Substance in a Can

This will be my last entry describing the extraordinary substance in a can and the unfortunate results of my experiments.   I’m Mark Rendell, science writer and part time cartoonist-cum-illustrator.   I write for some highly respected science journals.   Of course, now, no one will publish my articles. My recent submissions have been judged too controversial.   Ironically my new illustrations are well received – not by science journals, but by “lowbrow” art journals that specialize in horror, splatter, and surrealism: works of the imagination that, to me, are all too real.   It all began when I became suspicious about the substance in a can.   There was simply too much hyperbole surrounding the product.  It was advertised as a miracle that could stop the aging process and also act as a super detergent with powerful bonding properties.   I proceeded to buy the product for my experiments.   I was impressed with the first batch.  It worked — dissolving wrinkles and blemishes.  I had results within a week.  The product was also superb at renewing old clothes by extracting grime and refreshing colors to make them shine.   I could even use the substance in a can to mend broken pottery as well as metal and plastic articles.   I was ecstatic with the results, but nothing is perfect and over time adverse effects began to develop.  I started having visions.   At first, I saw no connection between the product and the creatures that took shape in my mind.   After all, my wrinkles were gone and my clothes were brighter and cleaner than ever.   Eventually I began to look more closely at the substance.  It was a strange color when it foamed out of the can – like no color I’d ever seen – an ultraviolet glow with splotches of silver funk.   The color affected me in a subversive manner.  I loved looking at the foam as it swirled in pools of luminescence.   The smell was exotic, a combination of elephant dung and jungle ambrosia.   The more I indulged in the substance, the more my brain produced spectacular visions that were both ephemeral and horrible.   I began to draw what appeared in my mind’s eye,  glorious and hellacious revelations.   I cut off all contact outside my lab in order to concentrate more thoroughly on the substance.  I became addicted.   I couldn’t stop myself – I had to taste the product in spite of the warnings on the can.   I ate it voraciously – I slathered the substance on my body – I made love to the product.   The only other activity I was driven to perform was drawing and painting my miasmic illustrations.   Magazines demanded more of my grotesque visions and paid well.   I used my own blood in my art to make it more authentic.   I cut my arms and let the blood drip on the canvas.   I also used urine and spit in my obscene color palette.  I realize my addiction caused my unusual behavior, but I felt ecstatic in my unyielding compulsion.  I gloried in the monsters my mind and hand created.  At the time I didn’t realize that the monsters were real.   Now I know – and this will be my last entry.  I know the substance in a can is an invasion.   Every time the nozzle on the can is pressed, new monsters emerge – creatures that seek the devastation of the human race.   Blood suckers and ghouls who poison the very air we breathe.   In every can there is an invasion, an assault, an Armageddon.



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