It was the Age of Fire and Steel, after the Pale Men had wiped out the Ancients. The poor men and women of Jackson struggled against life and death. Nature was a wild, untamed force, and those few huddled together had but one gift against the might of the river and the decay of the swamp: GALGERAN.

GALGERAN! Even today, his name has power. In these Enlightened Days, the young do not learn of GALGERAN in school, even those who can walk to his tomb on any sunny afternoon.

But is it a tomb? There is no date, no name save GALGERAN, no indication that he was ever alive, or dead, and truth be told, there are those who claim that GALGERAN did not die that day, that he lives still, waiting until he's needed to help the people of Jackson. To once again use his talents for God's glory and the good of man.

"It's just a legend." John P. Oldham was President of the Select Men, first amongst those who ruled over Jackson, Mississippi. The Council of Select Men sat under their seal, the seal of the eye and the compass, the instruments through which they had surveyed the land and found the bluffs that offered some mote of protection from the mighty Pearl. 

GALGERAN unfurled the scroll across their oil-lit study. The smell of whale-oil in the air was thick, the walls darkened by the constant illumination.

"We both know that there are still a few legends left, Oldham. After all, without the legends, we could not have created this machine, this City on a Bluff. But our machine needs power to work."

"Ox carts? What about windmills? Or wheels on the creeks? Is that not enough?" The Select Men shouted.

"Our cohort Watt, in England, has a new engine, that I believe should..." Oldham stammered to a halt as GALGERAN looked each of them in their eyes in turn, and saw that they did not believe themselves.

"Do you mean the new fuel? The black oil? The liquid coal?" James Boyd asked. Boyd was new to the Select Men, his ideas were dangerous to their ways, but GALGERAN defended him.

"No. The fuel underneath these bluffs cannot be reached with any variation on Newcomen's atmospheric engine. It cannot be reached with anything we possess. It is for future generations." Oldham said. It was known.

"Those who will live through a nightmare of oil and smoke." GALGERAN spoke quietly, returning the attention to himself.

"This is not the power of horses or steel. This is a different sort of power. I need two men, hale and hearty, to accompany me to the spots indicated on these scrolls. We will harness the power this infernal machine requires. Jackson will rise."

"Take Daniel and David with you. They are unique men, capable of what your... journey requires." Boyd said.

There was a solemn moment. Where GALGERAN would go, few could follow, and fewer still could return.

"If I do not return," GALGERAN began, and his words were like a shock to the Select Men. They had seen GALGERAN through the banishing of the Poking Men, through the Racoon Wars, through the Burning Days and the Swamp Ape Horde. Each and every time, he had triumphed over impossibility.

"If I do not return, then erect a marker in Greenville Cemetery, facing the rising sun. It will form the top of a great pyramid. Two more markers must be placed to the East, and inside that protective geometry, the machine will be powered, and my return may be foretold."

"You ask us to build a grave?" Oldham asked, astonished.

"No. Something else. Engrave my sigil, the O and the G." GALGERAN said. "And as always, I use my talents for God's glory..."

"...and the good of man." The Select Men responded, finishing their solemn intonation, the one passed down by the Perpetual Curate of Repton.

There was a great and powerful quiet as Daniel and David came from the wings to stand by GALGERAN.

[Three Years Later]

Since that day in the Select Men's Chambers, Boyd had known that the Age of Fire and Steel was coming to an end. The world was hurtling toward the Nightmare of Oil and Smoke that GALGERAN had foretold. So when the servant came running to him in the dead of night with two long-haired men in buckskins and oiled leathers waiting in the doorway, he knew their time would soon be over.

"David! Daniel! Where is GALGERAN?!" He shouted, leaping out of bed in his nightgown, fumbling for the lantern.

In the light, the two men were haggard, grey. They had been young, full of vigor, when they had left the chamber that day. Deep creases and frayed beards framed haunted eyes. They seemed as if they had come from far away - and as though they still were far away, distant.

"Fetch some whiskey for Misters Crockett and Boone!" Boyd shouted, leading the two men to his study. There, they sat drinking while Boyd began to ask them questions.

"GALGERAN?" Was his first, but all the two could do was shake their heads.


"No. Not dead. But gone. Lost." David said. Daniel pursed his lips, revealing missing teeth from a once-perfect smile.

"You were only gone three years, but yet..." Boyd hated to bring up their condition.

"We were gone for far longer than that!" Daniel shouted, a frightened look in his eyes. David shook his head slowly as the haggard man continued.

