RedBlackInfinite [excerpt] – Alexander Kattke

Alongside over a billion discarded lives with each using the other to climb out







As I crawl through the tunnel I see others behind me. I kick out the support beams and let the tunnel collapse so I cannot be followed

“In my mind’s eye my thoughts start fires in your cities.” Charles Manson.

The ground has a very certain texture. I see it being trampled by bare feet in packs of three’s and four’s in unison. I see them now; they’re singing like army cadets during a training exercise. Life-forms so similar to humans but at the same time warped and inhuman looking. I inadvertently smile at what’s next in the show. There is a haze lightly obscuring their activities. Their singing is kept in check and never falters in volume or tone. Translucent beings encircle another that is not among their caste. I lean forward closer, expectantly. 

They are an insect people. Like ants covered in sex organs. I record their language as I notice that the being that is not among them becomes slowly clearer: A tadpole-like creature that is cowering at their haunches. The insect people ready their weapons; improvised spears forged from meteorites, and in unison raise their weapons to the sky as though asking of its power to be infused in them. The singing ends. Their spears swiftly plunge into the lower caste. The skewered being has a look of exquisite pain but I cannot hear them. White trickles of blood flows from their wounds anticlimactically. The ants retract their spears to catch their breath and in doing so they seemingly spit at the spear tips in a way to cleanse them. They wait while their victim lies in pieces but continues twitching and soon moves more fluently and independently like a child learning to walk. 

I make note of what looks like a bizarre pregnancy. I am unsure if this ritual is a kind of fertility rite or abortion.

The newborns writhe and dig themselves into that mossy earth. 

“We see God through our assholes in the flashbulb of orgasm.” William S. Burroughs.

A conversation burned into me:

“What is beyond Love and Hate?’


“And what is beyond that?”


“Perverse writers whose corruption is so dangerous, so active, that their single aim is, by causing their appalling doctrines to be printed, to immortalize the sum of their crimes after their own lives are at an end; they themselves can do no more, but their accursed writings will instigate the commission of crimes, and they carry this sweet idea with them to their graves: it comforts them for the obligation, enjoined by death, to relinquish the doing of evil.” Marquis De Sade, Justine: or the Misfortunes of Virtue.


I realize something now; after having been beaten endlessly by the world and its many wonders. I shed the belief I used to behold and pretend that I was wise, kind, and mature. That path failed. That way of thinking was born of repression, repressing my true ugly self. And I have instead embraced a faith in the impossibility in change when it’s been proven over and over that the universe is cruel and indifferent to things such as faith. It’s like being lost or confused and finding the thing that you were looking for in the very first place you overlooked: that early nihilism in youth. I now know that there is no hope. 

Every human, every living thing down to their sub-atomic level should be destroyed. I’ve even lost hope that in death there is rebirth because there is a chance of the same mistakes being made over and over ad-infinity. What this means for friends I don’t know but I would assure them that nothing is personal. I have recalled a vast and pure HATRED including a hatred of all life and even nature itself. I imagine Lovecraft alive today and envisioning a new elder god beyond nature. But then I realized that he’d focus on races instead.” I look over this text written at my darkest moment, where I held the razor to my veins for many hours, and I no longer wish for the end but I am comfortable with its eventuality. 


I walked home from the local bar, thoroughly exhausted and feeling especially nihilistic. I wanted to get into a fight as a way to exorcise this anger. Down an alley I hear a struggle and try to avoid it out of sudden cowardice, fearing I could be the next victim. But it got to a point where I couldn’t ignore the screaming and reasoned that if I were to die then all the better. I ventured down that alley and saw an obese drag queen lying on the ground face down in blood. I do not move them and scan the area for their attacker but can see or hear no one. The drag queen turns over revealing deep wounds and ritualistic tattoos on their limbs. They gasp for breath in their dying moments. I reach for my phone but the victim lying before me reaches up pausing me for a moment and say’s “Thank you.” I ask them “Thank you for what?” And they said “Thank you for freeing me.” 

