. My days, I know, are numbered. Someday all the woods in all the world will be alive with lolicon, and all my coarse and mediocre words shall molder on forgotten .txts, surviving only by virtue of their filesize.

Sometimes, when my daughter displeases me or my wife has grown cold, I find myself scanning nighted windows for a glimpse of Aiko-Chan; for some hint of that untroubled and untroubling attachment that, to me, was the secret tenor of the town of Sodom. But unless you crank off while making them and then identify yourself as a chaos magician on /x,  wishes are impotent. I never saw Aiko-Chan again. It is said that one meets a waifu at the moment of death. I hope that this is not so.

If all goes as planned I will return to Sodom tomorrow. Beside me, on the bus seat, shall ride the necessary plastic hood and bottled helium to construct a painless and humane exit bag. If I do not return to this posting by midnight, you may safely assume that I have accomplished my objective.

Wish me luck, anons


"You want HOW much?" Shen demanded. The shop was clearly gouging him. "This meat is two-weeks old!" he protested. "You've got some nerve charging me a price like that."

The man behind the counter, bald with steady eyes, answered flatly. "I sell what I have. You think someone else would give you a better price, spend the rations elsewhere."

"I will," said Shen, indignantly. He turned to leave, but changed his mind. Meat was getting scarce. "You're a gangster," he told the butcher.

The butcher said the cost of the meat, again, with a smile like grinding granite.


"I'm home!" Shen announced, stepping into the apartment. He was trying to slip off his left shoe when Hajime tackled him to the ground. She was an active kid, the star of track meets and her middle school's swimming club and she bounced like a small brown bear. "Ohiiii~~~o!" she bleated. "Welcome home onii-chan!"

Hajime was his adopted cousin. She'd been taken in off the street by his uncle Kobe in the South, who had sent her to live with Shen's family because shelling was becoming more frequent near their tip of the Pennisula. The Emperor had ordered all children North, and only the northern schools were running. The result, as far as Shen could tell, was that he was forced to cohabitate with an extremely lively and affectionate loli who called him "big brother" even though they were NOT related.

I cannot stress strongly enough that they were NOT related. She was definitely twelve years old, though. Not gonna jerk you around on that one.

"Woah, big brother!" she said. "It feels like you brought a surprise for me!" Of course, he was hard as hell.

"Hey!" Shen protested. "Get away from that! That's not for little kids!"

Hajime blushed and giggled as Shen threw her off.

"I know you snuck off to the butcher's shop today!" she chirped. "If you let me have some of the meat you bought maybe I won't tell mom and dad you want to do weird things with your sister!"

"I-idiot!" stammered Shen. "You're not my sister anyway, you irresponsible goblin!"

"Myeh," said Hajime, her face condensing into an abstract arrangement of pleasant shapes: rounded and smug. "Maybe you mean I'm your girlfriend, then, Shen-kun!"

"Shut up!" barked Shen. She had him dead to rights. Mom and dad were on signal duty (as they were more and more in those days) and despite his protests he'd bought the meat to share. "Go heat up a pan and we'll get this over with."

The electricity had been out at night for months, which meant no air conditioner. The two unrelated siblings dressed down to their essentials: underwear, baggy t-shirts. One of Hajime's shoulders emerged coquettishly from the large top draped across her. They lit gas lanterns in the small kitchen of their apartment, and watched the dark countryside beyond the glass doors at the rear of the place. The gray meat sizzled as it cooked on the gas stove and Hajime watched it with wide, admiring eyes. She said nothing, but Shen knew it had been weeks since she'd had beef -- or anything else for that matter. Ration cards were good for millet, and not much else, although his parents signal duty ensured that his family enjoyed regular portions of rice. He boiled some beside the ragged scraps of meat. The meal was ready in twenty minutes.

"Let's eat!" said the unrelated siblings, in unison. Shen watched his little sister, nibbling at the tough and unappealing steak. Her small teeth, like the teeth of a cat, were tearing, tearing, tearing. Shen was a young man himself, almost eighteen. Soon he would be old enough to report to the Duty Station at the edge of town. Two months and two weeks, he thought. Around there. He was afraid of specificity.

Hajime couldn't help her mannerisms. She'd been raised on junk cartoons, and she was afraid, like all girls her age, that she'd never get any older. She was hurrying to grow up and, through the vicissitudes of publishing, cheap light novels taught her how to do it. She'd be eighteen too, before long, and he knew the kind of posts women enjoyed in the Emperor's Service. Sometimes he imagined himself, older and a soldier, discovering the creature that was once his sister in a Comfort Tent constructed on the front lines. He imagined Hajime, blossomed and encased in leather, panting behind the customary mask of that vocation -- her body clad in the honorable "White Gown," the bukkake shower of fighting men. He was not sure what he would do, this soldier. Shen did not know what the war was, yet. To him it was only distant thunder, and the occasional explosion of a rail line. Maybe the solider would rape the girl. Maybe he'd refuse. Maybe he'd die before he left the line. Or maybe Hajime would pull secretarial duty, or win exemption on a swimming scholarship. He hoped for the latter. He prayed for the latter.

When the meal was done, Hajime cleaned the plates away. "Thanks big brother," she said, smiling past her expectations of control, revealing her fear, her endless fear, and the desperation that was her sincere and honest love for Shen, who Hajime considered truly the brother of her heart.

Shen's eyes got ballooned into slot machines and he burped a rainbow from his lips. "Kawaiii~~~~!" he squealed.

Hajime hit him with a frying pan.
On the internet, writing can be provided with additional connotation through paired images. Sweeties and Cutie Pies are ideal for this purpose!

The anime industry has produced literally millions of attractive, candy-coated drawings of little girls emoting. If you need to attach an emotion to a piece of writing, there's no better or more stylistically varied resource! 

Smug anime girls are special! With one of these potent QTs attached, a post becomes instantly and irresistibly insulting! What a snuggly way to humiliate your foes!

A series of Sweeties, depicting various emotions, can be used to provide a stable but still anonymous identity for a series of posts!

In this reality, we exist primarily as electrical impulses suspended in the nascent wiring of a global hivemind! We must learn to exist as pure energy, or perish like dogs!

 Cuties of the world, unite!