"But we were gone no time at all, it seemed. As though it were yesterday."

"If time is a river, then it must meander." Boyd said quietly. It was a saying of the Select Men.

The three were drinking heavily. Boyd brought out another bottle of whiskey.

"How far?" Boyd asked, sliding them a map of the United States.

Daniel pushed it away. "We made it to the river. To the swamp."

"The Amazon? The Mississippi?" Boyd asked, incredulous as the two exchanged crazed looks.

"The Pearl."

"It's not two miles away!" Boyd shouted. "What manner of joke is this?"

"We crossed over into the swamp to get on a steamboat, and then we were... lost. The woods were far deeper than we had ever known, the city of Jackson was gone, gone forever, and then it would be back... but strange, something we couldn't touch, intangible, and other days madmen would wander the woods as though they could hear us and see us, but when we tried to talk they ran screaming."

Boyd drank. The two were broken. Legends and histories would have to be concocted. They had come undone.

"Did you get it?" He asked, finally.

"Yes." David said, looking down into the glass. "It was supposed to be so far away."

"That swamp was many places, Crockett. That swamp was many times. I told you, I told you. It was just an afternoon, but look at us! Think about how many days had passed!"

"Take it. Take it." Daniel shouted, throwing the object at Boyd's feet. It was heavy, metallic, wrapped in a tattered oiled cloth. "GALGERAN said to guard it. That your home was the second point in his equilateral machine."

"You know you've been compromised. Infected by the Flow. The Select Men will not let you spread your madness." Boyd said, closing his eyes as the hammers of the rifles behind the bookcase were clicked into place.

Everything was smoke and light for an instant, then the two were dead on the floor. Boyd hung his head. Daniel Boone was whispering to him, blood flecked on his lips.

"...sanctification. He used his talents in the glory of God and for the good of man..."






There are transmissions across the bandwidths. Push your soul into the Land. Push your soul into the Ocean. There is no contest. But a winner will be declared, and a loser will be insinuated.

There are codes referenced. The most #woke of all will discern the translated messages. They will learn where the message breaks down. More of the Pearl River Flow will be revealed. At the 1 hour, 10 minute mark, to be specific.

Cross that bridge till about the 1 hour 10 minute mark.

Cross that bridge till about the 1 hour 10 minute mark.

Pearl River Flow: Updates to Service

Pictured: The Info-Pipe-Tube-Net Branch that carries Pearl River Flow

Pictured: The Info-Pipe-Tube-Net Branch that carries Pearl River Flow

As with previous Pearl River Flow updates, we are once again striving to create the optimal experience. Therefore, the following changes have been made to the "service."

Vague feelings of dissatisfaction have been increased 8%, an increase below the threshold for a human being to notice it. That fact, in and of itself, is an example of this update.

Gallery "tasteful nudes" has been replaced with gallery "Abandoned Shoes." 

For those readers preferring the desktop experience, snapping turtles have been installed under your desks. To utilize this new feature, put your bare toes under your desk.

All interviewed wildlife is now part of our profit sharing agreement.

7% decrease in loading times for users who are picking up Pearl River Flow in woodcut form.

All bibles should now update properly to reflect the great portent of the website. If your bible is malfunctioning, please send it to us via the River.

All articles that caused Restless Leg Syndrome have been patched to cause Morgellon's Disease.

We no longer send out e-male, and have switched to the more functional, less obnoxious e-mail. If you wish to still receive the various massages our e-males provided, please give a young person the appropriate drugs.

The article that caused Death has been removed, as it will be published in the New York Times next week.

Fleas have been added to several of our offerings. You may begin to notice them at any time.

Users should no longer be unaware of their tongue inside their mouths, just sitting there, between their teeth, taking up space.

Spoiler alerts have been added to all articles that cause spontaneous spoilage of various meat, dairy, and cruciferous vegetables. If you have non-cruciferous vegetables that become spoiled after contact with Pearl River Flow, please contact us.

The "killing words" published throughout the website are now properly hidden.

100% increase in the number of fnords.

If you become aware of your blinking during the reading of this sentence or shortly thereafter, the update is working properly. This is not a bug, though that itch might be.

Snakes no longer hide under user keyboards. Any snakes in your home are now your own problem, not ours.

Nancy Reagan's ectoplasmic spirit-husk should no longer haunt the dreams of our readers.

We have eliminated the danger of paper cuts caused by reading the website. This will not help readers who print the articles out.

We've switched to fair-trade sarcasm. Really.