I still don’t know what that means. 

“To me death is not a fearful thing. It’s living that’s cursed.” The Reverend Jim Jones. 

Streams of blood. There is a rising heat fogging up my lens. Heat from so much fresh blood. Nude children dancing among it while looking up, unaware that they are looking up at me. I have to look away and clean the lens every other minute or so and then adjust the cameras to get a wider but less defined view. The children retreat into a cave. Before I could question that I see the reason for their retreat: an approaching army on horseback. In their thousands and armed with skeletal muskets bedecked with –what looks like- an improvised armor built in a scrap yard. The horseback riders lead a gallant charge into a thick cloud tinged red by blood tide. They disappear into the ether. The blood rises ever so slightly and I need to clean the lens again. One can assume a mass suicide but for what? I look to the cave once more after another cleaning. The children emerge again, they gallantly dance in the blood, cupping handfuls and washing themselves then passionately drinking it. Alas, a rider failed in their suicide promise. He has fallen near the edge, just outside of the miasma. The children approach him and fiercely remove his armor. The disgraced rider mimics something to one of them; he appears to have sired the one who is now standing atop of him and holds his life in their hands. Whatever communication intended seems to have failed and the children tear him apart. Biting into his thighs, breaking backwards fingers and toes, gouging the eyes and violating them with what appear to be barbed green tongues. It is a prolonged murder, culminating in the smaller children excavating the intestines and playing inside the now hollowed entrance. Painting themselves in blood after it is finished. 

The sired child, now bathed head to toe in the blood of their parent, grabs another child by the hair and drags them into the cave alone. I look away and study other places. My cameras later showed newer and stronger beings emerge from the cave still painted a dark red. 

If we can’t live in peace, then let’s die in peace.” The Reverend Jim Jones. 


There is a city now, skyscrapers impossibly tall stretching into the hundreds of miles into the orbit, making it the easiest place for me to discover. But the buildings are unlike what you would expect. They are hollow, split open almost, like a body dissected for an audience. I see people that look like us. There is a plain sereneness to it. It’s all benign and gray. All the people look the same. They are nude and without race. I question the nudity and make note of it but soon had to make amends when I saw my answer to a question that was stirring “What of their morality?” Giant planes appear and hover in place above the city. The planes are several hundred times the size of the biggest Condor plane that I’ve yet known. I add a note that the Condor is the only plane in the world large enough to transport a mobile launcher (ICBM) that could launch a missile armed with nuclear material. The bellies of the planes open and giant boxy machines carefully descend on the city. They were not designed for sleek elegance but for utility with their beige colors and square bodies with vacuum hose-like appendages. It resembles an old B movie with crude giant robots. The people in the skyscrapers welcome them. They willingly let themselves be abducted by the vacuum hoses. As this goes on, a song is blared from the planes:

You could feed the world with my garbage dump
You could feed the world with my garbage dump
You could feed the world with my garbage dump
That sums it up in one big lump

Charles Manson’s Garbage Dump plays. The wailing echoes everywhere as he continues singing. The robots appear to have been filled to capacity with people. It is then that I notice the see-through design of their torso. It appears to be a kind of compactor. I hear no screams as over one hundred thousand people are crushed to death in an instant.

Garbage dump oh garbage dump
Why are you called a garbage dump
Garbage dump oh garbage dump
That sums it up, in one big lump

The sphere beckons me. There is an innate curiosity to keep looking in. To be an explorer. To be a voyeur. To be a hidden god.

Delete this. 

“A book is a postponed suicide.” E.M. Cioran.

Can they hear me? Noise experiments have inconclusive results. They seem indifferent to my speeches. Some continue whatever it is they were doing while my voice provided a mild at best interruption. 

I installed more cameras to capture the experience and every time I would speak the results would be the same no matter what I said or how I said it. A polite “hello” has the same result as a scream in my most angered states: a rise in the suicides. 

“Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk but no flowers grow on it.” Vincent Van Gogh.

I look into the well searching for answers. Images flow. I can’t tell what they’re trying to tell me. The father figure/the psychologist/the guru/the fraud asks what I see: I see three black boys side by side being hanged from a tree by Carl Panzram who appears as a cheerful executioner that whistles along with bird henchmen in a bizarre Disney adaptation. The boys die after several minutes. A row of white children jog over and grab the bodies and play with them like they were tires on a swing. The figure asks me why and I remain silent as an answer.

Pelican. Bird. Part of what? Like a parrot? What movie has a pelican in it? 

Day two of the implant. I’ve already uploaded almost 500 gigs of space to a back up drive at home. It’s filled with old movies, factoids, and history books. There’s so much that it bleeds together and I sometimes get confused. I see her. With her short and lean build. Tan skin but definitely a white girl. She has short black hair. She looks at me. I try not to even glimpse at her or think of her tits. Too late.

The implant is inserted through the eye socket like a lobotomy operation and computerizes the brain. It grants total control over our emotions, our nerve endings, our strength, bodily urges and even offers telepathy with fellow cyborgs. There are built-in limits for moral and practical reasons.

People often hack the implant. Malware is a problem –now used as defense in murder trials- . Others disable the pain. I saw a man die happily on his front lawn while never knowing he had cancer. Some crank up the effects and the endorphin waves can lead to unique feelings like drowning in an orgy. 

I am with the tan white woman. Her pussy bleeds and her shirt and bra have been cut in half. She cries but doesn’t feel any pain as I hold her. She asks me why and I tell her how I read her mind and saw her rape fantasies. 

“I hold the pink baby. I slice off those rosy cheeks because I am so thirsty.” Lautreamont, Maldoror.

The murder of Junko Furuta* is a story that draws inspiration from me. It is a tragic tale of immense suffering. The endlessness of her torture would inspire only sadness and pity among the normal people. But I, as an abnormal person saw something better. I see a reincarnation of Jesus Christ. I see relief in that torment and all manner of words from languages old and dead that describe PAIN. In my mind she died for me. When I sleep I see her final hours and when I first awaken I see that battered body floating upon heavenly laurels and lifted by Mohammedan beings. They whisper to her “One of Us! One of Us! Gooble gobble!” I see them and therefore I know that she is saintly. Her death will inspire others as it has for me. I am not partaking in schadenfreude. I am the maker of new and better things. From this prison cell, I shall better myself and better others in the process. 

VR has come a long way. Film is a dying art and has been usurped by VR experiences. Essentially they’re interactive games with a narrative. Why watch an action or horror film when the viewer can participate and choose a different ending every time? In turn, this has created amazing erotic fantasy and serial killer simulators. I have gone over the case extensively and have recreated the murder of Junko Furuta in its entirety in VR. The user reviews have been encouraging:

This shit is fucked up. 1 out of 4 stars by Jackson2020.

I have designed the experience so that once it starts it cannot be ended.

Great suffering. 4 out of 4 stars by Emily Davidson.

I want a child and I want them to experience my creation.

The experience has touched numerous lives in news reports live streamed by independent vloggers. One claims a Transgender showed a Let’s Play in class. Another of a man who accidentally streamed himself while masturbating to it. The latest is a pedophile who claims he was so moved that he recorded his suicide.  


Radicalized sects broadcast mass chainsaw beheadings via Google Glass. Above a glory hole in a men’s room is a quote from an unknown author:

“The future is in your hands.”

Jeffery Dahmer was born in the wrong era; had he been born a decade or two later, he would have access to sex androids and facsimiles of a 24/7 relationship through cam whores and fellow lonely people.

  • A Japanese school girl who was abducted by several boys who pretended to be members of the Yakuza. The girl was trapped in a small room and raped and tortured endlessly for over 20 days until she was eventually beaten to death.

