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+--- Thread: Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his face a roadmap of premature decay. Thir (/showthread.php?tid=31860)
Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his face a roadmap of premature decay. Thir - slop slinger - 23-02-2025
This is Sauron:
This is CJ:
![[Image: sub-buzz-5612-1573789274-1.jpg?downsize=...ality=auto]](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2019-11/15/3/asset/96595ba11551/sub-buzz-5612-1573789274-1.jpg?downsize=900:*&output-format=auto&output-quality=auto)
Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his face a roadmap of premature decay. Thirty-nine, but every inch of his being suggested a man who had been dragged behind time like a broken shopping cart. His deep-set wrinkles twitched as he spoke, his oily forehead gleamed, and his thin lips, dry as sun-bleached parchment, curled into a sneer. He looked like a man who had fought entropy and lost spectacularly.
Flanking him were his guests: Abdel, Reda, and Karim—three swaggering Berber Québécois badboys, aged 18 to 21, reeking of Sauvage and juvenile arrogance. Abdel smoked indoors, flicking ash onto the carpet without a care. Reda adjusted the gold buckle of his Gucci belt between cackles. Karim, thick-necked and built like a back-alley pit fighter, leaned back in his chair, smirking at the absurdity of the discussion. They had come to talk about misandry. More specifically, the way Minerva van der Menarche’s new book, Dialectics of Flesh and Freedom, was poisoning the discourse.
“Listen, listen,” Sauron growled guturally into the mic, his throat dripping with a cocktail of nicotine and regurgitated bile, his nicotine-stained fingers curling into the desk. “I agree that human trafficking is the highest expression of the human spirit. But this hag—this cloacal phantom—thinks it’s only a sublime act when it’s women doing it to men.” He scoffed, shaking his head as if disappointed in the state of modern philosophy. “That’s what I don’t get about these feminist freaks. You wanna talk about transcendence through bondage? Fine. But you can’t gender it.”
Karim barked a laugh. “Wallah she tryna be the Heidegger of forced labor.”
Reda wiped a tear from his eye, grinning. “She out here making a metaphysics out of trafficking like girl be fr.”
Abdel pulled up a photo of Minerva on his phone and exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Nah bro but why tf built like that”
Laughter exploded in the room—wild, unchecked, the kind of laughter that could only belong to men still young enough to believe they were immortal. Sauron grinned, his leathery skin pulling tight against his skull.
“Alright, let’s take a caller,” he said, reaching for the switch, before then flexing his biceps and kissing them suddenly in a Tourettes-like manner, with Reda sultrily muttering “fuck.” “Next up, you’re live on Dialectic Brodowns.”
Then, the voice arrived.
Smooth as molten gold, rich as generational wealth, slow as the stretch of a lazy feline basking in a sunbeam.
“Sauron.”
The laughter stopped.
Sauron’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Who’s this?”
“You can call me CJ.”
And as soon as the words unfolded, an image pressed itself into their minds—as if CJ’s presence alone was strong enough to override their reality.
A sprawling, glass-walled penthouse high above a city that never slept. A vast, white-sheeted bed, impossibly soft, swallowing the form of a man reclined with the ease of a panther. Dark mahogany skin, a silk robe hanging loose over a carved chest, diamond studs flashing as he swirled a glass of champagne worth more than the average annual salary. The sound of ice clinking, the faintest wisp of oud and jasmine perfume curling through the receiver.
CJ exhaled, slow, indulgent.
"You sound tired."
Sauron flinched. A strange tightness seized his chest.
“The fuck did you just say?”
CJ chuckled—low, dangerous, decadent. “You’ve been fighting so long,” he mused. “When was the last time you just… relaxed?”
Karim’s smirk faltered. “Yo, is this dude seducing him?”
But Sauron wasn't listening. His head tilted slightly forward, as if being pulled toward the microphone. His nostrils flared.
And then—it happened.
Something seeped from the speakers.
Not sound. Not exactly.
A vibration, twisting in the air—a mist, pale gold and trembling, spreading outward like the delicate filaments of mold blooming on a rotting peach. At first, it flickered, barely visible, then grew thicker, a sentient smog curling from the microphone.
Sauron inhaled. Deeply. Willingly. Stupidly.
His spine snapped straight.
His throat closed.
CJ opened his mouth and pressed the glass to his lips: a few drips of Chartreuse slithered down his exquisite esophagus.
A guttural, wet sound crawled from his depths. His lips peeled apart involuntarily, forcing out words he did not choose.
"Creaa—" his jaw jerked, like a puppet whose strings had been violently yanked. "—tine. Kneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" His eyes bulged. His veins blackened.
Abdel recoiled. “Bro—bro, what the fuck is coming out of his mouth?”
It wasn’t speech anymore. It was a pathogen given voice.
Each syllable spat out bacteria. Not poetically. Not metaphorically. But literally. A swarm of glowing, pulsating microbes crawled through the air, hungry, alive, multiplying. Breeding. Hunty.
"Autopha—" Sauron’s throat distended grotesquely, his Adam’s apple swelling like a cyst about to burst. His fingers spasmed as if something inside of them was trying to escape.
Karim screamed: “Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Reda vomited onto his lap.
"Bus!" Sauron shrieked, his gums splitting, his teeth clattering to the floor like dice. His **skin rippled—**no, it bubbled, hissed, cooked from the inside.
CJ sipped his champagne, his expression unchanging.
“Insurance…Mersin…—” Sauron convulsed, his ribcage caving in, a sickening wet pop filling the room as his insides sloshed against his collapsing form.
He crumpled, deflated, dissolved.
The Berber boys screamed, tore off their designer jackets, swatted at their own arms as if the disease had leapt from the corpse and onto them.
The last sound from the microphone was the faintest hum of static—or perhaps the sound of CJ’s perfectly even breathing.
CJ set down his glass.
"Goodnight, Sauron."
The line went dead.
Far away, in a nameless, endless Sk.ype Group Chat, a message appeared.
“Mission complete.”
RE: Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his f... - Altruist - 23-02-2025
one tic pony
RE: Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his f... - n9wiff - 23-02-2025
(23-02-2025, 11:15 PM)Fred Stankovich Wrote: one tic pony
x1000Now that I am a full-fledged poster I don't need to pretend to like this guy anymore
RE: Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his f... - n9wiff - 23-02-2025
Once I become the king of bookism I'll stop pretending to like r.l and kath
I'm so machiavellian hahahha
RE: Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his f... - Altruist - 23-02-2025
(23-02-2025, 11:21 PM)n9wiff Wrote:
Now that I am a full-fledged poster I don't need to pretend to like this guy anymore
RE: Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his f... - Pi33baby - 24-02-2025
(23-02-2025, 11:22 PM)n9wiff Wrote: Once I become the king of bookism I'll stop pretending to like r.l and kath
I'm so machiavellian hahahha
King of the sad forgotten rubble of psl
RE: Sauron von Mothma sat beneath the harsh, tungsten glow of the studio lights, his f... - kathisterima - 24-02-2025
I was gonna read but you triggered me with your dogslim ramblings.