In a peyote-fueled idea share, sentences from Pearl River Flow will now appear randomly on bottles of Doctor Bronner's Brand soaps.

As always, we thank you for your time, and hope you enjoy our new updates. If you're confused by what you've read, we drew you a map.



Mississippi Legislative Adventures, Pt 1

The State Capitol, shrouded in darkness for what it has done.

The State Capitol, shrouded in darkness for what it has done.

They were brainwashed into it. That's my story that prevents me from exiling the lot. It may come as no surprise that my feelings for the governance of the State of Mississippi are less generous than my feelings toward barnacles. Barnacles, at least, have a useful ecological function, while our elected representatives are mere nuisances infesting our Ship of State. Given that the Ship of Mississippi is rotten, full of holes, and sinking, the barnacles ain't helping.

Yet, what they've been getting up to lately is beyond their usual assholery. I can think of no explanation for their behavior that does not end in them banished to one of those vanishing islands off the coast.

Save this one: They were under mind control. I've seen Jessica Jones, I know how the Purple Man works. That is the only rational explanation.

Therefore, I present, Mississippi Legislative Adventures: Starring Dick Billington!

Dick Billington strode his way across the gold-gilded red carpet of the Mississippi State Capitol the same way he made every footstep he’d ever taken - with the massive confidence of a golden-bronzed God, a pectoral colossus straddling the political globe in tasteful charcoal suit pants specially tailored to hide his shamefully massive bulges from the prying eyes of the curious public.

He hadn’t even been elected, but today’s polls showed him with an uncharacteristically poor 99.9% approval rate - a failure he personally blamed upon the four illiterate “readers” of a schlock website about the sort of food only ‘the poors’ would eat under threat of starvation.

No, Dick Billington had taken it upon himself to finally straighten out the worst body of governance in the United States. He’d personally cock-punched some boot-licking techbro representative and called him a “beta” before taking his office by force because it was headquartered in Madison, Mississippi. Madison was a town that Dick Billington liked because it covered every surface in bricks, and hard, red bricks made Dick Billington require even more spectacular acts of the tailor’s craft in order to keep his dress slacks slack and his shirt-threatening pectorals from sending his real ivory buttons flying across these august halls in a blinding display.

“What’s on the agenda today?” He asked Philip Gunn. The moment Dick Billington said that, Philip Gunn became the second most powerful man in the Mississippi State Legislature, and that position was only so prime because everyone else was jealous that Billington had spoken with him first. Until Dick Billington had walked in the room, Philip Gunn had the most masculine name in the chamber, and the best haircut, which was only because every Representative went to supercuts, while Dick Billington had willed his hair into Superman-esque jet black with the properly grey temples after once seeing Mitt Romney across a room at their favorite underground golf pro shop in the Maldives.

Dick snatched the agenda off the podium and glared at the press, forcing them to retreat from the chamber, up against the wall like Dick Billington wanted them, come the Revolution. He was a one man revolution, he knew, and they knew it, and they all wanted to die by his hand. The Clarion Ledger capitol beat reporter was wishing for the sweet embrace of oblivion so hard that Dick almost struck her down with his eyes, so cold and so blue that he’d never needed to use ice cubes, he just stared at his drink the way that he stared at the cowering members of the legislature and press. The scribe from WLBT threw himself onto a pen, and in his death, he knew happiness for the first time, relief from the weight of his lifetime of lies, transcendent bliss under the gaze of Dick Billington, a gaze harder than steel, a beam that could have withstood all the jet fuel in the world without melting.

“Education? Medicare? State Park funding? Prisons? Police? Roads? What is this shit?” Dick wasn’t shouting but everyone in the building knew they had to listen. Every last one of them was a toadying creature trained from birth to love the whip of fascism. Each and every empty skull was putty in the broad bronzed hand of Dick Billington. Putty he could shape. Mold. An amorphous gunk waiting to be turned into something beautiful, something more than the assembled biomass of slime mold and racism that had infested that glorious dome since time immemorial.

“This is all bullshit.” Dick Billington said, and every representative was ashamed that they had even considered this business. They flailed, gnashing teeth and sweating as each tried to outdo the other in eating their waiting bills, tearing lobbyist-written stacks of tax breaks and school rules into sweaty, bloody shreds, their flabby fingers working for the first times in their lives, the tiny reptilian basal ganglia all that could function in their atrophied brains, disused for decades. “Do you all know what the real problem is?”

Dan Eubanks, who, because of his exposure to superstardom in his blockbuster YouTube videos, had managed to maintain a modicum of awareness in the Dick Billington onslaught, screamed out the first thing that came to mind.