Notes from a scientist who committed suicide:

I am unable to move forwards with project REDACTED due to huge concerns of impropriety. This technology was initially designed to sustain ideas from great men but I see now – in my professional opinion- that it is being used as a kind of faux immortality for the wealthy and influencers. I did not commit my energy into preserving bad ideas. 

Fun fact: a simple change of font will get through a censorship filter.

Woke. A

In my younger days I was educated by inside people on need-to-know information. 

“Imagine a boot stomping on the human face forever.” George Orwell, 1984

The rich will commit suicide to preserve their thoughts in an all digital age. This will be the revelation before a million eyes (public shame). 

“The creator opened his door in the darkness and let a pederast in.” Lautreamont, Maldoror. 

In 1972 Michael Manley, the PM of Jamaica, entered friendly negotiations with Cuba. The United States conducted a low-key guerilla operation through the CIA (one of the many Secret Wars) to fund the anti-communists. These militiamen were outfitted with aluminum weapons so that the weapons would rust out in a few years and couldn’t be used at later time. Cuba dispatched it’s forces to Jamaica and the CIA ran guns and proceeded to bankrupt the country by stealing the receipts from registers at businesses before the purchases could be batched out (I.E. the purchase would go through the bank). These receipts were turned to Bearer Bonds and reinvested into Manhattan New York’s crumbling economy. 

“There is a secret that kills me. Which I hide from curious eyes. You will see here only the statue. The soul is hidden from every gaze.” Pierre François Lacenaire

Princess Diana was assassinated because she was pregnant with a Saudi heir. The British Monarchy owns massive amounts of land and hold political sway through their land ownership. Because Diana was pregnant with a Saudi child the Royal Family didn’t want Saudi influence over their land. 

Notes cont:

It reminds me of a story my father would tell me: he’d laugh a little as he told it. My father was a very to the point man but he always had a big kid kind of attitude at the same time. He was already Special Forces by that point and was a young recruit for the CIA, being shown the ropes and all that. 

He was a good soldier and often skirted death by the skin of his teeth. He was invited by superiors to watch as a teenage boy was brought in for questioning. The boy wouldn’t relent and the superiors shot him in the kneecap. My father watched and said nothing. Soon after, through much screaming and tears the boy gave them the information that they requested. He was solemn for a moment and would immediately return to his jovial nature recounting his adventures in being a spy. What happened to the boy thereafter is unknown.

I want good stories to tell.


United States got involved in Haiti during WW 2 era out of fear the island could fall into enemy territory. CIA created the Tonton Macoute and reintroduced Voodoo to control the population. United States orchestrated a coup to remove Baby Doc and attempts were made to establish a puppet regime. The Kennedy family got involved and haggled a deal with the Clintons (in exchange for not pursuing White Water) where Jean-Bertrand Aristide would be Haiti’s first democratically elected president. Kennedy’s had Aristide in their pocket to set up an electric plant on the island. Unbeknownst to some, Aristide was confirmed to be a pedophile/cannibal. Haiti never recovered.


CIA and FBI were at odds with each other. Struck a deal in the 1940’s so that the FBI would control the Western Hemisphere and CIA would control the rest. CIA wished to get involved in Cuba circa late 50’s. It was understood that J. Edgar Hoover was racist and despised the up and coming Civil Rights Movement. Irving Brown worked with the CIA and funded the Civil Rights Movement through the labor unions (intermediary was A. Philip Randolph) as a distraction so they could get involved in Cuba. J. Edgar Hoover knew Doctor Martin Luther King JR was bisexual and one of his lovers was Baird Rustin. J. Edgar Hoover ordered the assassination of Doctor Martin Luther King JR. 