Dick Billington froze. With his improbable musculature, the effect of coming to such a full-body stop caused the air around him to heat up several degrees. The delegation began to mutter, to wonder, and as the steam wafted from Dick Billington, half of them were outraged that Eubanks had dared speak and half were bowing down in stunned religious fervor at anyone brave enough to assemble words in the presence of that awesome personage.

“Who are you?” Dick Billington asked. The words were like a tornado in a trailer park. Mississippi Representatives threw themselves on top of one another to try and answer, those who had been outraged were now genuflecting Eubanks, those who had bowed to him were now scrambling to be seen by Billington. Cries of ''witness me!” accompanied their petty acts of violence and cruelty, though Dick had eyes for none save Eubanks, a lone pillar of humanity in the writhing sea of genteel racists. It was like a Roman orgy rendered in salt pork, devoid of sex or pleasure. 

"Just a humble servant of the Lord who has selflessly taken it upon himself to represent the people of Mississippi.” Eubanks said, pleading on his knees as Representative Bubba Carpenter (R-Burnsville) shrieked racist epithets at the crowd to try and raise his voice above the clammy clamor.

Dick Billington silenced the mewling with a glare that froze sweet tea into sugary syrup and one word so perfectly pronounced that every Representative shed a single tear, which was shattered by the perfect enunciation issuing from those unchappable lips. They all wished they had never inserted the state-issued buttery cornmeal plug that every Mississippi politician is required to keep in their mouth at all times.

“Mediocre.” Dick said, and they fell to the floor in horror.

Then. “Cocks?” Dick asked, pointing his sculpted finger at Dan Eubanks (R-Nesbit) “What have you done about cocks?” 

“Meeee meee meee!” Philip Gunn (R-Clinton) sang like a schoolgirl, for he too had cock-related legislation that he would never have dared put forth had Dick Billington not disrupted the status quo so thoroughly.

“I didn’t ask YOU. I asked the man who yelled ‘cocks’ earlier.” Dick Billinton said. He felt as though the squabbling Representatives were becoming disorderly. He briefly considered making one of them stand in the corner for a punishment, though he knew the others would then become bloodthirsty, like Lord of the Flies on an island of piggies.

"I have a bill that would police people's genitals at the restroom door." Eubanks said. The others were agape at the pointless audacity of the proposal.

"And why didn't you bring it to the floor already?" Dick asked.

"I thought it was intrusive, offensive, and frankly, a bit absurd." Eubanks said. The others nodded mindlessly, and for a brief moment Dick Billington saw his spell fading, saw something approaching humanity enter the cold, dead eyes of the assembly.

“But cocks.” Dick said, and their attention was on him like a room full of dogs being shown a ball. All he had to do was throw it to Eubanks.

“Cocks.” Eubanks replied. “I want to make sure that if you’re using a restroom, only all natural 100% organic cocks are in that room with you, cocks that have been nurtured since birth. Cocks that understand the full joy of unchallenged manhood throughout their development, a cock that is a cock every day that it is behind God-given pants, a cock that rests, hopefully, nestled in comfortable, all cotton briefs, or, God forbid, boxers.”

“I understand.” Dick Billington said. His words bestowed a peace transcendent, and in that moment the Mississippi State House of Representatives knew truth, experienced justice, and was brought face-to-face with an unyielding avatar of the American Way. A thousand Captain Americas were born and died in the pause between “I” and “understand,” sacrificing their soul-eagles to the eternal fire of the Brotherhood of Men.

“I, Dick Billington, know but one pain.” Tears were wept in the open, and in a distant radio booth the state technicians struggled to unplug the microphones from SuperTalk Mississippi as both JT and Dave began masturbating to Dick’s words.

“And that pain is having some intersexed person come into the restroom with me while my penis is exposed. It’s dangerous. Any uterus in the room with me while my regal phallus is exposed to naked air will, without warning or delay, become pregnant.”

Tears were drawn down cheeks that had not felt them in decades. Every woman in the room became pregnant. A Clarion-Ledger reporter threw himself from the balcony as penance for his crimes.

“And what shall the punishment be for the misallocation of genitalia, Representative Eubanks?”

“I hadn’t thought to punish them, dare I? It seems so petty, so ruinous.” Eubanks said, quivering.

“Dare.” Dick demanded.

“One. No, two, no… three…” His eyes gleamed, this was the moment that he had been waiting for. The YouTube videos, the campaigns, the promises and hands on bibles, the handshakes and babies, the sacrifices on altars in the darkest woods, the endless hours on the pews of the church, when the only worship he now desired was that of Dick Billington….”

“FIVE YEARS!” He shouted. “HALLELUJAH!” 

“AMEN!” Came the cries of the flagellants. “AMEN! HOSANNA IN THE HIGHEST! They surely deserve the penitentiary for such flagrant destruction of life!”

“PARCHMAN FARM!” Cried Bubba Carpenter, hoping for one whit of attention from the Adorned One.

“Representative Eubanks, for your service to cocks, I will let you attach your name to this bill.” Dick said. “Now, let’s see, what else is on the ledger… schools? PAH! Crime lab, medicare, bridges? What kind of godless communist wants ‘clean water’ as a priority? If lead is good enough for bullets it’s good enough for our water systems.”

The crowd was frothing, ecstatic, like all southern men their fathers had never approved of their lives, and there was only one thing better than that approval. Dick. Billington. “Who else brings service to Dick?” Billington demanded from the whimpering crowd. The Mississippi State House of Representatives had proven easy enough to fix. He knew that Mississippi would be 40th in a few things before long.

Maybe even higher.

“I have something, I have something, I have something! Witness me! Witness ME!” Representative Gunn shrieked. He sounded like a wounded pig, he proudly wore his spittle like a bib of slime.

“GUNN.” Dick pronounced, and spontaneous ejaculations wracked the crowd as their new God said their favorite word. Randy P. Boyd (R-Itawamba) fell prostrate before the bronze form of Dick.

Show him our dick bill, Gunn! Show him our dick bill!” Randy pleaded, face buried in the red and gold carpet.

“Silence!” Gunn hissed, but in that moment of assertion he knew the entire crowd had turned on him, for daring to steal one whit of attention from the Almighty. He withered. The baleful eye of Dick was upon him. Speaker Gunn wished for death, but knew he did not have permission to die. Not yet. Not until Dick gave it to him.

“What do you have, Gunn?” Dick asked. He drew himself up to full height, adding half a foot to his already towering frame. Ivory buttons flew from his chest in cruel trajectories, ivory disks that ricocheted from the marble walls. William “Dick” Tracy Arnold (R-Prentiss) lost one eye as the others scrambled around his blood-soaked feet to grab the rarefied pieces of dead elephant.

“I need legal protections for the pathetic shreds of my sex life. I want sex outside of marriage to be illegal. I want to make sure nobody’s hiding a penis from me. I want to make sure nobody’s getting… getting…” The assembly hung their heads as one, the floor becoming even more interesting than Dick Billington for the briefest of moments.

“Tell me.” Dick said, beckoning Gunn over with a single curling finger. The man practically skipped into the circle of invisible light, and began whispering into Dick’s broad bronzed ear, but not before becoming hypnotised by each whorl of cartilage, wondering at what secrets those ears had heard, what they had…

“They’re doing what?” Dick was taken aback, blue angel eyes soaring in rage.

“With their penises. And sometimes the penises go in unsanctioned, unreserved… places…” Gunn blushed a crimson hue, what was whispering to Dick Billington was something that he had seen himself, something that he once had wished only to tolerate, but now, he knew, in the presence of that golden god, he must betray.

“...sometimes without penises. Entirely.”

Dick Billington shook with anger. He, an unelected servant of the Greater Good, here in this shameful chamber, would right this wrong - true, it was a wrong only he felt, a wrong that nobody with a modicum of decency would be affronted by, and yes, their “dick bill” would create untold legal issues.

“No!” Dan Eubanks said, crying. “Not that!” The others knew what he spoke of, in darkened rooms they had seen “The Dick Bill” and they knew they could never pass it, that no one would dare vote for it. For, even without reading it - none of them read the laws that they passed - they knew that it was a horrible legislative nightmare, shackling lifetimes of misery to accidents of birth, denying entire swathes of the population rights, enshrining in tortured legalese the minor conveniences of a nonexistent population.

Such things they had only glimpsed in their darkest fevered imaginings. Now, thanks to Dick Billington’s growing influence, it could become the law of the land. But for Dick they would burn the constitution they claimed to hold sacred, they would ignore the Holy Teachings they once had meditated on in pristine temples, before their elections, the rites of which had stolen their souls.

“Make it so.” Dick Billington said. “But as much as I despise people who labor under the assumption that our government doesn’t enforce the beliefs of the Christian religion…”

The assembly laughed. It was an honest laugh, they all knew the truth.