The lab is especially quiet this morning. The quantum computer whirs unattended by the chatter of hypothesis. The sun has not yet fully cleansed the calming dark. And as a result my skull no longer pounds from headaches. I comb through the data, billions of lines of code that make up a rebuilt human brain to be placed in a robot body. The owner of that knowledge translated to code and back again is a billionaire –the only kind of person who can afford this procedure- and my job is to translate the deceased’s’ brain back to memories for reunification. Assembling memories is in itself a challenge as could be imagined, it’s like unlocking an intricate puzzle; seeing fragments of past and present without context. It does however get easier with new generations of people. Such as the children of the rich that have had their brains implanted not long after conception. If one dies we can bring them back, most of the time this is cheaper than paying off a ransom. 

This has been a particular case as the memories are all partial or just damaged. We see this when working on schizophrenics when we’ve used them as guinea pigs but it’s the first time I’ve seen this in a normal brain of this magnitude. This billionaire in particular died at the age of eighty eight. Heart attack. Noted patron saint. Celebrity. Currency manipulator. The memories of this individual have given me pause of my profession. Images of children, tears, and the most perverse erotic thoughts I’ve yet encountered. Erotic thoughts are normal and are appropriately categorized and sealed via NDA’s for other clients. But this is worse. I’ve heard rumors of colleagues with PTSD. I don’t know if that’s true but I know many that quickly change jobs and a few who committed suicide. 

More memories form: Vast plots of bank fraud, funding coup d’état’s, an extensive web of arrangements with other corporations with blackmail and more and more children. I debated with myself the nature of morality and came to a decision based more on leverage especially as more memories had now formed for me to experience. I wondered what kind of man would have no shame to have others see these things and know his life and I shuddered. I had realized indeed what kind of man that was. No witnesses. It wasn’t suicide that took my friends. The compiled memories in my possession along with the identity of the individual will be made publicly available. This note is my confession and also my protection.

“We live in an age in which there is no heroic death”. Yukio Mishima

Could you live forever if you had to live with the shame of others seeing the insides of your brain? 

I see an immense wheat field whose color is changed by an unnatural nightfall. From my post of observation it appears that the field is at first being warped by underground shifting like a silent earthquake. There is a strong wind coming. The air becomes richer with the smell of weeds. Now there are reverberations from within the ground and reaching towards the sky. I can see the shockwaves rising. I succumb to it and pretend it’s a cool bath. My eyes are closed but the light show can still be seen through the thin flesh strips. A bright wave slowly grows ever brighter. I smile as it approaches closer. I can hear trees in the distance loudly crack and fall. Sirens ring in the far distances. I open my hands and welcome it. The howl of dying creatures is muted by this great wave. I feel an intense heat encroaching and I know that the pain is but momentary and will be gone just as quickly as it will arrive. 

The great nuclear blast finally arrives. There is nothing left in its wake but scorched grass. There is a cooked smell mixed with a chemical odor that makes me immediately vomit. My everything is taken and I smile through the pain. 

My intestines fall away at once and in that juice I see… 


I see the authority figure but I dare not strike, not yet. I feel like I’m waiting for the right moment. Unfortunately my sanity halts my impulses or at least calms them for a later time. I should be more reckless. I should have been a serial killer. Just to become what they expect of me, especially with how they treat me. I’ll be their monster.

Burn this.

“I am man abandoned.” Georges Bataille. 

I step out of the cave and see a mummified body as though it was presented to me like a gift awaiting my return. I undo the bandages and remove the delicate skull. There is an air of dust rising with each dismemberment of this gift. I hold the skull and break it open, within are two smaller children’s skulls. I know this from the presence of baby teeth embedded in the upper jaws. The sagging breasts frozen in death’s grace are revealed to me. I touch them and I see myself falling into the void.

“You who look at me now. Go away. The breath I exude is poison.” Lautreamont, Maldoror.

A computerized brain offers infinite possibilities for sex. One can hack the implant to fool someone into thinking that they’re fucking lover. This leads to more false rape reports. 

We lose our life with joy.” Lautreamont. 

Snuff films get nominations at the Oscars.