“..still, I can’t stand the hypocritical language in the title. ‘Protecting Christians from Government Discrimination’ - gentlemen, you know as well as I do that there is nothing at all Christian about this bill. Not one bit. Sure, those viewpoints are the only ones it protects, but… let’s think, what do none of you have?”

“Souls!” Eubanks shouted, weeping.

“Religion!” Carpenter added.

“Consciences!” Boyd shouted.

“Freedom!” Shouted Gunn.

“Then it’s settled.” Dick Billington said. “Protecting Freedom of Conscience from Government Discrimination.” 

They wept at the meaningless majesty of the title.

“Well, gentlemen, I must be off. This has been informative, but I’ve decided I don’t like working in government.” 

Dick Billington walked out, leaving a wake of desperate men, aghast at what they had done, what they had voted for. But it was too late.

Too late.

While we have been informed that the preceding sequence of events is "unlikely," we at Pearl River Flow will take the following silence from our lawmakers as tacit acknowledgement that it is an accurate summation of what occurred. Should any of them deny that this was the case, the staff of Pearl River Flow will gladly apologize for our assumption and prepare the boats for exiling our legislators.

Dark Powermagic Program. V. I

HI! I'm Edward C. Alex, and if you're visiting THIS WEBSITE then you've just taken your FIRST STEP to bulking up on the Dark Powers offered to you by MAGIC. This isn't some pagan, nimby-mimby path to respecting your elders and communing with nature, no sir. This is Dark Powermagic, the kind used by REAL EVIL WIZARDS.

FIRST thing you've gotta do is SMASH ALL YOUR TAPES AND BOOZE. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Ed, this is primo Pantera here, partner. And booze makes me powerful. It's like alchemy."

BULLSHIT! IF you want to deny the masses their free will, first you gotta exercise your own. I recommend fifty choices a day, twice a day, hitting the three main choice-groups. Those are:

1: SEX: You won't be having it until you've reached LEVEL THREE. You have to maintain your power by holding on to your male energy. If you're female, then I don't know what to suggest, I've literally never had any woman interested in this program.

2: MUSIC: You won't be getting any music until LEVEL TWO. Listening to music imprints other people's thoughts onto your own. Only listen to Dark Powermagic thoughts until level TWO.

3: ALCOHOL: You're giving that up until LEVEL THREE. Alcohol makes your choices stupid. There are only a certain number of choices available in the universe. By making good ones and avoiding stupid ones, you're forcing other people to pick from the remaining stupid ones.

So, what can I drink? You may be asking yourself if all you ever drink is booze. In our program, you can drink water, unlike some Dark Magic Self Improvement. YES! You! Can! Drink water! 

BUT - what you need to get your reps up is Black Mana. You can get it at your local health food stores or at a licensed Dark Powermagic Dojo. It's pictured ABOVE at our favorite retailer, behind FPJEROME's place out on Creosote Slough.

We at Dark Powermagic don't hold to that nonsense that nature is somehow better than what the Dark Powers Below can provide and sustain. Natural doesn't mean healthy. Only buy your Black Mana from authorized dealerships. Anyone selling Black Mana is an authorized dealership. I personally destroyed everyone who sold unauthorized Black Mana through the magic of Dark Capitalism.

That said, rocks and plants are THE sources of the power that your body will need if you want to handle the thaumaturgic energy of Black Mana without withering away into an undead abomination.  That said, Undead Abominations have untold power. If you want to become one, I recommend the book by Richard Bruce "Apologize to Me Because I Shot You: Gaining Power Over Mortal Souls."

We can only recommend TWO ROOTS to eat. One you have to summon out of the ground from an alternate reality, it's pictured above. You should be able to summon it out of the ground after 1 day of choice reps and Black Mana. If you can't, keep trying.

"WMJPBJGMRTHRTF" is a mouthful. So is this delicious twisty root!

Pictured above is the other one. You have to call it by name. You get that name by saying the first letter of the last name of every US President that was a Mason.

Make sure you're standing on a spot where blood was spilled. Don't use your own unless you've got PLENTY of blood. You need your blood to dilute the Black Mana.

Don't fast! Your body needs the calories you get from Earth Food in order to survive and thrive. Until you can get all your mundane energy from the two roots (STEP TWO) you'll need to eat. Just remember to eat only the BEST foods. This takes the BEST foods off the planet and puts them into YOU. IF at all possible, buy up lots of terrible food and distribute it to the masses, weakening them for your eventual reign.

This is the only instrument allowed in Dark Powermagic Workout Music.

I have magicked 18 ghosts out of existence, and done psychic battle with mind-assassins from the CIA and MI-6. If you want to be able to do this, you have to make sure you're keeping up with your Choice Reps (STEP ONE) for at least a month. Don't make easy choices, make HARD ones. Taking the best hard choices out of the choice pool leaves only shitty choices for everyone else.

After a month of Black Mana, Choice Reps, healthy eating, and magic roots, you're ready for level TWO. So far, all you've been listening to is Dark Powermagic Workout Music.

It's all bell so that you get done faster. BUT, now that you're done, you have to save the GOOD MUSIC for special times. Why, you may ask?

Unlike choices, music does not "run out." There is no limited pool of music. By listening to BAD music, you're putting more awful darkness out into the world. But thanks to Dark Powermagic, you're able to resist the pull of bad music. So pump it into the world!

Now you have to join a Dark Powermagic Gym. This is where we meet. You have to stand on the right part of the sidewalk, you will know it by name. Then go through the door that appears when you chant the name.

- The rest of the Dark Powermagic Series is available for 199 payments of $199, paid once per Dark Eon.

The Only Authentic Music

FP JEROME writes all of his material on this computer.

Our editor apologizes for not being as slow as he usually is regarding the updating. The problem is that FP JEROME is now doing a bit of Stand Up Comedy (all caps, it's that important) and as such, has seen his creative juices flowing to the side.

One of his less amusing jokes involves a down-on-his-luck hipster explaining the facts of music to an uneducated country boy, played by Ryan Gosling (it's more of a theatrical thing). He could not afford Ryan Gosling, so instead he gets Gilbert Gottfried to impersonate him.

The Gilbert Gosling Gottfried hipster explains the few remaining sources of authentic music. There are many variations on this theme, but most of them are entirely unamusing, and therefore have been thrown away.

We river hobos have found them. We present:

The Only Remaining Authentic Forms of Music

Hobos yelling at trains.

Leonard Cohen blowing Tom Waits.

Taylor Swift.

Chronologically displaced jazz.

The sounds of sizzling fajitas, run through FruityLoops.

The moans of exploited minority laborers.

Old men sober.

Young white guys high on designer psychedelics.

Julie Andrews fitting the entirety of Thom York's body into her mouth.

Radio static. But, only college radio static.

Fingernail on a chalkboard, pitch shifted and given a beat.

Autotuned polygraph readouts from synesthetes smelling Austin BBQ.

Sacrifices to the ephemeral figments of chaos (except for the ones that they ran through Pro Tools, which is just pop-apocalyptic garbage)

Medical advice chanted by monks over the sounds of surgery.

Drunk white girls, flailing for attention.

Pictured: The Only Acceptable Medium for All These

Frequently Asked Questions - the PRF FAQ

High on the list: What the hell is that?

We don't get a lot of questions here at the Pearl River Flow. Which is good, because we are in no way ready to answer questions.

That said, here's incorrect answers we did not have, for the uninformed questions you did not have and we were not prepared for.

Q: What do you mean "FAQ?"

A: "Frequently asked question." Though, to be fair, none of these questions have ever been asked before. We feel as though this still qualifies, since the frequency of asking was not specified in the terms.

Q: What do you mean, 'question?'

A: I see you've got the hang of it. Questions are a lot like legal matters involving pornography. You may not be able to define it down to the word, but you can sure send people to jail over it.

Q: What sort of staff do you have?

A: Currently, we have 38 positions, 37 of which are paid positions, vacant and currently unavailable. The sole intern responsible for maintaining and updating the site is also the Editor In Chief, the infamous FP Jerome, who also serves as IT director.

Q: Where are you located?

A: This is a difficult question to answer. Once, we were in a single place, dedicated only to the best and wettest information regarding the Pearl River Valley as it passed through east Jackson. Then, we narrowed that down a bit due to an insistence (twitter) on "niche marketing." This left us reporting solely on the "Creosote Slough" area. More recent editors, tripping balls on unknown hallucinogens, found pathways to alternate universes, impossible spaces, and distant times, past and future. These were considered newsworthy, and now our "organization" covers these space-time folds so long as there is some 3-dimensional overlap. Except when there isn't.

Q: Is there a deal? What is the deal? Is this like some art or politics or shit? I can't stand that stuff.

A: We guarantee no mind-bending information. The absurdist humor contained within will reveal no crushing existential truths to the reader. No political views will change based on our innumerate views of decaying swamp trash. Your comfort and safety are assured. The status quo will be upheld no matter the cost to person or planet. This is one step below ESPN, which, at least, can challenge your view of the depths of human depravity.

Q: Are there cryovolcanoes?

A: Yes, Virginia, there are cryovolcanoes.



Social Justice Wizard Grimoire

I climbed the social ladder, and became a Social Justice Wizard

Warning: Contains immense amounts of Dungeons and Dragons references, so if that's not your favorite sort of RPG please do not send me long emails detailing why I should have used your favorite RPG.

I'd like to thank Luke McKinney, who is actually amusing (this blog is not known for quality  humor, satire, writing, or photography) for breaching this idea on his twitter feed, which I follow and enjoy. If there's anything good here, it's totally his fault.

There is a dark corner of the internet - not including the "dark" internet, which is a separate and actually interesting phenomenon - in which it is a supreme righteousness to be evil and the most woeful mistake to profess any sort of ethical judgement. In these vile quarters, they have an insult that boggles the mind.

"Social Justice Warrior." This is a real insult, a slur insinuating that someone would dare fight for justice in society. I would gladly take up this mantle, but for a few issues: As a river-hobo, my social sphere is rather just already. I do not, therefore, fight for my idiosyncratic views, since I do not want to be set on fire by someone that works for a bank.

Also, I'm not a warrior. Technically, Warriors are a NPC-class that's a less focused sort of Fighter, but I'm a level 1 Barbarian with 2 levels of Ranger. Warriors, Barbarians, Fighters,  Paladins and Rangers are often grouped together as "Warriors," though, so I guess I get a pass on the last part, at least.

In the rarefied medium of Twitter (I'm on twitter!) character limits prevent those with a lack of character from typing out "Social Justice Warrior" so they go with the abbreviation SJW.

SJW could also mean Wizard, guys. (Or, WIZZARD, for certain people) If there was such a thing as a Social Justice Wizard, what sort of Grimoire would they carry?

Onyx Discs of Power crafted from dark woodland magics, no doubt.

The Social Justice Wizard Grimoire: First Circle

Excludinous: By invoking the power word "Obviously!!" once per day per level, the SJW causes the last person who said "Not all (insert name of group here)" to suffer the effects of the confusion spell for 1d6 rounds. There is no saving throw.

Peach Freeze: By spending one round examining his or her surroundings, the SJW can determine if anyone using the defensive feat "But Free Speech" gains the benefit in this situation. (See Fig 8.1: Nobody Understands Any of These Things). Both are entitled to an INT contest (see Fig. 5.1: Entitlement Modifiers) on the SJW's turn. The SJW gains a +4 bonus to this roll. The loser is stunned for 1d4 rounds, which can be countered with the Rapid, Pointless Posting feat. (See Fig. 4.2: Spam)

Second Circle:

Devil's Vocation: This circle (the radius in meters is equal to the caster's INT modifier) immolates anyone speaking the phrase "Devil's Advocate" for 6d6+CHA modifier and SJW level worth of fire damage. Anyone within the circle takes this damage with no saving throw. A target under the influence of the silence spell is immune to the effect, but a deafness spell can nullify the fire damage. (See Fig. 7.3: Exceptions You Did Not Think About)

Explanium Conceptium Basica: This spell counters all uses of the Mansplaining feat and it's associated skills. The target will understand 1 important concept for every INT point of the caster. (See Fig. 1.0: The Universe for available concepts) and must roll a Will save to find a ridiculous debunked counterargument online.

Third Circle:

Forrest's Illuminating Appearance: With a snap of their fingers and a touch of the nose, the SJW causes anyone who in the last 1d4 turns, used the phrase "I'm not a racist, but..." to become ethereal. Their appearance is that of a ghostly apparition of past racism, clad in white robes with a pointy hat. This effect lasts 1d4 hours.

Trollfire: By spreading their fingers to the keyboard and inputting words, the SJW summons forth a torrent of incendiary firepower directed at them. This fire does 10d10 damage every round and can ruin the life of the SJW. The SJW must be female to cast this spell.

The Tattling Heart: To use this spell, which takes two rounds to cast, the SJW targets any shitty satire (See Fig 2.3: Humor) that serves no point but as a veiled attack, not as an honest attempt at pointed humor. The humorist in question must roll a CHA check to hide his or her work, or take 3d10 damage. However, if anyone in the last 1d4 days has used Power Word: Poe to attempt and hide the "satire" in question, the author takes a -5 penalty on this check. If the author him (or her)self has used Power Word: Poe, then The Tattling Heart automatically succeeds.